He looks at me with a predatory gaze, sharp and assessing, like he's already decided something about me that I don't have a say in. There's something about the way his lips curl—just the faintest hint of amusement, like I'm a joke he's already figured out the punchline to.
For a second, I forget that I have to answer him. The weight of his presence is suffocating, like being cornered in a room with no doors. My fingers twitch at my sides, but I refuse to let my nerves show.
I clear my throat and keep my voice steady, neutral. No emotion. "I just came here for some fresh air. I didn't know I needed permission from my Patron for that."
His smirk widens, slow and deliberate, as if he's savoring my words. His gaze flickers down my body, taking his time before meeting my eyes again.
"Permission?" He drawls, voice a lazy sort of menace. "You misunderstand me, little thing. I don't care what your Patron allows. I'm questioning whether you're reckless or just foolish."
I bristle but school my expression. "Neither," I say simply, my chin lifting just enough to be defiant without being stupid. "I'm careful."
His eyes glint with something unreadable. "Are you?"
I know what he's doing. Testing. Poking, prodding, looking for cracks. Men like him—powerful, coiled in control—always do. They enjoy the game of seeing how much someone bends before they break. But I've played this game before. I've survived worse than an arrogant bastard with too much time on his hands.
Still, I don't move. Don't back down.
He watches me, and the silence stretches between us like a blade. Then, to my surprise, he chuckles. It's low and dark, the kind of sound that makes the hairs on my arms stand up.
"I can see why they like you," he murmurs, more to himself than to me. "Shame, though. You don't know when to be afraid."
I arch a brow. "And you think I should be?"
He tilts his head, his smirk sharpening. "Oh, absolutely."
His certainty should rattle me. Instead, it pisses me off.
I exhale slowly, forcing myself to relax. "Well, I hate to disappoint, but I'm not in the habit of taking advice from strangers."
He hums, stepping closer, so close I catch the faintest trace of something on his skin—leather and spice and something darker underneath. "A shame," he repeats, voice barely above a murmur. "But you'll learn."
There's something final in the way he says it. Like he's already decided. Like it's inevitable.
A sharp chill runs down my spine, but I keep my expression blank. I won't let him see that he's gotten under my skin.
Before I can respond, the ballroom doors creak open behind me. Laughter spills out, the chatter of nobles drifting through the night air.
His gaze flickers past me toward the noise, and for a brief moment, I see something shift in his expression. Something calculating.
Then he looks back at me, and the smirk is back in place, smooth and dangerous. "Enjoy your evening," he says, stepping past me like I don't matter. Like he's already dismissed me.
I don't watch him go. I force myself to turn, to walk back toward the lights and the noise and the safety of the crowd. But even as I sit back down at my table, picking at my untouched dessert, I feel his presence lingering like an unseen hand at my throat.
And when I finally gather the nerve to glance up, my stomach twists.
Because across the ballroom, seated high above the rest, he's still watching me.
And this time, he doesn't look away.
...….
The atmosphere shifts after a while. The initial tension, the careful glances, the silent negotiations wrapped in polite smiles—all of it starts to loosen. Around me, people settle into their chosen roles for the night. Women drape themselves over their prospects, whispering sweet manipulations into their ears. The men, in turn, play their part—predatory, indulgent, some genuinely interested, others simply toying with their food.
Duke Alaric has been speaking with the woman hosting this godforsaken event. Every so often, their gazes flicker toward me, the quiet undercurrent of their conversation rippling with something unspoken. It's not subtle. Not even close.
I pretend not to notice at first, sipping at my drink, keeping my expression neutral. It's a game, after all. They think I can't see the strings being pulled, that I don't recognize the way decisions about me are being made without my consent. I've played this role before—decorative, valuable only in my utility. And I know better than to disrupt their illusion of control.
But patience has never been my strongest virtue. When Duke Alaric finally returns to his seat, I tilt my head toward him, eyes sharp.
"So," I say, voice smooth, "am I in any sort of trouble? Because I swear, I've been on my best behavior tonight."
He barely reacts. The mask he wears is seamless, betraying nothing. "No," he says after a long moment, "nothing that concerns you."
Oh, but it does.
I don't press—pushing too soon would be a mistake—but I file it away for later. Whatever they were talking about, it involved me. I don't need confirmation to know that much.
Across the room, the weight of another gaze brushes against my skin. I don't react immediately, but I feel it. When I finally lift my eyes, I find Duke Callum watching from the shadows of the balcony, his features carved from ice, the look in his eyes colder still. But it isn't me he's glaring at.
Following the trajectory of his stare, I find the auburn-haired man leaning against the railing, all careless amusement and sharp teeth. He meets Callum's glare with a slow, lazy smile, the kind that speaks of old grudges and unfinished business. Whatever history exists between them is thick, suffocating. The kind of thing that doesn't end with a handshake and a quiet truce.
I'm a quick learner. And I know this much—Duke Callum's enemies will become my enemies, whether I choose to involve myself or not.
I make a mental note to stay out of it.
Shortly after, Callum disappears. Someone whispers something in his ear, and he leaves without another word. His departure leaves a vacuum in the air, a shift in the power dynamics of the room.
I exhale slowly, returning my focus to my surroundings. It's a lot to take in, this whole twisted, gilded cage. But none of it is surprising. Not really.
Because the truth is, I knew what I was walking into the moment I arrived here. This place is built on power plays, on silent battles won with glances and whispers. And for women like me? The ones who are chosen, but not yet claimed? The ones who don't get selected at all? The rules are even crueler.
Because in this world, there are only two paths for women who go unclaimed for too long. If they are deemed useless, if they fail to entice a mate within five years, they are discarded. Sold. Traded as property to those who see them as nothing more than a means to an end.
A sobering fate, wrapped in silk and gold to disguise the horror beneath.
Not all packs function like this. There are exceptions—Lady Yvette's brother, for instance. His pack operates differently. He is the sub in his dynamic, something unheard of in most circles. A man submitting rather than ruling. If my best friend from back home were here, she'd have lost her mind over it, giggling about the irony of it all.
But the thing about power is that it doesn't matter who holds it—only that it exists. And in a place like this, where men dictate the fates of women, where choosing wrong could mean the difference between survival and ruin, I know one thing for certain.
I refuse to be powerless.
I don't know what Alaric and the host were talking about. Not yet. But I'll find out.
And when I do?
I'll make damn sure I'm the one holding the strings.