Chapter 174

Richard

The gala shimmered with ceremony and self-congratulation. Strings of lights laced the rafters above like constellations arranged with obsessive care, while banners in navy and silver hung from every wall, proclaiming UNITY AMONG WOLVES as if repetition could make it true.

Everything was meticulous and polished, handcrafted for optics, shaped to please the Council, and built for performance. Even through the haze of champagne, I could see the stitching beneath it all.

But the weight in my chest wouldn’t lift. The music was elegant, the people were loud, and under it all, I felt the air shift in wrong, small ways.

We hadn’t even had twenty-four hours of peace. The vote was still warm. Yet the Pack elite stood shoulder to shoulder again, drinking to stability as if they hadn’t each wavered and threatened to bolt just days ago. Their smiles were brittle. Their laughter performed. They clinked glasses and leaned close and whispered promises they wouldn’t keep. They weren’t here to celebrate a victory. They were here to measure it.

I kept scanning the floor. Something in me demanded it. Every part of me braced for something I couldn’t name.

David was here, of course. He looked composed. He looked comfortable. He shook hands, toasted, and smiled for photos. His speech had been crisp and respectable, his concession perfectly measured. But I’d fought beside him, across from him, and through him. I knew the jaw tightness under the smile. The stiffness in the grip. The way he never let his gaze linger on me for more than a second. He wasn’t done. He was just recalibrating. And his silence felt louder than any opposition.

Nathan stayed close, keeping his head low and eyes sharp. We hadn’t discussed the signal distortions again, but I knew he was thinking about them. I could feel it in the way his shoulders never fully relaxed. The tower relays had blipped twice this week—Simon said it could be residual echo from the last breach, but even he hadn’t sounded convinced. We’d decided to proceed anyway. The optics of canceling the gala were worse than the risk.

Still, I couldn’t stop watching the chandeliers. The air vents. The exits.

Then I saw her.

Amelia stood near the bar, backlit by a golden chandelier that turned her into a myth. Her dress was deep navy, sleek and spare, with thin straps and an open back. It clung just enough to suggest, then fell into softness at the waist. Her hair was up, leaving the line of her throat exposed. Her shoulders were still, her posture perfect, but her eyes kept drifting. Watching.

Everyone saw her, they always did, but tonight, they didn’t know how to place her. She wasn’t royalty, not officially. She wasn’t a Council wife. She wasn’t part of the old guard. But she stood there, confident, magnetic, untouched, and every head in that room found her like she was their center of gravity.

I reached for the velvet box in my coat pocket, just to feel it again. I’d been carrying it for two days, waiting for the right moment. I had thought maybe I’d wait until the gala was over. Something quieter. Something just for us. But the more I looked at her, the more I realized I didn’t want to wait.

Then the mood shifted. Not sharply. Just enough.

Jenny entered.

I didn’t see her face at first, only the way the crowd tilted slightly in her direction. She wore silver, elegant and strategic. She moved like a blade wrapped in silk, gliding through a pack of border allies like she’d always been part of them.

She didn’t glance at me or Amelia, but the silence of her presence spoke louder than any direct challenge. She was positioning herself where the power had shifted, embedding in the narrative before the next act could begin. Her focus had already realigned.

I watched Amelia's hand tighten around her glass. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Just enough that I saw it.

I made my way toward her, brushing past two reporters pretending not to eavesdrop.

"Dance with me," I said. No pretense.

She placed her hand in mine with steady confidence.

Her body fit against mine like it was where she belonged. Her fingers curled around my shoulder. Her breath landed on the edge of my jaw. I slowed the rhythm to match her.

"You look dangerous in this dress," I said softly.

She smiled, slow and sharp. "You look too put together for someone who had me gagging on your cock in a supply closet last night."

I nearly choked on my own breath. The way she said it, quiet, amused, entirely in control, set my skin on fire. I pressed my mouth to her temple to hide the grin.

"I couldn’t have done any of this without you."

She didn’t answer. She just looked up at me, eyes gleaming, and brushed her thumb along the seam of my coat where the ring sat. She knew. Of course she did. And she looked at me like she wanted this, not because of the optics, not because the moment called for it, because it was ours. Because we had survived all of it. Because she was still choosing me.

This wasn’t just a proposal. It was a declaration to everyone watching that I was hers, and she was mine, and we weren’t pretending anymore. There’d be no taking it back. No safe return to privacy. But I didn’t care. I wanted the entire fucking kingdom to know how deeply and desperately I needed her.

The music shifted. Applause rose. I kissed her hand, took one last look, and stepped up to the platform.

The lights were hotter than I expected.

I delivered the words I’d practiced, steady and sure. They’d been written for unity, for diplomacy, but every one of them came from a place that had nothing to do with politics. I meant them. Every word. Because I knew the cost. I thanked the packs who voted for me. I acknowledged the ones who didn’t. I said David’s name with respect. I made promises I intended to keep. I laid out the future like it could be held.

Then I turned.

She was standing just off the edge of the dance floor. Her face calm. Her hands clasped in front of her. Her necklace pendant sat steady against her collarbone.

I reached into my jacket, my fingers brushing the edge of the velvet box, heart thudding in my chest. Just as I started to lift it free, the sound system cracked, loud and sharp enough to jolt the crowd out of its applause.

It started as a sharp feedback buzz. Nothing unusual. But it stretched. Twisted.

Then came the tone.

A warped bell note, low and bending at the edges, shuddered through the speakers. I felt it in my molars.

I looked up.

The chandeliers began to vibrate.

Crystals clinked against one another. The sound was delicate. Then the first burst.

Glass shattered across the room. Screams rose. Security surged.

I leapt down from the platform, boots skidding against the glass-slick floor as I shoved past chairs and stunned aides, searching for one thing, her.

Amelia.

She was already moving toward me. Her eyes locked on mine, wide with alarm. Her body was tense, braced. She wasn’t screaming, but her mouth was open, like she’d just seen something I hadn’t.

She reached out.

I reached back.

Our hands touched. Her fingers were warm, trembling. I felt the weight of her palm for a heartbeat, maybe less.

Then she yanked backward like something hooked her by the ribs.

Her eyes went wide.

The chain snapped. The pendant hit the marble with a sharp, metallic clink that rang louder in my ears than the chaos around us. Her scent vanished. Her weight was gone.

I lunged. Shouted her name.

And then she vanished.

There was no flash, no scream, just a sudden emptiness where she had stood, like the air itself had been carved open and she had been pulled through before I could stop it.

I dropped to my knees, not even feeling the shards of glass beneath them. The pendant spun once. Then again. It slowed, stilled, and the room seemed to hold its breath.

She was gone. And I was still kneeling there like an idiot, like if I stared hard enough I could will her back into place. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t breathe.

All I could do was stay there, useless, while the world kept shattering around me.