Chapter 159

Iris

“Imposter! Hypocrite! Slaver!”

I flinch as the shrill voice cuts through the silence, and whip my head around. For a moment, I can’t locate the source of the outburst in the sea of shocked faces. Then the crowd parts, and a woman pushes her way through, heading straight for the stage. Her face is contorted with rage, cheeks flushed an angry red, and her eyes—those eyes are filled with a hatred so intense it makes my stomach drop.

Before I can react, the woman lunges forward, climbing the steps to the stage with remarkable speed. Everything seems to slow down. I see several security guards starting to move through the crowd. I see Arthur’s face change from confusion to alarm as he pushes his way toward me. I see Emi leaping in front of me, arms outstretched.

But none of them are fast enough.

The woman reaches me in three quick strides and stretches out her hands.

“Blood diamond wearer!” she spits. Her voice is shrill, angry, hateful.

I don’t understand what’s happening until I feel the sharp, searing pain in both of my earlobes. She’s grabbed the diamond earrings—Veronica’s gift—and yanked them straight through the flesh of my ears, throwing them to the floor.

White-hot pain explodes in my head. I cry out, hands flying to my ears. When I pull them away, my fingertips are slick with blood.

The gallery erupts into chaos. Women scream, men shout, glasses shatter as they’re dropped in shock. Through the blur of my tears, I see Arthur vault onto the stage.

In an instant, he grabs the woman by the throat and slams her against the wall so hard that a nearby painting falls to the floor. His lips are pulled back in a snarl, exposing his elongated fangs. A low, rumbling growl fills the air, and nearby guests back away in terror.

“Arthur!” I gasp as the woman thrashes. “Stop! Stop!”

He doesn’t seem to hear me. His grip on the woman’s throat tightens, and her face begins to turn purple. She claws at his hands, his arms, his chest, but it’s no use. She’s a human, and he’s an Alpha wolf.

“Arthur!” I try again, grabbing his arm and pulling. “Stop it this instant! You’ll kill her!”

He’s not listening. His face is pure rage, all the anger an Alpha could possibly fear over his mate’s life being in danger. It’s as if he’s snapped completely. If I had my wolf and thus the ability to, I could probably scent his fury. Not that I need to. His face is positively murderous.

Just then, Emi and Ezra burst forward, followed by three other security guards. It takes both Ezra and one of the guards to pull Arthur away from the woman, who collapses to the floor, clutching her throat and wheezing. She’s alive, but hand-shaped bruises are already forming around her throat.

As security drags her away, she finds her voice again, although it’s hoarse and raspy now. “Those are blood diamonds!” she screams, pointing at me with a shaking hand. “Mined by slaves! Children with their hands cut off for trying to escape! And she wears them like trophies while she’s pretending to care about the children of Ordan! Your children!”

My mouth opens and closes. “I—I didn’t know—”

“You’re not a philanthropist—you’re an evil capitalist! A snake in the grass! You parasites are all the same!”

The security guards haul the woman through a side door, her screams fading into the distance. I stand frozen, staring at the floor where the earrings have fallen. The beautiful diamond teardrops are now spattered with my blood, sparkling crimson under the gallery lights.

Blood diamonds.

I feel sick to my stomach, so much so that I have to clamp my hand over my mouth to suppress a gag. Did Veronica know? She couldn’t have. She wouldn’t give me something so awful, so tainted. Not as a gift, not for this charity event of all places. It has to be a mistake.

Right?

“Iris.” Arthur’s voice cuts through my swirling thoughts. He’s at my side now, and his face is concerned, although his eyes are still glowing red with an Alpha’s fury. His fingers gently tip my chin up, and he winces when he sees my torn earlobes. “We need to get you out of here.”

I nod numbly, allowing him, Emi, and Ezra to guide me off the stage. The guests part to let us through, their faces a blur of horror, pity, and—worst of all—fascination. This will be in every paper tomorrow.

“Where’s Veronica?” I ask as we make our way to a private room at the back of the gallery. “I need to ask her about the earrings.”

Arthur nods to Ezra, who slips away to search for her. I refuse to believe this was intentional. She wouldn’t do something like this. She couldn’t…

We find our way into the small break room in the back of the gallery, where I once stood up to Selina all those months ago. Arthur guides me to the table, then rifles around under the sink, where he locates a small first aid kit. He opens a packet containing an alcohol wipe.

“This will sting,” he warns.

I hiss as the cool pad makes contact with the torn flesh. “How bad is it?”

“Not as bad as it looks,” he assures me, although his eyes are still bright red instead of their usual green. “The earrings were heavy enough that they tore straight through rather than ripping down. They’ll heal cleanly.”

I close my eyes as he cleans the wounds, trying not to wince. It’s not so much the physical pain that’s bothering me—it’s the woman’s words echoing in my head. Blood diamonds. Slave labor. Children with their hands cut off.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Arthur says quietly, as if reading my thoughts. “You couldn’t have known what those earrings were.”

“But I should have,” I whisper. “What kind of person just accepts diamonds without questioning where they came from? I’m so stupid and selfish, I didn’t even stop to think—”

“Iris, stop,” Arthur cuts me off. “Don’t do this to yourself. Chances are Veronica didn’t know either. She probably bought them from a reputable jeweler who didn’t disclose their origin.”

I nod, even if I don’t fully believe it. But I want to believe it. I really do.

He finishes cleaning my wounds and applies small butterfly bandages to each earlobe. Suddenly, the door bursts open, and I jump, half expecting to see another angry protester.

But it’s just Ezra.

“Where’s Veronica?” I ask, noticing that he’s alone.

He doesn’t respond to that, and it’s only now that I realize he’s breathless and… there’s something red on his white shirt. “There were more of them hiding in the crowd,” he breathes. “Iris, I’m so sorry, we weren’t fast enough. Your painting—”

I don’t wait to hear the rest. Pushing past him, I race back toward the gallery. I burst through the double doors into the main gallery space and come skidding to a halt.

The white sheet that had covered my painting earlier now lies in a heap on the floor, revealing the artwork beneath.

It depicts a circle of children holding hands, playing ring around the rosie. Werewolf pups swirl around their legs. All are smiling. All are happy.

It was meant to be a statement. One of hope, of happiness, of peace.

But now, that message is obliterated. Someone has thrown what looks like a bucket of blood over the canvas. Thick, crimson liquid drips down the children’s faces, pools in their outstretched hands, stains their clothes.

It looks like a massacre.