I walked away from him with my pulse hammering victory in my throat. The synthetic lure was working. The red dress was working. Everything was working exactly as I'd planned.
I made it maybe ten steps before Yareli materialized at my elbow.
She was wearing the midnight blue gown from dinner, the one Travis had bought her, and she looked like she'd stepped out of a magazine. Her arm was looped through a man's—tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired. He had the kind of presence that made other wolves step aside without thinking about it.
"Sophia!" Yareli's voice was sugar and venom. "I didn't know you were attending the reception. I thought you were on beverage duty."
The man beside her turned. His eyes swept over me with the kind of dismissive assessment Alphas reserved for Omegas. His aura pressed against my skin, heavy and arrogant.
"This is my Alpha," Yareli purred, and then she rose on her toes and kissed him. Full on the mouth. Right there in the middle of the reception hall, with half the regional packs watching.
My blood turned to ice water.
This man was shorter than the one I'd just approached. Different build. His shoulders were wider, but his stance was wrong—too stiff, too performative. The arrogance in his posture wasn't natural. It was practiced.
Yareli pulled back from the kiss and smiled at me. Her lipstick was perfect. "Travis Moore, Alpha of the Ashvale Pack. Verified near-Lycan bloodline." She said each word like she was placing stones on a scale. "This is my stepsister, Sophia. She's... well. She's here."
Travis—the real Travis—looked me over again. His lip curled slightly. "Charmed."
I stared at him. At the way he held his glass. At the set of his jaw. At everything that was wrong.
Yareli's smile sharpened into something poisonous. "Looking for someone, Sophia? Stay in your lane, wolfless."
I forced my face into a smile. Empty. Bright. The kind of smile I'd been practicing in mirrors since I was thirteen. "Just admiring the company," I said lightly. "You two look perfect together."
Yareli's eyes narrowed, but I was already turning away, already moving toward the exit with my heart slamming against my ribs.
I made it to the parking lot before my hands started shaking.
The man I'd approached wasn't Travis Moore.
I'd given my number to a complete stranger. I'd pressed a napkin into his palm and whispered about dinner and leaned close enough to let the synthetic lure do its work, and I had no idea who he was.
I sat in my car for twenty minutes, replaying every detail. The way he'd looked at me—not with Travis's performative arrogance, but with something deeper. Hungrier. The way his hand had trembled around his glass. The way he'd said my name—no, wait. He hadn't said my name. He'd just said "Travis" when I'd asked.
He'd lied.
Or I'd assumed.
Or both.
My phone was in my hand before I realized I'd pulled it out. No messages. No missed calls. Just the blank screen and my own reflection staring back at me, wide-eyed and flushed.
I drove home. Lorelai was already asleep. My father's study light was off. Yareli's room was dark.
I locked my bedroom door and sat on the edge of my bed, still in the red dress, still smelling like fake roses and chemical lure.
Who did I just give my number to?
My phone buzzed at 11:47 PM.
I grabbed it so fast I nearly dropped it.
Unsaved number. The message was brief. Magnetic.
*Dinner. Friday. Your pick of venue. —Travis*
I stared at the screen until the words blurred.
He'd played along. He'd called himself Travis. He'd pocketed my napkin and smiled and now he was texting me like this was normal, like I hadn't just made the most catastrophic mistake of my life.
I should delete the message. Block the number. Pretend tonight never happened.
But something stopped me.
Something about the way he'd looked at me. The way his scent had wrapped around me even through the synthetic perfume—something I couldn't consciously name but that had been humming beneath my sternum since the reception. Something that made the right side of my neck feel warm, exactly where a mate mark would sit if I had a wolf to feel it.
I typed back before I could think too hard.
*I'll send you the address.*
I hit send.
Then I sat there in the dark, holding my phone, feeling the phantom warmth bloom across my skin.
Friday came too fast and too slow.
I chose a steakhouse two towns over, far enough from pack territory that no one would recognize me. I arrived ten minutes early in a fitted black dress, synthetic lure reapplied, armed with rehearsed vulnerability and calculated smiles.
He was already there.
He'd taken a booth in the back corner, away from the windows. When I walked in, his eyes found me instantly. He stood—an old-fashioned gesture that made something in my chest twist—and waited until I slid into the seat across from him.
"Sophia," he said. Just my name. Like it meant something.
Up close, in better lighting, he was devastating. Dark hair, sharp jaw, eyes that looked grey in some light and silver in others. His presence filled the booth, a possessive Alpha warmth that had nothing to do with the man I'd been targeting.
I smiled. Leaned forward slightly. Let my fingers toy with the edge of my napkin. "I'm glad you came."
"I wouldn't miss it."
The server appeared. We ordered. I asked for a salad—something light, something that wouldn't smudge my lipstick. He ordered a steak, rare, and didn't look at the menu.
When the server left, he leaned back and studied me. Not the way Travis—the real Travis—had looked at me at the reception. Not dismissive or arrogant. This was different. Hungry. Tender. Like he was memorizing every detail.
"Tell me about yourself," he said.
I launched into the script I'd rehearsed. Vague details about pack life. Careful omissions about my wolfless state. Practiced laughter at the right moments.
He listened. Really listened. His attention was so complete it made my skin prickle.
The bread basket arrived. We both reached for it at the same time.
His fingers grazed mine.
The electric current that jolted through me was so violent I nearly dropped my water glass. It wasn't static. It wasn't accidental. It was something deeper, something that started at the point of contact and spread through my entire body like wildfire.
I covered the reaction with a laugh. Pulled my hand back. Grabbed a roll I didn't want.
"Sorry," I said lightly. "Clumsy."
His eyes hadn't left my face. "Don't apologize."
I wrote another napkin note under the table while he was looking at the menu. Something flirty. Something that suggested a second date. I slid it across the table when the steaks arrived.
He read it. Tucked it into his breast pocket without breaking eye contact.
Then he smiled.
It wasn't the smile I'd expected. It wasn't arrogant or performative or calculated.
It was tender. Hungry. Possessive in a way that made my rehearsed smile falter—just for a fraction of a second.
"I'll hold you to that," he said softly.
And the warmth on the right side of my neck bloomed hotter, phantom and impossible, exactly where a mate mark would sit if I had a wolf to feel it.
