Chaos At The Alpha Dinner

Chaos At The Alpha Dinner
Chapter 25

Chaos At The Alpha Dinner

The air hummed with faceted crystal, glinting cutlery, and the sharp, professional smiles of pack leaders and their retinues. I flowed around the edge, balanced on a silver tray with the fragile care of one who did not wish to be noticed, though every gaze felt hot coals tracking me wherever I moved. Whispers followed me like a ghost, and I felt the weight of the eyes of the hall pressing down upon me. Every movement had to be perfect; every inhalation carefully managed. I could not afford to fail.

Ronan hovered nearby, beyond the circle of good manners. His black, turbulent eyes fixed on me, an intensity that made it difficult to catch my breath in my chest. He didn't speak, didn't move closer, but I sensed the warning he was giving, unspoken: be careful. Be careful, or everything disintegrates.

I was angry that he needed to be tense on my account. I was angry that his jaw was clenched, his fists curled, and and yet somehow gazing at him in that manner stung me. He was always trying to protect me, but I couldn't help but feel as if every glance at me reminded me that I was a problem—a intrusion into his existence.

The whispers increased when a couple of delegates heard my father's name. The words crept around the room, too soft to hear but biting enough to slice: "The damned girl… her father's flame… deadly blood…" My gut cramped, and I felt my knees start to give way. I clutched the tray so hard my knuckles went white, the silver rim biting into my palms. I forced myself to stand taller, to walk with the confidence of a person who belonged—although every cell in my body was shouting that I did not.

My grandmother's eyes followed me, cold and wild. She pretended to smile, to be delighted with my "looks," but her delight was ice sliding across my skin. She had succeeded in putting me in the center of the room, dressed in the colors of a traitor's daughter, the scuttle and the criticism her perfect arsenal. Every step I made, I felt the sting of shame, the icy realization that I was being watched, measured, judged.

And then—it happened.

There was a sudden, blasting pop in the room. The chandelier trembled above us, and crystal shattered on the floor. Gasps were all around me. Glass shattered, screams and chaos blending with the propriety mask of dinner. My heart bounced up into my throat as fear thundered, a tidal wave of it overwhelming me.

Someone screamed, a high, frightened shriek that echoed through my head. People were fleeing, screaming, stumbling over the furniture and chairs. And then—agony.

I groaned, tightening on my leg as fire ripped through my muscles. My legs wouldn't obey me. My knees buckled beneath me, and I folded over the marble floor, the tray going out of my hands with a crash that seemed to echo in my ears more loudly than the gun did. My hands grasped at my thighs, the rush of blood warming them. My head cleared space for a moment, the shock stripping me of breath, of thought, of even the ability to scream.

Ronan's voice sliced through the chaos like a blade. "Lyra!" he bellowed, and the sound of his fear shocked me. I ached to respond, to tell him I was fine—but my body refused. I tried to crawl, to drag myself towards him, but the pain was a living, breathing entity, that wrapped itself around my legs, that pinned them in place. Every movement a wave of agony down my back.

Guests were screaming, crawling across tables. Glass shattered all around me. Crystal glasses rolled across the floor, their sharp edges cutting into polished shoes and ankles. The smell of smoke and fear hung in the air, and I could hear the frantic cries of alphas struggling to regain control.

I noticed Kade at the edge of my vision. He stood quiet, impossibly still amidst the chaos. His eyes, sharp and calculating, stayed locked on me. My chest tightened. I had no idea if he was here to protect me, or if he was going to wait and see how this storm played out and strike later. My fear for him—him I did not trust—is rivaled by the terror at what was happening to me.

I tried to drag myself forward, my skin scraping on the cold marble, metallic blood in my mouth. Every inch a mile, every step an effort to drag my searing legs along. My vision blurred. I had to scream, cry, yell Ronan's name, but my throat hurt, unable to make the noises.

Ronan rushed toward me, knocking delegates and tables aside. His face was twisted with anger and terror, eyes afire with a guardian flame. "Hold on!" he shouted, reaching out for me—but someone grabbed him, trying to protect himself, and he was yanked back, leaving me exposed.

My grandmother's eyes saw me amidst the chaos. She was quiet, almost still, and that twisted calm angered me with a fury so precise it cut through the pain in my legs. She had designed this, orchestrated this. The whispers, the concentration, the danger—it all belonged to her. The epiphany made me rage even as my own blood spread on the floor beneath.

I gritted my teeth, grinding against the sear in my legs, the heft of terror in my chest. Survival was the only consideration that mattered. I had to make it to cover, had to live, had to make myself believe that I wasn't just a victim, no matter how terrible my body was failing me.

The space around me was a whirlpool. Crystal chandeliers creaked precariously, some flailing loose from their chains. Guests shrieked and crawled beneath tables, some holding arms or legs where bits of glass had sliced them. The smell of blood mixed with perfume and fine wine to produce a sickening, dreamlike haze.

Ronan's voice once more, but this time louder. "Lyra! Don't go away from me!" He battled through the chaos with endless determination, but bullets and screeching and thumping feet stretched every moment out to eternity.

I saw Kade once more. His expression was blank, but his eyes were on me. I didn't know if he was horrified at the danger, or if he was observing the mayhem like some predator observing prey stumble. My stomach roiled. Trust was something I couldn't afford.

With every ounce of strength I had, I dragged myself toward an overturned table and used it to cover myself. Pain screamed through my legs with each movement, but adrenaline gave me tiny shots of energy. My mind was a storm of memories, fear, and do-or-die schemes: the burning, the gossip about my blood, how my grandmother had orchestrated all this—it all swirled through my mind.

I rested my head on the marble floor, listening to the chaos surrounding me. Shouting. Screaming. Orders. The crack of gunfire. And then. a brief moment of quiet, for a second, before the next outburst.

Ronan was near, I felt his strength pushing against mine like a tide, his presence both reassuring and guilt-ridden. He did not have to save me. I did not need to be saved. Yet there I was, helpless, bleeding, and at the mercy of a storm of violence.

My head spun, rage brewing from the fear. I would not become the girl everyone hushed behind their hands and spoke of, the "cursed one," the traitor's daughter. I wouldn't let them. Even as pain throbbed down my legs, I forced myself to crawl, inch by torturous inch, toward the closest shadow, the closest likely refuge.

And then… I saw him.

Kade. Calm, observing, moving toward me through the chaos. I froze, unsure if his approach meant salvation or doom. My body trembled—not from the pain alone—but from the uncertainty of his intentions. My heart hammered against my ribs like it wanted to escape.

Ronan shouted again, breaking my paralysis. He was closer now, rushing as a whirlwind, all his muscles pulled taut in fury and fear. "I've got you, Lyra! Hold on!"

I fought to answer him, fought to tell him I was okay—but my voice was taken, stolen by shock and pain. My fingers bit into the cold marble, and I could feel the tang of blood. My head spun.

And the shadow moved closer, from under the smoky corner of the hall. I blinked, pounding heart struggling to see who or what it was.