The scent blockers tasted like ash.
Aria gagged as the second pill slid down her throat, scraping against her dry esophagus. It sat heavy in her stomach, a cold, leaden weight that seemed to war with the fever already burning beneath her skin.
"Stop fidgeting," her mother snapped, tightening the corset of the crimson dress until Aria's ribs groaned in protest. "You need to look flawless. Stone says the Lycans has eyes everywhere."
Aria gripped the edge of her vanity, her knuckles white. The dress was beautiful—a cascade of deep red silk that shimmered like fresh blood under the lights—but it felt like a costume. A disguise for a creature that didn't exist.
"It's too tight," Aria gasped, shallow breaths fluttering in her chest.
"It's perfect," her mother corrected, stepping back to admire her handiwork. She didn't look at Aria's face; she looked at the silhouette, the commodity she was about to present to the market. "Remember, keep your head down. Don't speak unless spoken to. And for the love of the Moon, do not let anyone touch you. If the blockers fail..."
She let the threat hang in the air, unfinished but understood.
Aria looked at herself in the mirror. The girl staring back was a stranger. Her pale skin was flushed with that unnatural heat, her dark hair was pinned up in an intricate, painful style, and her eyes, usually a soft, nondescript brown, looked feverishly bright.
The drive to Blackspire Keep took three hours, winding up the treacherous mountain roads that separated the pack lands from the Lycan territories. The silence in the SUV was suffocating. Alpha Stone drove with white-knuckled intensity, his gaze fixed on the road, while her mother scrolled through her phone, checking the guest list for the tenth time.
Aria sat in the back, pressing her forehead against the cool glass. The higher they climbed, the worse the pressure in her head became. It wasn't just a headache anymore; it was a hum, a low-frequency vibration that rattled her teeth.
It felt like the air itself was getting heavier. Charged.
When the Keep finally came into view, Aria's breath hitched.
It was a monstrosity of black and iron, carved directly into the side of the mountain. Spires clawed at the gray sky, and the massive gates were flanked by statues of wolves so large they made the SUV look like a toy. It radiated power—ancient, unyielding, and predatory.
"Behave," Stone grunted as the car rolled to a stop in the massive courtyard.
Dozens of luxury cars were already there. Wolves in tuxedos and gowns spilled out, their laughter sharp and confident. These weren't just pack wolves; these were the elite. The ancient bloodlines. They moved with a predatory grace that made Aria feel small and fragile.
As she stepped out of the car, the sensory assault hit her like a physical blow.
The smell.
It was overwhelming. Musk, expensive perfume, earth, and the underlying scent of raw power. It flooded her nose, bypassing the scent blockers and slamming straight into her brain. The hum in her head spiked to a shriek.
Aria stumbled, grabbing the car door.
"Stand up," her mother hissed, gripping her elbow with bruising force. "Smile."
Aria forced her lips into a tremulous curve. She let her parents flank her, using their bodies as a shield as they moved toward the massive double doors.
The Grand Hall was a cavern of gold and shadow.
Chandeliers the size of small houses hung from the vaulted ceiling, casting a warm, deceptive glow over the crowd. There must have been five hundred people inside, but the room felt intimate, dangerous.
Everywhere she looked, she saw perfection. The Lycan women were statuesque, their skin glowing with health, their movements fluid and lethal. The men were mountains of muscle in tailored suits, their eyes flashing with gold and amber as they scanned the room.
Aria felt like a rabbit who had wandered into a den of lions.
She kept her gaze on the floor, focusing on the polished marble tiles. One step. Another step. Just survive the night.
"Alpha Stone," a booming voice called out.
Aria flinched. A massive man with a scar running down his cheek approached them, holding a flute of champagne. The energy coming off him was hot and aggressive.
"Councilman Thorne," her father greeted, his voice tight with respect.
"And this must be the daughter," Thorne said, his gaze sliding to Aria. It felt slimy, invasive. He sniffed the air, frowning. "Strange. She smells... quiet."
Aria's heart hammered against her ribs. The blockers. They were working, but barely.
"She is shy," her mother interjected smoothly, stepping slightly in front of Aria. "And saving her energy for the presentation."
Thorne laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. "Well, let's hope she has more fire than scent. The King is in a mood tonight."
The King. Alpha Damien.
The mention of his name sent a ripple of fear through the room. Aria felt the shift in the atmosphere—the way the laughter grew a little more brittle, the way eyes darted toward the massive throne at the far end of the hall. It was empty.
For now.
"Excuse me," Aria whispered, pulling her arm free from her mother's grip. "I need... air."
"Aria—" her father started, a warning growl in his tone.
"I'm going to be sick," she choked out. It wasn't a lie. The room was spinning, the lights blurring into streaks of gold. "Just a minute. Please."
Her mother looked at her with disgust, then waved a dismissive hand. "Go. Find a bathroom. Fix your face. And come right back."
Aria didn't wait. She turned and fled, weaving through the crowd, dodging elbows and champagne flutes.
The sensory overload was drowning her. The laughter sounded like screaming. The clinking of glass sounded like breaking bones. The heat under her skin was unbearable, a fire that wanted to consume her whole.
She found a secluded alcove near a row of floor-to-ceiling windows, hidden behind a heavy velvet curtain. She slipped behind it, pressing her back against the cool glass, gasping for air.
Breathe. Just breathe.
She closed her eyes, pressing her palms against her temples, trying to push the hum back down. But the air suddenly changed.
The chatter in the ballroom died.
It didn't taper off; it was severed, as if someone had sucked the oxygen out of the room. A heavy, suffocating silence descended, weighted with an ancient, primal fear.
Aria's eyes snapped open. The dizziness didn't fade, it sharpened. The hum in her head turned into a distinct, rhythmic thrumming. Boom. Boom. Boom.
Like a heartbeat. But not hers.
Against her better judgment, drawn by a force she couldn't name, Aria reached out and pulled the velvet curtain back just an inch.
The main doors had opened.
A man stood at the threshold.
He didn't look like the other wolves. He was taller, broader, radiating a darkness that seemed to swallow the golden light of the chandeliers. He wore a suit that cost more than her father's entire territory, black on black, sharp and tailored to a lethal perfection. His hair was the color of midnight, swept back from a face that was too harsh to be handsome and too striking to look away from.
Alpha Damien. The Lycan King.
He didn't move. He just stood there, letting the silence stretch, letting the room bow to him without saying a word.
Then, he inhaled.
Aria saw his nostrils flare. His head tilted slightly, his posture shifting from regal indifference to sudden alertness. He had caught a scent.
Impossible, she thought. The blockers. I'm hidden.
But Damien didn't scan the crowd. He didn't look at the Councilmen bowing to him, or the Alphas vying for his attention.
Slowly, terrifyingly, his head turned.
His gaze cut through the sea of people, bypassing the elites, the beauties, and the warriors. It moved with unerring precision until it landed on the velvet curtain at the far end of the room.
He looked right at the gap in the fabric.
He looked right at her.
The air left Aria's lungs in a rush.
His eyes were not brown, or blue, or even the warm amber of a normal wolf. They were silver. Molten, freezing, burning silver.
The moment their gazes locked, the sickness inside Aria exploded. It wasn't pain anymore. It was a resonance. A shockwave that traveled from her eyes down to her marrow, vibrating with a terrifying recognition.
Mine, a voice whispered in the back of her mind. A voice that wasn't hers.
Damien didn't smile. He didn't look pleased. His lip curled slightly, a flash of white teeth, and his expression darkened into something that looked dangerously like hate.
He started walking. Straight toward her.