POV: Chloe
We moved through the crowd. Head high. Shoulders back. Fake it 'til you make it.
"Look who cleaned up," a voice sneered.
Brad. Ethan's Gamma. Drunk on cheap champagne and entitlement.
"Brad."
"Does the Alpha know you're playing dress-up?" He looked me up and down. "Nice dress. Shame about the wolf inside it."
"Excuse me."
He blocked my path. "Don't walk away from a ranked wolf, Omega."
"She's with me," Sarah stepped in, her Beta aura flaring like a riot shield. "Back off, Brad. Unless you want to explain to the Council why you're harassing an Obsidian Moon guest."
Brad paled and stumbled away.
My heart hammered. "I need a drink."
I grabbed a glass from a waiter. Downed it.
Fire. Liquid razor blades.
"Chloe, stop! That's Wolfsbane Liquor!" Sarah cried.
For a shifter with a dormant wolf, Wolfsbane isn't a buzz. It's poison.
The room tilted. My vision tunneled. My legs felt like they were made of lead.
"I need... air," I gasped.
"I'll get water. Don't move."
I couldn't stay. The noise was a physical weight. I stumbled toward the exit, pushing into the cool night air of the parking lot.
I leaned against a silver sedan, gasping.
"Get off my car!"
Ashley.
She and Ethan were walking toward me.
"Chloe?" Ethan looked shocked. "You look... cheap."
"I'm... leaving," I slurred. My tongue felt thick.
"You're drunk," Ashley laughed. "Came to spy on us? Pathetic."
"Get in the car," Ethan commanded. "I'm taking you home. You're embarrassing me."
"No."
Ashley shoved me. "He said get in the car!"
My balance was gone. I hit the asphalt hard. My palms skidded, skin tearing against the grit.
"Look at you," Ethan sneered. "And you thought you could be a Luna?"
I lay there, the poison pulsing in my veins.
Then, the air changed. Static electricity. Ozone. The smell of a storm about to break.
Heavy footsteps. Leather on pavement.
Ethan stopped talking.
A man stepped out of the shadows. Tall. Broad. A suit that cost more than Ethan's life.
His eyes were liquid gold.
He looked at me. A jolt went through me, sharper than the Wolfsbane.
"Mine," a voice rumbled in my head. Not spoken. Projected.
He extended a hand.
"Get up," he said. His voice was gravel and velvet. "A Queen does not kneel in the dirt."
