After My Alpha Chose His Political Luna Over Me

The uniform was designed to humiliate. White collar, black dress cut too short, a frilly apron that belonged in a costume shop. I tugged at the hem while Adelyn circled me like a predator evaluating prey.

"Perfect." Her smile was all teeth. "You'll serve the champagne tonight. Try not to embarrass us."

The gala blazed with excess. Crystal chandeliers threw fractured light across marble floors. Visiting Alphas from across the Eastern seaboard filled the Knight pack house ballroom, their laughter booming over string quartets. Five years since Wyatt had marked Adelyn. Five years of this.

I moved through the crowd with my tray, invisible except when someone needed their glass refilled. My shoulder ached—the cough had been worse this morning, black blood staining my pillowcase. Twelve days left, maybe less. I could feel my wolf spirit flickering like a candle in wind.

"More champagne." A visiting Alpha thrust his empty glass at me without looking up from his conversation. I refilled it, my hands steady despite the tremor in my bones.

Across the room, Wyatt stood with his father, both of them commanding in their formal suits. Wyatt's amber eyes swept the crowd, passing over me without recognition. Five years, and he'd perfected the art of looking through me.

Adelyn appeared at my elbow, her designer gown shimmering like oil on water. "Camille, darling, the guests near the terrace need service." Her voice dripped false sweetness. "Do try to keep up."

I turned toward the terrace. Didn't see her foot snake out.

The world tilted. My tray launched skyward, champagne arcing through the air in golden streams. I hit the marble hard, my knees cracking against stone. The glasses shattered around me, a constellation of broken crystal.

The champagne splashed across expensive Italian leather shoes. I looked up into the furious face of Alpha Dominic Russo, one of the most powerful wolves on the East Coast.

"You clumsy bitch!" His voice cut through the music. The quartet stopped playing. Conversations died. Every eye in the ballroom turned toward us.

"I'm so sorry, Alpha Russo." I kept my head down, my voice barely above a whisper. "I'll clean—"

"Five years in this pack and you still can't walk straight?" Adelyn's laugh rang out, bright and cruel. "Honestly, Wyatt, I don't know why we keep her."

Heat crawled up my neck. I reached for the fallen tray with shaking hands. Someone kicked broken glass at me. Laughter rippled through the crowd—not everyone, but enough. Always enough.

Wyatt's voice carried across the room, flat and administrative. "Clean it up. Now."

I gathered shards of crystal, each piece biting into my palms. Blood mixed with champagne on the white marble. No one helped. No one ever helped.

The first scream came from the entrance hall.

Then gunshots. The ancient chandelier swayed as wolves shifted, the air crackling with transformation energy. Rogues poured through the doors—six of them, maybe seven, their eyes wild with bloodlust and something else. Revenge.

"Marcus Knight!" The lead rogue's voice boomed. "You killed my brother!"

Chaos erupted. Visiting Alphas shifted mid-stride, their formal wear shredding. The Knight pack guards formed a protective circle around Marcus and Wyatt. I pressed myself against the wall, still holding broken glass, my heart hammering against my ribs.

The rogue leader moved like lightning. He broke through the guard formation, silver-laced dagger gleaming in his fist. Heading straight for Wyatt.

I didn't think. Thinking was for people with futures, with something to lose.

I threw myself forward. My body—weak, dying, barely holding together—collided with Wyatt's chest. The dagger meant for his heart sliced through my shoulder instead, silver burning like acid through muscle and bone. I screamed, the sound ripping from somewhere primal, and my momentum knocked the attacker sideways.

His blade spun from his grip as he fell. It skittered across the blood-slicked marble.

Pain exploded through my shoulder, white-hot and all-consuming. Silver poisoning spread like fire through my veins. I collapsed, my vision tunneling.

Through the haze, I saw the blade's trajectory. Saw it arc through the air. Saw it graze Adelyn's arm—barely a scratch, a thin line of red against her pale skin.

Adelyn's scream could have shattered the remaining chandeliers.

"She tried to kill me!" Adelyn clutched her arm, blood—so little blood—seeping between her fingers. "Camille attacked me! She's working with them!"

No. No, I—

Pack guards swarmed the rogues. Someone kicked the dagger toward me. It stopped inches from my hand.

Wyatt's face appeared above me, his expression twisted with something I couldn't read. Rage. Betrayal. His eyes locked on the blade near my bloodied palm, then on Adelyn sobbing theatrically in her mother's arms.

"You." His voice was winter itself. "You did this."

"Wyatt, I saved—" The words died in my throat as his hand closed around my injured shoulder. The silver burn intensified. I couldn't breathe.

"Take her to the dungeon." Wyatt's command rang through the ballroom. "Lock her up. I'll deal with her myself."

Hands grabbed me. Dragged me. The last thing I saw before darkness swallowed me was Adelyn's smile—small, private, victorious—as she pressed a silk handkerchief to her scratch.