Elodie POV

The Maybach’s door opened, and the night air hit me instantly. It was thick with the sharp pine and heavy musk of dozens of rival Alphas. Camera flashes exploded like white fire, blinding and chaotic.

Kingsley’s hand clamped around mine, his grip iron-clad. The familiar, intoxicating sparks from his touch shot up my arm, but his body was rigid. He pulled me flush against his side, using his massive frame to shield me from a particularly aggressive Alpha glaring in our direction.

*"Don't let them smell your fear,"* Kingsley growled, his voice a barely audible, feral rumble against my ear. *"They will eat you alive."*

Instead of cowering under his heavy Alpha's Command, I kept my gaze fixed forward. With my free index finger, I slowly, deliberately traced a single line down the center of his palm.

*I hear you, but I am not yours.*

Kingsley went completely still. His storm-gray eyes snapped down to me, flashing with pure shock before the irises were swallowed by pitch-black. *Rage*, his Lycan beast, was roaring in his mind—provoked not just by my silent defiance, but by the magnetic, maddening pull of it.

We reached the top of the grand marble steps, flanked by two rows of Silver Creek Pack Warriors. Standing at the entrance was my father, Alpha Richard Schmidt. He didn't even acknowledge Kingsley. His cold, calculating eyes landed solely on me.

"You're finally proving useful," Richard muttered, his voice carrying just enough to ensure the nearby elites heard him reduce me to a mere asset.

Kingsley shifted instantly, stepping entirely in front of me. His scent—cedarwood and the violent ozone of a burning bonfire—exploded outward, suffocating the space with pure aggression.

"Your pack is bleeding territory, Richard," Kingsley said, his voice dropping to a lethal, icy register. "Before you worry about my assets, manage your own. I hear sharks are already smelling the blood in the water."

Richard paled, his jaw tightening. "You're swimming with them, Drake."

Kingsley let out a low, dark chuckle. "I *am* the shark."

Inside the grand ballroom, crystal chandeliers cast fractured light over the crowd. The air was heavy with expensive perfume, roasted meats, and raw power. We barely made it past the towering champagne fountain when Preston Howell blocked our path, Clotilde clinging smugly to his arm.

Preston’s oily gaze raked over me, lingering on my wolfless frame before he smirked at Kingsley. "This must be a very quiet marriage," he sneered. "Considering there's no... mind-link."

My stomach twisted at the vicious reminder of my greatest vulnerability. Instinctively, I stepped a fraction of an inch behind Kingsley's broad shoulder.

He felt the movement. The temperature around us plummeted. Kingsley stared at Preston, his eyes turning to winter ice.

"Your pack's balance sheets are fragile, Howell," Kingsley said, his tone eerily calm but dripping with absolute murder. "Say one more word, and I guarantee by sunrise, you will have nothing left."

Preston swallowed hard, the color draining from his face as he took a hasty step back. But Clotilde’s smirk only widened.

Suddenly, a loud, theatrical gasp echoed near the grand staircase.

Bianca Sterling was descending the steps, draped in a glittering, crystal-encrusted replica of my black velvet gown. Clotilde pointed at her, her voice carrying perfectly over the sudden hush of the crowd. "Oh my goddess, look!"

Bianca strutted over, stopping right in front of me. She looked me up and down, her voice dripping with sugary venom. "Oh, darling. Are you wearing the budget version? It looks so... empty."

Suppressed snickers rippled through the surrounding Alphas and Lunas. The trap had been sprung.

Kingsley’s jaw clenched, a lethal growl vibrating deep in his chest. His Lycan was ready to tear the room apart to protect his mate's honor.

But I didn't flinch. I calmly reached out, lifting a crystal flute of champagne from a passing waiter's tray. I took a slow sip, looking at Bianca with a gaze of absolute, hollow boredom, as if I were watching a terribly written play.

I wasn't breaking. I was waiting.

Elodie POV

The suppressed snickers of the surrounding elites buzzed like toxic hornets in the grand ballroom. I took another slow sip of my champagne, letting the cold liquid soothe my throat as the trap tightened.

My stepmother, Luna Victoria Schmidt, glided over to a group of rival Alphas standing nearby. She wore a mask of perfectly practiced, fake sympathy. "Poor thing," Victoria sighed, her voice carrying effortlessly over the music. "Kingsley's legal battles must have the Blackwood Pack's funds running so tight. It’s a shame she has to make do."

Bianca Sterling preened under the attention, stepping closer to me. "Oh, darling," she cooed, her voice dripping with sugary venom. "Are you wearing the budget version? It looks so... empty."

Kingsley’s hand, still wrapped around my arm, turned to absolute steel. A low, guttural rumble—a feral, beastly growl meant only for my ears—vibrated deep within his chest. His scent spiked violently. The smell of cedarwood before a thunderstorm and a burning bonfire flooded the space, thick with lethal aggression. His Lycan was seconds away from tearing the room apart to protect his mate.

He shifted his weight, preparing to pull me behind him and unleash his Alpha's Command on the entire room.

I turned my head just enough to meet his storm-gray eyes. With a microscopic, almost imperceptible movement, I shook my head. My lips parted, silently forming a single word: *Wait.*

Kingsley’s jaw locked. The muscles in his neck strained against his collar, but miraculously, he held his ground.

Just then, the crowd near the entrance parted like the Red Sea. Valentina V, the supreme authority of the fashion world and a formidable older she-wolf, stepped into the ballroom. Alphas and Lunas alike stepped aside, bowing their heads slightly in respect.

Clotilde’s eyes lit up with malicious triumph. Like a proud peacock, she stepped directly into Valentina’s path, blocking her way. "Valentina! What perfect timing," Clotilde announced, ensuring the entire room was watching. "Please, you must settle a debate for us. Who wore it better?"

Valentina V stopped. Her icy, calculating gaze swept over the silent crowd before landing on the two of us.

She approached Bianca first. Valentina didn't even bother to touch the glittering, crystal-encrusted fabric. She simply leaned in slightly, taking a delicate sniff of the air.

"Tsk," Valentina clicked her tongue, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet room.

Then, she walked straight toward me.

Kingsley’s body went completely rigid. I could feel the violent hum of his beast, ready to sever the arm of anyone who dared touch me. But Valentina ignored his lethal aura. With her leather-gloved fingers, she gently brushed the fabric of my cuff. Reaching into her clutch, she produced a professional jeweler's loupe and pressed it to her eye, examining the inner seam of my sleeve.

She was looking for the microscopic 'P' hand-stitched in platinum thread—a detail invisible to the naked eye.

After a long, agonizing moment, Valentina lowered the loupe. She took a step back and turned to the breathless crowd.

"This is *Velvet Noir*," Valentina announced, her voice ringing with absolute, unquestionable authority. "Hand-stitched by the late master designer Pierre himself. The 2024 Atelier prototype. Only three exist in the world. It is a priceless piece of art."

A collective gasp rippled through the ballroom.

Valentina then turned her lethal gaze back to Bianca, who was suddenly trembling. "And what you are wearing, Miss Sterling, is a factory-line replica. Those cheap glass beads are merely a distraction from the atrocious stitching."

The silence that followed was deafening.

Valentina looked back at me, a rare smile touching her lips. "Exquisite taste, Elodie. I expect you at my private dinner next week."

As Valentina walked away, the illusion shattered. Bianca’s face turned the color of a bruised plum. Her chest heaved, and I could see her eyes flashing, her inner wolf panicking, desperate to shift and flee from the ultimate social execution.

I slowly lowered my champagne glass and looked up at Kingsley.

He was staring at me as if he were seeing me for the very first time. The confusion and protective fury that had clouded his eyes were entirely gone. In their place was a burning mixture of shock, awe, and a dark, consuming fire of Lycan possessiveness. His beast was roaring in his mind, the realization hitting him like a physical blow.

I was never the helpless wolfless victim he thought he needed to protect. I was the one who had orchestrated the slaughter.

Elodie POV

The silence in the ballroom was absolute, heavy with the sudden, sour scent of Bianca’s panic. She stared down at the cheap glass crystals on her bodice, a choked sob tearing from her throat. Unable to bear the crushing weight of a hundred mocking stares, she covered her face and fled the room, her heels clicking frantically against the marble floor.

Clotilde recoiled as if Bianca’s humiliation were contagious. She threw her hands up, her eyes wide with practiced innocence. "I didn't know, Bianca! I swear I thought it was real!"

Beside her, Preston Howell, ever the calculating heir, smoothly unlinked his arm from Clotilde’s. He took a deliberate half-step back, severing himself from the sinking ship. The subtle movement echoed like a thunderclap in the quiet room. Their fragile alliance was dead.

"Elodie, my dear," a voice oozing with stiff, opportunistic warmth broke the tension.

Richard Schmidt, my father and the Alpha of the Silver Creek Pack, stepped forward. His eyes gleamed with the sudden realization that I was no longer a stain on his reputation, but a shiny new asset to be claimed.

Kingsley moved faster. He eclipsed me, pulling me flush against his broad chest. His scent—cedarwood before a thunderstorm and a roaring bonfire—exploded outward, thick with lethal, unquestionable aggression.

"Back away," Kingsley’s voice was a low, vibrating growl that rattled the crystal chandeliers. "Funny, Richard, how you only just remembered how to pretend you have a daughter."

Richard’s face mottled with purple rage, the public disrespect from a Lycan burning away his fake smile. Pressed against Kingsley, I felt a strange, intoxicating safety wrapped in the suffocating weight of his absolute control.

Cornered and desperate, Clotilde shot a panicked look at her mother. Luna Victoria Schmidt stepped into the fray, her eyes glittering with venom. If she couldn't win with fashion, she would destroy my character.

"It is indeed curious," Victoria’s shrill voice sliced through the murmurs, ensuring every Alpha and Luna heard her. "How does a wolfless Omega, whose family trust funds are entirely frozen, acquire a priceless masterpiece by Pierre? Unless... she used the only asset an Omega truly possesses to please some unknown, powerful benefactor?"

The implication was a bucket of filthy water thrown directly in my face. The crowd gasped, their awe instantly curdling into disgusted suspicion.

Kingsley’s hand clamped around my waist like an iron vice. A terrifying, feral snarl ripped from his throat. His beast was clawing at the surface, ready to tear Victoria’s throat out for disrespecting his mate. A bloodbath was seconds away.

I placed my hand over his rigid forearm, pressing my fingers into his tense muscles. *Wait,* my touch commanded silently.

Under his storm-gray, murderous gaze, I slipped out of his hold. I walked calmly to a nearby table and picked up a fresh flute of champagne. The crowd parted for me as I approached Victoria. She lifted her chin, a triumphant smirk playing on her lips, expecting me to throw the drink in her face like a hysterical child.

Instead, I stopped inches from her. I lowered the glass and slowly, deliberately, poured the golden liquid over her diamond-encrusted satin shoes.

Gasps erupted around us. In old werewolf traditions, pouring a drink at someone's feet was a gesture reserved only for bidding farewell to the dead.

"You are dead to me, Victoria," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, yet carrying the weight of an executioner's blade.

She stood frozen, trembling with a rage so profound she couldn't speak, the champagne soaking into her ruined shoes.

Before anyone could react to the social slaughter, the auctioneer on the main stage cleared his throat nervously, tapping the microphone. "L-ladies and gentlemen, if we may proceed. The main event of the evening. The auction for The North Lot territory will now commence."

I turned my back on Victoria’s shaking form. Ignoring the bewildered stare of my father and the dark, burning confusion in Kingsley’s eyes, I walked straight to the front row of the auction seating.

I picked up the bidding paddle resting on the velvet chair—number 707. I turned to face the room, my eyes locking onto Preston Howell, and raised the paddle high into the air.