Masquerade

by Nora Ash

  Masquerade

  Alpha book 2

  Nora Ash

  Contents

  Copyright

  Get in Touch

  Summary

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Next Book

  Mated Preview

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2016 by Nora Ash

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any and all likeness to trademarks, corporations or persons, dead or alive, is purely coincidental.

  Get in Touch

  Sign up for Nora Ash’s newsletter to receive updates about new books You can also get in touch via Facebook, Twitter & Google+, or drop by her website.

  Summary

  Leigh is desperate. Her career is in ruins, her dreams shattered—and her nights haunted by the memory of a man she shouldn’t want.

  When an exclusive invitation to partake in Mattenburg’s annual Masquerade drops through her letterbox, she sees a chance to take back control over her life. If she can find a good scoop, she’ll have her job back in no time—and her mind firmly off the stranger who claimed her so completely before disappearing into the night.

  But gilded invitations don’t come for free, and Leigh’s about to find out just how steep the price for entering the Masquerade will be…

  * * *

  Masquerade is the second book in Nora Ash’s dirty, suspense-filled Omegaverse serial. Want your alphas dominating and your romance scorching? This is the story for you.

  Chapter One

  The darkness slowly recedes as I blink the blur from my eyes in an effort to shake away the same dream that’s been haunting me for two weeks now.

  The same nightmare, I correct myself. My breathing is still huffing out of my chest in quick, shallow gasps, and my sheets are sticking to my sweat-covered skin.

  Annoyed with myself for the warm aching for attention between my thighs I kick my covers off and roll out of bed to get dressed before I can reach for a vibrator and shame myself even further.

  Two weeks.

  It’s been two weeks since I was saved by a dangerous killer. Two weeks since I Presented for him and allowed him to take me on a darkened river bank like a common whore.

  On wobbly legs I make my way to the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face, severing the lingering echo of the dream. Nightmare. For fuck’s sake!

  I glare angrily at my face in the mirror as the cold water droplets trickle down my neck, slowly cooling off my overheated body. The wide, fearful eyes staring back look like they belong to a lost little girl.

  And that’s the most infuriating part.

  Knowing what I allowed him to do is bad enough—hell, it could probably fuel a few years’ worth of therapy visits, if I was stupid enough to ever tell anyone, but this… This constant and unrelenting yearning for a man I don’t even know, an alpha who thought nothing of knotting me surrounded by corpses of men he’d slain… It feels like being betrayed by my own mind, my own body.

  If only I would stop dreaming about that night I might be able to forget and pretend like it never happened. But every night I relive the memory of being in that damned park with him, of his hands touching me in every sweet spot and… and his knot locking inside of me..

  I blush and drop my gaze, not wanting to look even myself in the eyes while remembering the sweet agony of being tied with an alpha.

  Before him, I never truly understood why some women chase after any alpha that happens to cross her path. They are all arrogant and self-assured, completely unshakable in the knowledge that all the power in society belongs to them. They take what they want and are insufferably overbearing with the female gender, most seemingly viewing us as just another possession to conquer.

  It wasn’t until that stranger’s brutal knot locked deep inside of me and his purr soothed my fears that I knew why any woman would be interested in them.

  Now, I get it, because every time I think about what it felt like to be tied with such a powerful male, my sex softens as if to prepare me, and my heart rate spikes. On some base and primitive level, I want him to do it again.

  I turn away from the mirror, as disgusted with myself as I always am first thing in the morning these days. The lingering cobwebs of my lurid dreams make the memory of his touch way too strong, and my shame along with it.

  Thankfully, there’s a cure, even if it’s only temporary.

  I stalk to the kitchen and load up my beloved coffee machine, fully prepared to drown my shameful memories in caffeine and the clarity brought along by the daylight peeping in through my windows. Once the coffee is brewed I sip it while it’s still near-scalding, sighing with relief as the caffeine works its magic on my foggy head and the last remnants of the dream disappear.

  There. My mind and body once again belong to me, and I have work to do.

  * * *

  It turns out that being as-good-as-unemployed when you’re basically living paycheck to paycheck is an excellent way of finding out just how low you’ll sink in order to eat.

  I used to be very proud of my reporting career. I fought my way through college working three part time jobs, seeing how my parents weren’t exactly inclined- nor capable of helping me, and when I got the job as junior reporter for one of the biggest newspapers in town, I was sure all the demeaning jobs of my college days were past me.

  As I type away at my $0.0005/word web article on grout cleaning, I do my very best to push back the festering resentment toward my senior editor, Roy, who so unceremoniously suspended me—without pay, mind you—two weeks ago. It’s not like I chose to Present in the middle of that stupid press conference!

  Heat floods my cheeks at the humiliating memory. Okay, so maybe Roy didn’t have much of a choice, seeing how every politician in the city threatened to boycott the paper for all eternity if he didn’t get rid of me. Not that they knew the girl who Presented in their midst and caused them to launch into an all-out brawl by name, but the staffer who’d rescued me had apparently told them which newspaper my press badge said I was from.

  A sudden, loud knock on my door interrupts my thoughts, making me jump and flail so violently I nearly tip my refilled mug.

  Maybe it’s Roy come to give me my job back.

  Even as my stomach clenches with hope at the thought, I know it’s not. Even if ‘the incident’ wasn’t still being referred to every time the Liberals’ Peter Leod appeared on the screen, I doubt very much that anyone wants to see my face again until after the election.

  A delivery guy stands in the hallway outside my 4th floor apartment, holding a large white box in expensive-looking cardboard out toward me. On top balances a thick envelope and a smaller box.

  “Miss Adams?” he says, looking my disheveled figure up and down.

  I wrap my cardigan closer around my sweatpants and food-stained t-shirt. “Yeah, that’s me.”

  “Delivery for you.” Without missing a beat he shifts the small tower of parcels to one hand, balancing them nimbly while he pulls out a machine for me to sign my name.

  I do, clasping onto the packages with both hands as soon as I am done. It isn’t often I get anything but bills in the door. “Who’s it from?”

  “I ain’t in the detective business, ma’am,” the delivery guy says, turning back around now that his job here is done. “But it’s a special delivery. Make of that what you will.”

  I stare after him for two more seconds, bef
ore curiosity finally wins out and I slam the door shut to inspect the packages.

  That it is a special delivery tells me about as much as the ivory cardboard and heavy paper envelope does—that whoever sent it has enough money to throw away on postage and packaging.

  I glance at the envelope, but excitement I vaguely remember from Christmas when I was little makes me reach for the small package first.

  It’s made from the same ivory cardboard as the larger package. I brush my fingertips around the edge. lift the lid—and frown.

  Inside is a beautiful, golden mask with black feathers and shimmery stones adorning the sides and rim of the eye holes.

  “What the…?” I’d half expected it to be some form of fancy pastries or cupcakes, judging by the white packaging.

  With less grace I hurriedly rip the lid off the larger box—and find a pile of silky, black fabric. A dress. A very pretty dress with a full, silk skirt—far above anything I’d ever be able to afford myself, even if I weren’t currently trying to make a living off questionable content writing.

  Hoping for an explanation I tear open the letter, but if anything, it just leaves me with more questions.

  Dear Miss Adams,

  You are hereby invited to the annual charity masquerade at Town Hall, October the 19th at 7pm.

  The short note is handwritten on thick, white paper to match the envelope, but there is no signature or any other distinguishing features to help me determine the sender’s identity.

  Included in the envelope is a golden ticket with my name and the date written on it in intricate print, presumably what will allow me entry to the famed masquerade.

  Every year the political elite and socialites of Mattenburg dress up in fanciful costumes to congratulate each other on their wealth and power, while compensating for the glitzy affair by claiming it’s all for charity.

  At least, that’s what I assume goes on, because no one outside of the elite is ever allowed inside, not even the press. And yet here I am, with a literal golden ticket in my hand. Someone’s sent me not only an invite to the most exclusive event of the year, but a beautiful costume to go along with it.

  But why?

  I am no one important, and a reporter to boot. In as long as the masquerade has existed, not a single reporter has managed to sneak into this exclusive event. Whoever’s behind this must know what my job is.

  So why are they trying to get me in?

  A cold chill travels down my back when the thought of how exactly I might have drawn the attention of someone powerful enough to orchestrate this.

  The only thing that sets me apart from any other reporter in this city is that I am the one who nearly caused a riot among the top politicians. The same people who will undoubtedly be present at the masquerade.

  Is someone hoping I’ll do the same at this event?

  But why? There won’t be any cameras present, so even if I did Present again there wouldn’t be any proof like there was at that damned press conference.

  I shudder at the thought. There wouldn’t be any proof, but there likely wouldn’t be anyone to save me, either.

  As much as a very large part of me is giddy with excitement over the chance to be the first reporter to gain access to the annual masquerade, I can’t help but think back to the two times I’ve lost control around alphas. If it were just the once, I could believe it was just a freak accident, but…

  A ghostly touch of a large, powerful man’s intimate caress echoes in my mind, and I shove the boxes away with an involuntary spasm. If I could Present to a stranger, a masked killer no less, then who’s to say it won’t happen again? Clearly, my biology is all haywire, and if there’s one thing I don’t need, it’s another humiliating encounter with a roomful of alphas.

  No, whoever sent me that dress and invitation has wasted their money. As much as I’d love to get the exclusive inside scoop on the masquerade, it isn’t worth the risk.

  Resolute, I shove the boxes to the side with my foot and walk back to my computer. I’ve got grout cleaning instructions to write, and bills to pay, and I’m not getting stuck any further into politics before the election is well and truly over. The end. Case closed.

  My fingers hover over the keyboard as I glance back at the magnificent, black silk dress.

  Of course… if I were to go and get the inside scoop, Roy would have no choice but to reinstate me… And probably give me a significant raise.

  I look back at my computer screen, biting my lip as I stare at tip number five for achieving sparkling clean grouts.

  But if I don’t take this chance, then can I really call myself a proper reporter? If I’m too scared to take the biggest opportunity I’ll ever see in my entire career, do I even deserve to get my job back?

  * * *

  Chapter Two

  That the media isn’t allowed inside for the masquerade doesn’t mean they’re not covering the year’s biggest event.

  When my taxi pulls up a little down the street the flashes of cameras and buzz of excitement from Town Hall’s main entrance light up the evening sky, and I can see a throng of people gathered around what I know to be the red carpet leading the way inside.

  “Shouldn’t you be in a limo?” my driver asks as he glances back at me through the rear view mirror.

  I probably should, but there isn’t exactly room for fancy transportation in my budget, and whoever my fairy godmother is, they forgot to send a pumpkin along with the dress.

  “Everyone does limos,” I say, in my best socialite-imitation. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  I throw money at the cab driver before he can question why I’ve got him dropping me off down the street if I’m trying to make an entrance, and quickly step out onto the pavement. My dress, as beautiful as it is, is a bit of a nightmare to straighten out, and I stumble in my heels as I try to undo any wrinkles caused by the taxi drive.

  “Careful now.” Strong hands clasp around my waist, steadying me before I manage to fall on my face.

  I squeak in shock over the unexpected touch, causing the owner of said hands to emit a rumbling laugh.

  “Sorry, lovely. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

  I whip my head up just in time to see my large, tux-dressed rescuer release his grip on me and offer me a charming smile from underneath his black mask.

  A shock of deja-vu makes me gasp out loud, but the flash of recognition is gone the second my brain catches up. This man might be an alpha, judging from his sheer size and authoritative aura, but he’s not the same man my startled mind first saw. This one isn’t dressed in black, hi-tech fabric, and his mask is clearly ornamental, not something a thug would wear to commit a crime. No, everything about this man oozes high society, and I need to get my head screwed on straight or I might as well give up my hope of getting my old job back and go home right now.

  “Sorry, I didn’t see you there,” I offer, giving him a quick smile. “Thanks for the rescue.”

  “Always a pleasure to save a damsel in distress.” From the playful tone of his voice I can tell he’s joking, and my responding grin is involuntary.

  “May I escort the lady in?” he asks, holding out his arm out for me. “If I am not too bold in presuming you’re going to the masquerade, as well?”

  I touch my ornate mask and flash him another smile. I was planning on sliding unseen up the stairs and through security with as little attention as possible, but… perhaps arriving with someone who clearly belongs there isn’t the worst idea.

  Tentatively, I place my hand on his arm. “Sure, that would be great.”

  An odd sort of smile plays on his lips as he looks down at me, but it’s gone before I can contemplate it further. He leads me toward the flashing crowd of photographers and journalists, walking slowly enough that I can keep up in my heels, and I feel more than a little thankful he’s decided to accompany me through the throng. Something about his self-assured presence takes the edge off my nerves, and when the gathered media turn their attention on us as
we step onto the red carpet, he easily fends off their questions with that charming smile of his while somewhat shielding me from the many flashes.

  “You’ve done this before,” I say as we walk up the steps toward the main doors and away from the crowd.

  “I have,” he admits, his easy smile never leaving those sensuous lips. “An unfortunate downside of my job, you might say.”

  “Yeah, real unfortunate that,” I say, not managing to catch my snarky commentary before it’s escaped my lips.

  But my companion only laughs his deep, rumbly laugh again and gives me an amused side-glance. “My my, you’re as mouthy as you are lovely. How refreshing.”

  I arch an eyebrow at his relatively gentle flirting, considering he’s an alpha, but it’s shielded by my mask and he doesn’t see it. Instead, he turns his attention at the two burly alphas guarding the door. I spot guns in both their belts.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” my companion says as he produces a golden ticket from his pocket, before turning to me. “I do hope you remembered yours, my lovely?”

  I jolt and reach for my purse. It seems like it takes forever for my jittery fingers to undo the clasp and produce my own ticket, the deafening silence from the two guards not helping matters.

  When I finally do manage to get it out, the left-most alpha snatches it from my hand and scrutinizes it so closely I’m sure he knows I don’t belong.

  Thankfully, he passes it back to me with a grunt before my heart manages to skip out of my throat.

  “Go on in.”

  “Well, aren’t they a couple of cheerful fellas,” I mumble under my breath as my companion leads me through the door.

  “They’re hired to be a bit rough around the edges,” he says as we step into the main hall, and my mouth drops open. “You wouldn’t believe the attempts some reporters go through to counterfeit one of those tickets.”