Chapter 98
Lirael
"I'm sorry," I gasped between sobs. "I'm sorry, I know I'm being crazy, I know you wouldn't—but I just—I can't stop thinking about all those beautiful women who must throw themselves at you, all those sophisticated, perfect women who know how to navigate your world, who aren't broken and confused and—"
"Stop." Sebastian's arms tightened around me, and I felt him press a kiss to the top of my head. "Stop apologizing. Stop talking about yourself like you're somehow less than them. You're not broken. You're not inadequate. You're mine, and that makes you more valuable than every other woman in this city combined."
I wanted to laugh at the irony, but instead I just clung to him and let my tears soak into his expensive shirt.
"I just..." I pulled back enough to look up at him. "I don't want to lose you. I don't want some other woman to—"
"No one," Sebastian interrupted, his thumb brushing away my tears, "is going to take me away from you. No one is going to make me look at you and see anything other than the woman I—" He paused. "The woman I need more than my next breath."
Liar. You need my Moon Dew. You don't need me.
But out loud, I just sniffled and manufactured a watery smile. "Promise?"
"I promise." He sealed it with a kiss that was gentle and claiming, and I let myself sink into it for just a moment.
When he pulled back, I saw satisfaction in his eyes—satisfaction that I'd shown such jealousy, such clear evidence that I was becoming exactly what he wanted me to be.
Good. Let him think he's won.
"Actually," I said, letting my voice take on a hesitant quality, "maybe... maybe I should come with you. To the gala."
I felt Sebastian go very still, felt him trying to determine whether this was genuine devotion or calculated manipulation.
Both. Always both with us.
"Is that so," he said.
I nodded, letting my fingers twist in his shirt. "I know it's probably not appropriate, and I know I don't remember all the rules, but—what if there are women there? Women who look at you the way that nurse did? Women who are beautiful and sophisticated and everything I'm not?"
I saw the exact moment his resistance crumbled, saw male satisfaction bloom across his features.
"The gala is complicated," he said slowly. "There are protocols. Rules. The entire upper echelon of wolf society will be there."
"But I'd be with you," I pressed, looking up at him with wide, pleading eyes. "You'd protect me. And everyone would see that I'm yours. That I belong to you. Isn't that what you want?"
Checkmate.
"Fine," he said, and I could hear resignation and dark pleasure tangled together in his voice. "But you wear a mask. And you stay by my side. The entire time."
"Anything," I breathed, and pressed a kiss to his jaw. "Thank you, honey. I promise I'll be good."
Liar.
---
The dress was all flowing navy silk and modest necklines and long sleeves that covered every inch of incriminating evidence on my body. Sebastian dressed me himself, his fingers working the tiny buttons up my spine with surprising gentleness.
"Leave your hair down," he said when I reached for the pins. "I want you natural. Unspoiled."
Unmarketable. Less likely to attract attention.
But I just nodded and let him run his fingers through my hair, deliberately mussing it.
"Perfect," he murmured.
"You know what the best part is?" Sebastian said, his arms coming around my waist from behind. "All those other women will be dripping in jewels and designer gowns, trying so hard to catch an Alpha's eye. But you..." His lips brushed against my ear. "You don't need any of that. You're already mine."
"Besides," he continued, "men are all terrible creatures. Every single one of them. They see a beautiful woman and immediately start imagining—" He paused. "Well. Let's just say I'd rather not give them anything to imagine."
I turned in his arms. "Every man? Really?"
"Every man," he confirmed. "Except me, of course. I'm the only good man in the entire world."
I manufactured a laugh. "How modest."
"I prefer 'realistic,'" Sebastian countered, and then he was kissing me again, and I let myself sink into it because in four hours none of this would matter anyway.
---
As our car pulled up to the Silverstone Estate, I catalogued everything with clinical detachment—sixteen guards at the main entrance, high walls, security cameras at regular intervals.
East side. There's a path there. Possible exit route.
"Nervous?" Sebastian asked.
I forced myself to relax. "A little. It's just... so many people."
"They're just wolves," Sebastian said dismissively. "Arrogant, territorial, and ultimately predictable. Nothing to be afraid of."
Marcus opened the door, and Sebastian emerged first, then turned to offer me his hand. Every guard's eyes tracked our movement. Every security camera seemed to swivel in our direction.
His. The Dark Lord's mysterious companion. Don't look too long. Don't touch.
The mask Sebastian had chosen for me was delicate silver filigree, covering the upper half of my face. It was beautiful and effective and absolutely insufficient to hide my identity from anyone who knew what to look for.
Which is fine. Elwin's team knows what I look like.
The ballroom was soaring ceilings, crystal chandeliers, an orchestra in one corner. But what caught my attention was the people.
Wolves. Everywhere. Their eyes flashed gold when they turned to assess newcomers, and every single one of them dropped their gaze when Sebastian passed.
Fear. They're genuinely afraid of him.
"Stay close," Sebastian murmured. "And remember—you're here as my companion. Not as someone to be approached, questioned, or engaged in conversation without my explicit permission."
Your pet. Your possession on display.
That's when I saw him.
Damian.
He was standing near the buffet table, and beside him—
Celeste.
She was wearing Sophia's face, courtesy of the holographic disguise technology. Our eyes met across the room, and I saw her give the tiniest nod.
Thank god. The plan is still on track.
I watched as Damian's hand drifted casually across the petit fours. Four. Five. Arranged in a specific pattern.
45. Forty-five minutes.
I glanced at the ornate clock. 7:37 PM.
8:22. I need to be in that bathroom by 8:22.
Which meant I had exactly eight minutes.
Sebastian was immediately surrounded by sycophants, and I let myself fade into the background, playing the role of weak, recovering wife.
I tuned them out, memorizing the layout. Three exits—main entrance, terrace doors to the east, service corridor. Waiters circulated with practiced efficiency, and several of them had the build of trained fighters.
Security disguised as staff. Probably armed.
The clock read 7:45 PM.
Time to make my move.
I shifted slightly, pressing my thighs together and letting one hand drift to my lower abdomen. Sebastian's attention was on a heated discussion, but I felt his awareness shift fractionally.
I waited another thirty seconds, letting the discomfort show more clearly.