The Grand Hall was louder than usual for an open rehearsal. Half the pack sat in the tiered gallery seats, their voices a continuous low hum above the sound system's warm-up bass.

I sat on the edge of the team bench, tightening the ribbon of my right satin shoe. Beside me, Damon was already rolling his shoulders, testing the flexibility of the fresh athletic tape binding his collarbone.

"Floor’s fast today," he said, eyeing the waxed boards. "They put down a fresh seal last night."

"Fast is fine," I replied. "Just remember the deceleration on beat four."

I stood up and planted my foot on the wood to test the traction.

My right heel slid instantly.

A sharp squeak echoed against the boards, and my ankle rolled inward, the sole offering zero grip. Damon’s left hand caught my elbow with reflex speed, arresting the fall before my knee touched the floor.

"Easy," he said, his brow pulling down. "What happened?"

I didn't answer. I leaned against his arm, slipped my foot out of the shoe, and turned it over in my hands.

My stomach plummeted.

A clean, deliberate razor slash ran straight down the center of the suede traction pad. The split exposed the smooth inner fiber, frayed and completely slicked from the edge of a fresh utility blade. One leap or a hard landing on that sole would send me skidding headfirst across the parquet.

"Ivy, what is that?"

Vanessa’s voice drifted over before she even fully stopped walking. She wore her competition silk, looking every bit the poised, untouchable Beta ready to represent Ashwood. Cole stood just a few steps behind her, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed intently on my hands.

"Looks like your equipment gave out," Vanessa said, pressing her hand over her chest in a theatrical display of sympathy. "Thank goodness you caught it before the sequence started. That could have been catastrophic."

"It didn't give out," I said, holding the shoe up so the neat, razor-cut edges caught the overhead glare. "Someone sliced it."

Vanessa’s eyes flicked to the blade mark for a fraction of a second, completely unbothered.

"Well, whatever happened, the judges won't delay the rehearsal block," Vanessa said smoothly, stepping closer. "The rules state that pairs unable to clear the technical floor must forfeit the slot. You can't execute competitive lifts without proper suede friction, Ivy. Not with Damon's shoulder."

She turned her gaze to Damon, offering him an apologetic, patronizing tilt of her head.

"It's unfair to you, Damon," she purred. "Dragging an unprepared partner through a routine is one thing, but risking your recovery on faulty gear is another. If Ivy withdraws now, the council could grant you an emergency waiver to bring in a more reliable partner. Someone who can actually finish a rotation."

Cole didn't say a word, but the eager tension in his posture gave him away. He was waiting for me to break. He wanted the tears, the frustration, the panicked scramble for an excuse.

I looked at the sliced satin in my hands.

Then I looked at Vanessa.

"I don't need your pity," I said. "And I don't need your advice."

I dropped the damaged shoe onto the bench. Without breaking eye contact with my sister, I reached down, untied my left ribbon, and stripped off the second shoe. Then I peeled off both thin nylon socks, tossing them aside until my bare feet met the cold, polished oak.

Vanessa’s polite smile faltered. "What are you doing? You can't perform barefoot in an official exhibition. It looks undisciplined."

"The regional rulebook requires traction, not satin," I replied coolly, flexing my toes against the grain of the wood. "Skins and bare soles are permitted under traditional folk clause four. I know the bylaws better than you do, Vanessa."

I stepped past her, completely shutting her out of my sightline, and faced Damon.

"We change the set," I told him quietly.

Damon’s dark eyes tracked down to my bare feet, then back up to my face. "Change it how?"

"No overhead press," I said. "No shoulder toss. We drop every single aerial trick and take the whole sequence to the floor."

"The judges look for height in the opening block," he warned, though there was no hesitation in his tone—only calculation.

"They look for control," I countered. "I taught thirty pack children in the lower den every winter without a single pair of shoes. Barefoot gives me double the surface area and a lower center of gravity. I can anchor you deeper into the turns than any pair of ribbons ever could. But you have to match me. No sudden lunges. No fighting for speed."

Damon looked at my eyes, searching for a single trace of doubt. He found none.

"Call the counts," he said.

We walked onto the center of the Grand Hall floor. A wave of murmurs rippled through the spectators in the balcony. Whispers broke out among the pack elders as they noticed my bare feet against the dark wood. From the sidelines, Vanessa crossed her arms, a smug, satisfied smirk returning to her lips. She was waiting for the disaster.

The opening strings of the orchestral track swelled through the hall.

One beat. Two beats.

Damon stepped into my space.

Ordinarily, his movements carried the violent, explosive torque of an Alpha who fought on the jagged rocks of the pack borders. He was used to overwhelming his space with raw, physical intimidation.

Not today.

On beat three, Damon dropped his hips, matching the exact angle of my stance.

He didn't rush forward to dominate the line. He waited for my heel to plant, for the balls of my bare feet to grip the polished wood, and then let my weight guide his frame. When I rotated into a low sweep across the floor, his broad body flowed directly over mine, his uninjured arm providing a rigid, protective cradle without forcing the spin.

My bare feet dug into the wax, catching every contour of the timber. Because my center of gravity was lowered, Damon didn't have to brace his torn collarbone to haul me through the air. Instead, our movements stayed level, dense, and grounded.

He moved like liquid shadow, shaving every ounce of unnecessary force from his limbs just to stay locked with my breath.

The murmurs from the gallery died completely.

The silence in the room grew heavy, replaced only by the rustle of our clothes and the steady, rhythmic slide of skin against wood. Every pivot was sharp. Every touch point was effortless. For the first time since we set foot in a rehearsal hall, Damon wasn't just accommodating my rules—he was fully synchronizing with my pulse.

We hit the final measure.

Instead of an overhead lift, I dropped into a sharp lunge between his feet, sweeping my leg back into a low arabesque. Damon came down with me, his uninjured left hand locking firmly over my hip, anchoring my balance with iron certainty as the final violin chord dissolved into the air.

For two full seconds, nobody moved.

Then, a sudden burst of applause broke from the judges' table near the balcony. Several pack elders leaned forward, nodding in clear approval at the raw, primal discipline of the floor-work.

Vanessa's narrative that I was an unstable liability had evaporated in four minutes of sheer technique. Her smirk was gone, her jaw clenched tight as she realized the room was looking at us with genuine respect.

Before the applause could fade, a harsh sound cracked through the hall.

Heavy bootsteps marched furiously across the competition wood.

"Enough!"

Cole stormed straight into the center of the ring, his charcoal coat flying open, his face flushed dark with humiliated fury. He ignored the gasps from the balcony, ignored the pack elders leaning over the rail, and marched straight toward us until he was barely an arm's length away.

He didn't look at me. His feral, bloodshot eyes locked squarely on Damon's left hand, which still rested securely against my hip.

"Take your hands off her," Cole snarled, his Alpha command vibrating with raw, unchecked venom. "Get your filthy paws off her waist. Right now."

Damon didn't flinch. His hand stayed exactly where it was, his dark eyes meeting Cole's murderous glare with cold, unbothered detachment.

"She placed it here," Damon said softly. "I move it when she says."

"She is my mate!" Cole roared, completely losing his composure in front of the entire assembly. "You don't touch her! You don't lay a finger on her in public, and you don't use this tournament as an excuse to paw at what belongs to me!"

The accusation hung vile and ugly in the open air of the hall.

Three years ago, I would have stepped between them, frantic to defuse Cole's public rage before he damaged his standing. I would have made excuses for his temper.

Now, I didn't even look him in the eye. I didn't offer a single word about mate claims, public propriety, or the routine he had stolen. He didn't deserve my breath.

Instead, I turned my back to Cole, looking directly into Damon’s scarred, steady face.

"Eight o'clock tonight," I said clearly, my voice carrying cleanly across the quiet room. "Auxiliary Studio C. We're running the actual lifts."

Damon’s mouth curved into a faint, lethal smirk. "I’ll be there."

Right behind me, Cole’s breathing stopped completely, the precise time and location burning straight into his ears.