Chapter 13
The orchestra swelled, violins like pack howls ripping through silk, untamed and merciless. Each note wasn’t music; it was claws gouging stone, a hunting cry disguised in strings. Heads turned, not for ceremony, but instinct. The hall froze, prey recognizing predator. Perfume soured against the air as wolf-scent rolled through, dominance, storm fire, bloodline. Their human skins forgot themselves, every heartbeat stuttering, every breath caught, as the room remembered what it meant to bow beneath a wolf’s gaze.
That was my cue.
I entered slowly, deliberately, every step a hunt. The slit of my gown flashed like fangs unsheathed, the hem whispering across marble as though it remembered blood. My heels struck like claws on granite, measured, merciless, never rushed. Queens don’t hurry. Alphas don’t bow They arrive.
Beneath the expensive amber perfumes and venom-laced colognes, something older cut through. Wolf musk. Storm fire. Territory claimed in a single breath. The crowd didn’t understanc why their skin prickled, why their pulses kicked like trapped deer, but their instincts did.
Damien leaned closer, voiced dark velvet in my ear, laced with amusement.
“Your ex just scented you.”
He chuckled low, the sound vibrating like a growl.
“His eyes narrowed. Like a mutt catching the scent of the alpha that starved him out.”
I didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. I watched.
And there it was, the exact moment Alpha Shawn’s gaze found me. He tried for composure, but his wolf betrayed him. His jaw twitched, his aura flared, confusion, denial, hunger. That was always my favorite part: when males tried to rewrite reality to soothe their fragile pride.
Marga leaned forward, her fake lashes trembling. She whispered to Lydia, lips curled like a hyena.
“I heard the heir’s supposed to be forty-something. That woman’s got a body like a goddess on her third mate bond. No way that’s her. Must’ve spent millions on spells and surgeries.”
I didn’t give her the satisfaction of turning. But inside? My wolf howled with laughter.
Darling, no witchcraft can buy posture like mine. You have to survive hunting to wear it.
Lydia’s wineglass trembled. Mark’s aura flared sour and unsettled, as if he’d seen a ghost he once commanded.
I kept walking. Past them. Through them. Above them.
Tonight, I wasn’t the help. I was in a storm.
Damien guided me to the front row. I sat like I was born to rule it. A seat that isn’t given, it’s taken. My father, Magnus Vale, hadn’t arrived yet, but my brothers, Ram and Edrick, already stood tall, wolves quiet but loyal in their silence.
The room buzzed like a den of uneasy pack wolves. Murmurs. Instinctive unease.
I moved through the crowd like smoke in a cathedral, every step dripping dominance. A crystal glass dangled in my fingers, filled with deep red, wolf-blood wine. The crowd parted without
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realizing why, their instincts bowing even when their minds refused to.
“She’s too controlled. No one moves like that unless they’ve been trained.”
“No, look at how Damien Moonveil shadows her. That’s not just protection. That’s possession.”
“I’d let him claim me, goddess help me.”
“Dream on, bitch.”
They thought I couldn’t hear. Wolves always hear.
I was about to sip when she appeared, Marga. Wrapped in pale gold like a chandelier about to shatter. She wore her smile like a broken mask. Then, she bumped me.
Calculated.
The glass tilted, crimson dripping down my wrist like blood-marking prey. My Venetian mask slipped, clinked against marble like the toll of a war bell.
Gasps bloomed like weeds in the hall.
Marga clutched her pearls, too perfectly timed.
‘Oh dear, I’m so sorry,” she crooned, venom coated in honey.
didn’t stoop to pick up the mask. I didn’t need it anymore.
Her eyes locked with mine. She froze. Recognition slithered into her like rot.
‘Stella?” she whispered, paling. “Moon curse! It is you.”
tilted my head, a wolf’s smirk curving slowly and cruelly.
‘Who’s that?”
Marga seized my wrist, too hard for a “lady.” Her aura reeked of desperation.
‘Don’t you dare. I know it’s you. Even looking like… that.” She waved her jeweled hand like I wa some cursed mirror. Her voice cracked with remembered fear.
You can’t hide from me! I still remember the day you murdered my hounds, you savage bitch!”
let her clutch me. Let her feel the quiet growl vibrating through my bones. My wolf pressec against her skin like a storm waiting to break.
‘You always had that little smirk,” she spat, louder now. “What? You thought you could disappea nto some den of mongrels and no one would notice?”
The whispers rose into open murmurs.
‘She’s the Vale heir? Impossible.”
‘No! Just another wolf-whore with a patron.”
Marga’s voice sharpened, shrill as glass.
‘You’re nothing but polished trash. You think you’re above me now because you’ve got pearls and a waist again?”
I smiled. Not the kind that heals. The kind that scars.
“Funny,” I murmured, “I thought you were finished talking when your face began melting.”
That’s when he appeared.
“STELLA.”
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His voice was rough steel, the growl of a wolf who thought he still owned me.
Alpha Shawn. Shoving through the crowd, his aura flaring like a storm. He grabbed my arm, claws just breaking skin.
Damien was faster. Death in tailored silk. His hand snapped up, catching Alpha Shawn’s wrist
mid-swing.
“Touch her again,” Damien said, his voice dripping with lethal promise, “and I’ll carve your pack sigil from your skin. You don’t own her.”
The room hushed. Even the violins faltered.
Alpha Shawn’s face twisted, his wolf pushing against the fragile leash of his control.
“You left me for him?” he sneered. “You threw away our bond for some boy who doesn’t ever have a pack?”
I raised the glass, licked the blood-wine from my wrist, and answered slowly, letting every word slice the air.
“So what if I did?”
I lifted my chin like a queen baring her throat to no one.
“You’re not my Alpha anymore.”
His hand rose again, ready to strike.
Damien tightened his grip, aura flaring like a killing frost.
“Try it,” he hissed, eyes burning like the wolf inside had surfaced. “And I promise, you’ll crawl ou of here with your pride in pieces.”
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Lucia Morh is a passionate storyteller who brings emotions to life through her words. When she’s not writing, she finds peace nurturing her garden.