The Drive To The Wolves

The Drive To The Wolves

HAZEL VOSS

The night air was cool against my skin, brushing past me as Tristan and I stepped out of the apartment building.

For a second, it felt normal—just another evening in the city, the hum of traffic, distant chatter, the faint glow of streetlights painting the sidewalk gold. But that illusion shattered the moment I heard the low purr of an engine pulling up at the curb.

A sleek black SUV rolled to a stop right at our feet, the tinted windows hiding whoever sat inside.

But I didn’t need to see.

My stomach sank.

Victor.

Of course, it was his car.

I swallowed, my grip tightening around the small clutch in my hand, pulse thudding louder than it should’ve. It was always like this—the calculated display, the polished vehicles, the tailored perfection. Victor Voss never did subtle, not when his image was involved.

Tristan stood beside me, rigid, unreadable as always, his tall frame sharp and imposing in his suit. I could practically feel the tension rolling off him in waves, his jaw ticking as he stared down at the car like it personally offended him.

The back door of the SUV swung open smoothly—too smoothly—and a suited chauffeur stepped out, nodding stiffly in our direction without meeting either of our eyes.

“Mr. Wolfe. Miss Voss,” the man greeted, voice clipped, rehearsed. “Your father sent the car.”

Father.

I hated how the word still hit a nerve, like it didn’t belong to me anymore but still anchored itself deep beneath my skin.

Of course father sent the car. Couldn’t have his daughter—his humiliation of a daughter—showing up to his grand event in anything less than pristine.

Even now, after everything, it was about appearances. It always was.

I could feel Tristan watching me, but I kept my chin high, burying the sting of it, the familiar ache pressing against my ribs. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me unravel.

“We’re expected,” I said quietly, stepping toward the SUV, my heels clicking against the pavement.

Tristan didn’t move at first. His hand flexed at his side, a muscle ticking in his jaw. For a second, I thought he might refuse—drag me back upstairs, lecture me all over again—but then he exhaled, low and controlled.

“Of course,” he muttered, his voice rough with quiet sarcasm, “God forbid Victor’s image takes a hit.”

The words sliced sharper than they should’ve, but I kept walking, slipping into the SUV, the cool leather seats pressing against my back as the door shut behind me.

Tristan followed a moment later, the space suddenly too small, too charged with the storm of everything left unsaid between us.

The car pulled away from the curb, city lights blurring past the windows, the silence between us louder than ever.

And with every mile closer to father’s event, I could feel the mask settling onto my face—the perfect daughter, the fallen heiress, the mistake wrapped in silk.

But beneath it all, my pulse still thudded, uneven, heavy, reminding me I wasn’t the same girl who cowered under my father’s commands.

Not anymore.

And tonight… maybe Victor would finally realize that too.

The hum of the tires against the pavement filled the silence inside the SUV, steady and unrelenting.

I pressed my knees together, clutching the small black clutch tighter than necessary, nails digging into the soft leather, my pulse pounding beneath my skin.

We didn’t speak.

Tristan sat beside me, his posture infuriatingly relaxed, one arm stretched along the back of the seat, his other hand resting on his knee, fingers tapping against his thigh with quiet impatience. His sharp profile was cast in faint shadows from the tinted windows, jaw locked tight, eyes staring straight ahead like I wasn’t even there.

But I could feel him watching me—subtle, sidelong glances when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.

I was.

The weight of everything we hadn’t said hovered between us like thick smoke. His frustration with me. My exhaustion with him. The bitter reminder that the only reason we were sharing this car, this moment, was because I’d made the reckless choice to marry my bodyguard in Vegas.

A decision that spiraled into headlines, exile from my own family, and this… strained, unbearable quiet.

The streetlights streaked across his face, highlighting the hard line of his cheekbones, the faint stubble along his jaw, the steely tension in his expression. He looked like he was going to war.

Maybe we both were.

Father’s event loomed closer with every passing minute, and I could practically hear the buzz of champagne glasses, fake congratulations, the polished lies ready to be paraded in his honor.

My stomach churned.

“Don’t fall apart the second we walk in there.”

Tristan’s voice broke the silence—low, rough, edged with warning.

I turned, bristling at the assumption, my grip tightening on my clutch. “I’m not going to fall apart.”

His eyes flicked to mine, sharp, unreadable. “You sure? Because lately, your brilliant choices have been… questionable.”

I exhaled slowly, dragging my gaze away from his, focusing on the blurred skyline outside the window. The towering city lights felt suffocating tonight.

“I made one mistake,” I muttered under my breath. “A mistake that included you, if I remember correctly.”

Tristan’s low laugh filled the small space, humorless and biting. “Trust me, princess, no one’s forgetting Vegas.”

My cheeks flushed, equal parts embarrassment and quiet fury. “Neither is Victor,” I snapped. “Which is why I’m showing up tonight. I’m not hiding like some scared kid.”

The car slowed, turning down a familiar, gleaming driveway lined with manicured hedges and towering, glass-paneled walls. The venue. Victor’s playground for the rich and powerful.

My throat tightened.

The SUV rolled to a smooth stop, the chauffeur already stepping out, opening the door.

Tristan shifted beside me, his broad frame leaning in, his voice dropping low, meant for my ears only.

“Remember what this is,” he murmured, eyes locked to mine, the faintest crack of something vulnerable beneath his mask. “It’s a show. You survive the night, smile for the cameras, and remember… Victor doesn’t own you.”

My pulse skipped. For a fleeting second, the fury between us dissolved into something… heavier.

But I pushed it down, straightening my shoulders as the cool night air swept inside the car.

I slid out, heels clicking against the pavement, head held high, ignoring the cameras already flashing beyond the velvet ropes, the curious eyes waiting to feast on my scandal.

Tristan followed, tall and sharp beside me, his hand hovering near the small of my back—not touching, but clos

e enough to remind me: We were walking into this together.

For better or worse.

The night was just beginning.