Ruthless Alpha, and his Curvy Saint-Chapter 49

Angel’s POV

Breakfast was a spectacle.

Not in the elegant, refined way that noble gatherings were supposed to be. More in the way a battlefield might be considered a spectacle - chaotic, occasionally horrifying, impossible to look away from.

It started innocently enough.

Servants brought out trays of food - fresh bread, pastries, eggs prepared in ways I’d never seen, fruits that looked like they’d been harvested by angels specifically for this table. The smell alone was enough to make my stomach growl.

But I barely tasted any of it.

Because I was too busy watching the war happening directly across from me.

Lyra and Sera, seated on either side of Lord Merrick like bookends, had apparently decided that breakfast was the perfect time to engage in whatever this was.

"Lord Merrick," Lyra said, her voice pitched slightly higher than normal, "I was admiring the tapestries in the corridor this morning. The craftsmanship is extraordinary. Do you know the history behind them?"

Merrick, to his credit, turned to her politely. "Most were commissioned by my grandfather. The battles depicted are..."

"Speaking of battles," Sera interrupted smoothly, leaning forward in a way that made her elaborate curls bounce and her neckline dip even lower, "I’ve always been fascinated by warriors. Strong men who know how to handle a sword." She paused meaningfully. "Among other things."

I nearly choked on my tea.

Lyra’s smile tightened. "How fascinating, sister. Though I’ve always thought intelligence is far more attractive than brute strength. Don’t you agree, Lord Merrick? A man who can appreciate art, culture, refined conversation..."

"Oh, absolutely," Sera cooed. "Though there’s something to be said for a man who can appreciate a woman’s... finer qualities." She touched her collarbone delicately. "Wouldn’t you say, my lord?"

"I..." Merrick started.

"Lord Merrick," Lyra cut in desperately, "I noticed you have an extensive library. I love to read. Poetry, especially. Do you enjoy poetry?"

"Poetry is lovely," Sera agreed before Merrick could answer. "But I prefer more... physical pursuits. Riding, for instance." Another meaningful pause. "I’m very good at riding."

Oh my God.

I looked down at my plate, willing myself to become invisible.

This was mortifying.

Absolutely, completely mortifying.

"The gardens must be beautiful when the weather clears," Lyra tried again, her voice strained. "Perhaps you could show them to me? I have quite the eye for horticulture."

"I’d love to see the gardens too," Sera purred. "Though I’m more interested in the... private areas. The secret spots where one could have an intimate conversation away from prying eyes."

Lyra’s hand tightened on her fork. "I’m sure Lord Merrick is far too busy to give personal tours to every guest who asks."

"Oh, I’m sure he could make time for the right guest." Sera batted her heavily kohled eyes. "Couldn’t you, my lord?"

Merrick opened his mouth.

Both sisters leaned forward expectantly.

"Actually," he said smoothly, "I’ve already promised Lady Angel a tour of the grounds."

Both women deflated visibly.

I wanted to crawl under the table.

"How... lovely," Lyra managed, her smile now more grimace than genuine expression.

"Very lovely," Sera echoed, shooting me a look that could have curdled milk.

At the far end of the table, I noticed Zach - their father - had gone very still, his fork frozen in his tight grip. He was staring intensely at his plate like it held the secrets of the universe, clearly pretending he had no idea who these two mortifying women were.

I didn’t blame him.

"More tea, anyone?" a servant asked brightly, completely oblivious to the tension.

"Yes please," Lyra and Sera said in unison.

Then glared at each other.

This was going to be a long breakfast.

It got worse.

Sera "accidentally" knocked her napkin off the table and bent to retrieve it in a way that was neither accidental nor subtle.

Lyra responded by laughing at something Merrick said - something that genuinely wasn’t funny - with enough enthusiasm to make nearby servants jump.

Sera complimented Merrick’s "strong hands" while watching him cut his food.

Lyra touched his arm while asking him to pass the jam.

It was like watching two cats fighting over a piece of fish, except the cats were wearing too much makeup and borrowed dresses, and the fish was a bemused lord who kept glancing at me like he was silently begging for rescue.

Lyra, please, I thought desperately. Please stop. You’re better than this.

But she wasn’t stopping. If anything, she was getting more desperate, more obvious, trying harder and harder to get even a fraction of the attention Merrick kept directing toward me.

"Lord Merrick," Sera said, her voice dropping to what she probably thought was seductive, "I was hoping you might show me your..."

"Actually," I blurted out, unable to take it anymore, "I’m quite full. Thank you for the wonderful breakfast."

Everyone turned to look at me.

I stood, perhaps a bit too quickly, my chair scraping against the floor.

Merrick stood immediately, the perfect gentleman. "Of course. Shall we begin that tour?"

"Actually..." I looked at Lyra, who was staring at me with barely concealed desperation. "Perhaps you should take Lyra instead? She’s been so eager to see the castle, and I’m feeling rather tired from the journey still."

The gratitude in Lyra’s eyes was almost painful.

But Sera’s expression transformed into something dark and venomous.

She turned to me with a look of pure hatred.

I stared back, meeting her gaze head-on.

What? my expression said clearly. Does he belong to you?

Because that’s what this was really about, wasn’t it? Not genuine interest in Merrick. Just the competitive need to win, to claim, to have what someone else wanted simply because they wanted it.

I didn’t like Sera.

Hadn’t liked her from the moment we met, and every subsequent interaction had only confirmed my initial assessment.

The distasteful look that passed between us could have frozen fire.

Then Sera stood abruptly, her chair nearly toppling backward.

"Excuse me," she said through gritted teeth.

She stormed out of the dining room, her dress swishing dramatically, her carefully arranged curls bouncing with each furious step.

Good riddance.

I turned back to find Uriel watching me with an expression I couldn’t quite read.

"Is everything alright?" I asked, suddenly nervous under his scrutiny.

"Would you like to talk?" he asked quietly. "Privately?"

My heart did something complicated in my chest.

I glanced toward the Alpha, who was watching our exchange with his usual impassive expression.

"Would that be... acceptable?" I asked hesitantly.

"I’ve already asked permission," Uriel said. "The Alpha has granted it."

Oh.

"Then... yes. I suppose we could talk."

Uriel stood and offered his arm.

I took it, hyperaware of Merrick’s silver eyes following our movement, of the Alpha’s continued attention.

We left the dining room together.

And my anxiety about what Uriel wanted to say climbed with every step.