Chapter 6

Alaric Thorne POV:

I stood on the balcony overlooking the grand ballroom, a glass of champagne untouched in my hand. Below, the annual Mating Gala was in full swing-a vibrant, swirling mass of silks and velvets, of hopeful glances and predatory smiles. I hated it.

My mother, the former Luna Genevieve, glided to my side, her presence as elegant and commanding as ever. "You could at least pretend to be interested, Alaric," she murmured, her warm molten gold eyes tinged with maternal exasperation.

I took a sip of the champagne. It tasted like ash. My mind wasn't on the eligible she-wolves my mother had paraded before me all evening. It was fixated on a small, pale Omega with the scent of chamomile and sorrow. In the weeks since I'd discovered the truth, I had deliberately kept my distance, needing to untangle the knot of rage and a strange, unwelcome possessiveness in my chest.

My wolf had no such patience. *They are all dust compared to her,* he grumbled, dismissing the entire glittering assembly below.

"Look there," my mother said, subtly indicating a tall, powerfully built she-wolf with silver-blonde hair. "The daughter of the Silver Crest Alpha. A warrior. She would make a strong Luna."

My gaze flickered over the warrior and then swept across the room, landing, as if by magnetic force, on a figure in the corner. Elara.

She was alone, swallowed by the crowd, wearing a simple, ill-fitting gown that looked years out of date. She was a wilting wildflower in a hothouse of exotic blooms. She looked even paler than I remembered, more fragile, her doe-brown eyes vacant, as if her spirit had already fled.

Ryker was nowhere in sight.

As I watched, another she-wolf approached her. This one was a vision in a flame-red dress, her fiery auburn hair a fiery cascade down her back. She radiated an aggressive confidence. I recognized her instantly. Jessa Vane, one of the pack's most skilled female Alphas.

Jessa cornered Elara, her posture predatory. From this distance, I couldn't hear their words, but I could read the venom in the sharp, deliberate movements of Jessa's lips. I saw Elara shrink back, her body trembling, until her back was pressed flat against the wall. Trapped.

A muscle in my jaw tightened. A dark, ugly anger began to smolder in my gut. Why would a warrior like Jessa target a harmless Omega?

The instinct to protect, to intervene, roared to life inside me, so fierce and sudden it stole my breath. My wolf snarled, a low, possessive sound of warning against any who would harm what he was beginning to consider *ours*.

"Excuse me, Mother," I said, my voice tight. I set my glass down with a sharp click and moved toward the ballroom.

My purpose was singular. I was going to put an end to the pathetic display of bullying unfolding in that corner.

I descended the steps and moved through the crowd. The pack members parted before me like the sea before a storm, sensing the cold fury emanating from their king.

Jessa and Elara both saw me coming. A flicker of panic crossed Jessa's face. Elara's was filled with a familiar mix of confusion and fear.

My eyes were locked on Jessa, two chips of golden ice.

I was only a few feet away when he appeared. Ryker.

He materialized at Jessa's side, his hand closing around her arm. He leaned in, murmuring something in her ear. His actions were not those of a warrior stopping a fight, but of a lover soothing his agitated partner. He was protecting Jessa.

Then, he shot a poisonous glare at Elara, a look that screamed, *This is your fault.*

He pulled Jessa away, guiding her through the crowd, leaving Elara utterly alone, exposed and humiliated in their wake.

I stopped in my tracks, a silent observer to the entire, damning tableau. All my suspicions solidified into hard, cold fact. Ryker and Jessa. And Elara, the innocent, broken pawn in their game.

I watched as she turned, her shoulders slumped in defeat, and fled the ballroom. And for the first time in my long, lonely life, my heart ached for her pain-a sharp, unwelcome pang for the Omega who smelled of home.