Chapter 107 Off to the races

Chapter 107 Off to the races
Ernest’s sudden obsession with dragging me through the pre-gala social season had long ceased to feel like pack politics; it was a public fetish.

For twelve years, he had kept me locked away in the periphery of the manor, a discarded orphan scrubbing baseboards in the dark. Now, he was dressing me up and parading me through high society like a prized filly. It was the textbook pathology of a tyrant: Ernest didn’t just need control, he needed everyone around him to be an active, breathing hostage to his whims.

Looking like my mother had triggered the obsession, sure, but the cruelty ran far deeper than a dead woman's ghost. I was vulnerable. I had no clan, no status, and no voice to fight back. And by claiming me, he wasn’t just satisfying a sick, nostalgic delusion—he was flexing his absolute dominion over his sons. As Nate, Cole, and Damon had grown taller, broader, and more feral, Ernest had felt his grip on them slipping. Taking me was how he reclaimed the throne. I was territory to be conquered, and Ernest derived a dark, sadistic thrill from forcing his boys to watch him stake his flag right in front of them.

The afternoon at the Hunt Club Derby was crisp and sunny, the autumn chill biting through the pristine white wool of my tailored Chanel set. I wore a wide-brimmed sun hat to shield my eyes from the glare, my gloved hand resting lightly on Nate’s suited forearm as we walked the pavilion.

He was playing his role with terrifying precision. His jaw was clenched, his shoulders rigid, his profile cold and entirely detached. He treated me with the formal, icy contempt of an heir forced to walk alongside a parasite. He was selling the lie to perfection—so well, in fact, that the sick, familiar voice in the back of my mind began to whisper. What if it isn’t entirely an act? What if, beneath the strategy, he genuinely looks at me and sees a disgusting little whore who crawled into his father’s bed?

Before the doubt could pull me under, a sharp, melodic laugh sliced through the pavilion.

Standing near the VIP box was Jessica Harlow, radiant in pale lavender—and beside her, hands tucked casually into his slacks, was Christian.

My stomach gave a hollow drop. My fucking fiancé.

"Well, look how cute!" Jessica purred, stepping forward with a smile so sugary it made my teeth ache. Her eyes dragged over my white tweed with unmistakable disgust before she turned her sights onto Nate. "A sweet little brother-and-sister date. But I think we should swap our boys for the afternoon, shouldn't we, Iris?"
Nate’s arm instantly corded under my fingers, his bicep turning to solid iron.

"My father ordered me to accompany Iris today, Jessica," Nate said, his tone flat, clipped, and devoid of warmth. "I'm under strict instructions."

"Oh, please, Nate," Jessica scoffed, waving a manicured hand as she looped her arm through his with sickening familiarity. "I highly doubt Mr. Crawford will mind Iris sitting with her actual fiancé instead. Don't be so dramatic."

I glanced sideways at Nate.

Underneath his polished, obedient exterior, a violent fracture broke through his composure. His nostrils flared, his pupils dilating as his gaze locked onto Christian. He hated it. The wolf inside him was practically clawing at his ribs, furious at the mere thought of handing me over to another man.

Yet I could see the agonizing calculation playing out behind his golden-brown eyes. If he fought her on this—if he became too defensive, too possessive—the mask would slip. High society would notice, Jessica would report it, and Ernest would know that his loyal heir was guarding a girl he was supposed to despise.

Slowly, agonizingly, Nate’s muscles slackened.

"Fine," Nate clipped, pulling his arm from my grasp without looking at me. "Enjoy the races."

Christian stepped smoothly to my side, offering his arm with the effortless grace of high-society royalty. I had no choice but to take it.

We moved toward the front row of the private box, settling into plush velvet armchairs overlooking the immaculate dirt track.

Directly behind us sat Nate and Jessica.

Having Nate at my back felt like sitting in front of an unpinned grenade. With our heightened wolf senses, the sensory overload was suffocating. I could hear the erratic, heavy thump of Nate’s heart, rattling against his ribs like a trapped beast. I could smell the sharp, acrid sting of his adrenaline cutting right through Jessica’s cloying lilac perfume.

Every time Christian shifted closer to me, the air temperature behind my neck seemed to drop ten degrees.

"Comfortable?" Christian asked softly, leaning in just close enough for the cameras along the turf line to catch the angle.

"Perfectly," I lied, keeping my voice level.

He rested a casual, well-mannered hand over my gloved fingers where they gripped the polished brass railing. It was completely platonic, an rehearsed display of high-tier betrothal designed entirely for the people sitting across the pavilion. But behind us, the leather of Nate’s chair groaned violently. I heard the faint, sickening rip of tailored wool as Nate’s claws involuntarily pierced through the fabric of his slacks.

"Oh, look at them, Nate," Jessica cooed from behind, resting her chin on Nate’s shoulder, her voice dripping with venomous delight. "They look nice together, don’t they? Like a fairytale… The Prince and the Pauper."

"Save it, Jessica," Nate choked out, the word flat, dead, and lethal.

Keep your eyes on the track, I told myself, letting my breath out in a slow, calculated stream. You are not prey. Jessica doesn’t matter. I beat her up once, I can do it again if I have to. She doesn’t matter.

I grounded myself in the memory of the brass soap dish crushing like wax in my palm. The ancient power stirred quietly beneath my sternum, answering my focus, but I clamped down on it, refusing to let even a speck of crimson breach my irises.

A sharp bugle blast tore through the autumn air, signaling the call to post. The crowd surged to its feet, a flurry of tweed, silk, and roaring voices as the thoroughbreds loaded into the starting gates.

The bell rang. The gates slammed open with a thunderous clatter, and eight massive horses pounded down the dirt stretch, dirt clods kicking into the pale afternoon sunlight. The roar of hundreds of wolves cheering on their wagers shook the concrete beneath our feet.

Christian leaned over the railing, clapping politely, while Jessica screamed encouragement for the Harlow family's stallion.

Under the deafening cover of the crowd's roar, the latch of our private box clicked open.

A catering server slipped quietly through the side gate, dressed in the venue's standard uniform—crisp black trousers, a fitted vest, and a flat black newsboy cap pulled low over her brow. She carried a polished silver tray lined with sparkling crystal champagne flutes.
She bypassed the back row, ignoring Jessica and Nate completely, and maneuvered straight toward the front rail.
She stopped beside my chair, extending the tray with steady, gloved hands.

"Champagne, miss?" a low, raspy voice murmured over the roar of the thundering hooves.

I turned my head, ready to offer a rehearsed, dismissive shake of my head.

The refusal died in my throat.

Tucked neatly beneath the brim of the black cap were thick, dark curls, and cutting vertically across her left eyebrow was a thick, unmistakable pale scar running straight down over a milky, blinded eye.

Celeste stared right through me, her single dark eye gleaming with reckless, razor-sharp mischief.

She leaned down just an inch closer, tilting the silver tray toward my hand, and flashed a slow, crooked smirk.

"Here, have a glass," she whispered beneath the noise. "We need to talk."