TROUPES IN THE WILD

Sylvie had been in her room for exactly twelve minutes when someone knocked and informed her that she was expected at the pack banquet.

She stared at the closed door.

"No."

"My lady?"

"I said no."

A pause. "Alpha Prime's orders."

Sylvie closed her eyes.

Of course they were.

She had spent the afternoon breaking off an engagement, embarrassing Kaelen in front of half the servants, and attracting enough attention to make herself a topic of conversation. The sensible thing would have been to remain in her room, eat something, and avoid powerful people until she figured out how to survive in this world.

Unfortunately, the people in charge of her survival seemed determined to keep her busy.

She opened the door.

The maid waiting outside held a dark green gown over one arm and a pair of silver shoes in the other.

"Please tell me those aren't for me."

"They are, my lady."

"Do I have a choice?"

The maid hesitated.

Sylvie sighed. "I didn't think so."

Twenty minutes later, she stood before her mirror, examining the woman staring back at her.

The gown fitted her body beautifully, with a modest neckline and a slit that allowed her to walk without tripping. Someone had pinned her hair into an elegant arrangement, leaving a few strands loose around her face.

She looked expensive.

She also looked like someone who would be murdered over a seating arrangement.

"Wonderful," she muttered. "At least I'll die well dressed."

The maid behind her made a small choking sound.

Sylvie glanced at her through the mirror.

"That was a joke."

"Of course, my lady."

The poor girl looked unconvinced.

Sylvie turned around. "What's your name?"

"Elise."

"Elise, if I say something strange tonight, please assume I've suffered a minor head injury."

Elise blinked. "Should I fetch the physician?"

"No. Just don't let anyone put anything suspicious in my drink."

The maid stared at her.

Sylvie picked up her evening bag.

"Let's go."

---

The banquet hall looked exactly as Chloe remembered it from the novel.

Crystal chandeliers hung over polished marble floors. Tables covered in white linen filled the room, and servants moved between guests carrying trays of wine, roasted meat, and delicately arranged desserts.

Werewolves, apparently, had excellent taste in food.

The room was also full of people who could ruin her life.

Sylvie recognized several nobles from the novel. Lord Harrington, who financed illegal fights between rogue wolves. Lady Mirelle, who smiled while collecting other people's secrets. And Kaelen, standing near the head table with a drink in his hand and a bruise on his pride.

His eyes found hers immediately.

She looked away.

Not my problem.

That was becoming her favorite sentence.

A servant approached with a tray of drinks.

"Wine, my lady?"

"Water, please."

The servant paused. "Water?"

"Yes. The clear liquid that comes without a cork."

He handed her a glass.

Sylvie took it and scanned the room.

She needed to locate Lyra before the trouble started.

In the original novel, tonight's banquet contained another humiliating incident. A noble would deliberately trip Lyra while she carried a tray of drinks toward the head table. The resulting spill would soak Lyra's dress and send her stumbling into Valen's lap.

The guests would laugh.

Valen would be furious.

And Sylvie, who had supposedly arranged the entire incident, would receive another generous helping of everyone's hatred.

Chloe had once thought the scene was ridiculous.

Now she was standing in the exact room where it would happen, and she couldn't dismiss it as a writer's lazy attempt to create drama.

Lyra was real.

The servants were real.

If someone fell, they could be hurt.

Sylvie spotted Lyra near the service entrance, carrying a silver tray with several glasses.

"Oh, absolutely not."

She began moving through the crowd.

A nobleman stepped into her path.

"Lady Sylvie. I heard you had an interesting afternoon."

Kaelen's friend, judging by the smug expression.

"Then you should be satisfied. You have something to discuss over dinner."

His smile faltered.

Sylvie continued walking.

Behind her, she heard someone laugh.

Good.

Let them gossip about her attitude instead of her supposed crimes.

She was almost at the service entrance when she saw Lord Harrington move behind Lyra.

He glanced toward Valen's table, checked whether anyone was watching, and extended one polished shoe into Lyra's path.

Sylvie's stomach tightened.

There it was.

The stupidest trope in the history of romance fiction.

She quickened her pace.

"Lyra!"

Lyra turned at the sound of her name.

Harrington's foot caught the edge of her shoe.

Lyra stumbled.

The tray tilted.

Three glasses slid toward the edge, and red wine surged toward Valen's table.

Sylvie didn't think.

She lunged.

Her fingers caught the tray just before it hit the floor. One glass toppled anyway, spilling wine across the polished tiles.

The tray's weight dragged her sideways.

She grabbed the nearest solid object.

Unfortunately, the nearest solid object was Lord Harrington's expensive jacket.

He yelped as the tray tipped in the opposite direction.

The remaining wine poured straight down the front of his white waistcoat.

For a second, the entire hall went quiet.

Harrington stared at his clothes.

Then he looked at Sylvie.

"You insolent little—"

"Careful," she said, still gripping the tray. "You'll make the stain worse."

His face darkened.

"You did that deliberately!"

"Of course. I woke up this morning and decided ruining your waistcoat would be the highlight of my evening."

A few guests laughed.

Harrington stepped toward her, his hand tightening around her arm.

"You'll pay for this."

"Take your hand off me."

He didn't.

Then a voice cut through the hall.

"Lord Harrington."

Valen.

The nobleman's grip loosened immediately.

Valen stood beside the head table, his expression unreadable.

"Would you care to explain why you're threatening a woman after causing a disturbance?"

Harrington's mouth opened.

"Alpha Prime, I was simply—"

"Answer the question."

The nobleman glanced at Lyra, who was still holding the empty tray.

Then he looked at Sylvie.

His face changed.

"She attacked me!"

Sylvie stared at him.

For a moment, she genuinely admired the man's nerve.

"You tripped Lyra," she said. "I caught the tray. You got wet. That's the entire story."

"You're lying!"

"Then perhaps we should ask the servants who saw you."

Several heads turned toward the service entrance.

A young waiter stepped forward reluctantly.

"I saw Lord Harrington put his foot out, Alpha."

Harrington went pale.

Valen's gaze hardened.

"Leave the banquet."

"But—"

"Now."

The nobleman looked around for support. Nobody offered any.

He stormed out, leaving a trail of red wine across the floor.

Sylvie let out a breath.

Problem solved.

Mostly.

She turned toward Lyra. "Are you hurt?"

Lyra shook her head, although her fingers were trembling around the tray.

"You caught it."

"Yes."

"Why?"

Sylvie stared at her.

"Because you were about to fall."

Lyra looked as though she wanted to ask something else, but the words wouldn't come.

Sylvie understood. Trust wasn't something she could purchase with a jar of ointment or earn by preventing one humiliating incident.

Still, Lyra gave her a small, uncertain nod.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Sylvie handed the tray to a nearby servant and stepped backward.

Her shoe slid on the wine-slick tiles.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

Her arms flew outward.

She never hit the floor.

A strong hand caught her around the waist, pulling her against a solid chest.

For one startled second, she couldn't move.

Valen.

Of course it was Valen.

His other hand steadied her elbow. She could feel the warmth of his palm through the thin fabric of her gown, and the sudden closeness made her forget the entire room existed.

Then something snapped through her.

A sharp, electric sensation raced from the point where his hand touched her waist, across her ribs, and straight into her chest.

Sylvie sucked in a breath.

Valen went still.

His fingers tightened slightly against her side.

She looked up.

His silver eyes had changed. Not in color, but in focus. The cold scrutiny she'd grown accustomed to had given way to something sharper and far less predictable.

He was staring at her as if he'd felt it too.

Sylvie tried to step away.

His hand remained at her waist for one extra second before he released her.

"Are you injured?" he asked.

"No."

Her voice came out too quickly.

Valen glanced at the wet floor, then at the place where his hand had rested.

"Then watch where you're walking."

Sylvie blinked.

Excuse me?

"You caught me."

"And I'd prefer not to do it again."

"Trust me, the feeling is mutual."

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

She immediately wished she'd kept her mouth shut.

But then she noticed something that made her forget her embarrassment.

Valen was looking at her mouth.

Only for a moment.

Then his gaze returned to her eyes, and his expression closed again.

"Captain Rourke will escort you home after the banquet."

"I can walk by myself."

"That wasn't a question."

He turned away before she could respond.

Sylvie watched him return to the head table.

Her waist still tingled where he'd touched her.

She pressed her fingers against the spot through her gown.

No.

Absolutely not.

She knew this story. Valen was supposed to fall for Lyra. Their relationship was the central romance. Sylvie was the villainess, not some surprise romantic interest.

Whatever that electric sensation had been, it meant nothing.

Probably.

She glanced across the room.

Valen had resumed his conversation with Kaelen, but he wasn't listening. His gaze had shifted toward her again.

When their eyes met, he didn't look away.

Sylvie did.

---

The banquet dragged on for another hour.

She avoided the wine, the noblemen, and any conversation that lasted longer than necessary. Lyra eventually disappeared into the servants' quarters, and Sylvie hoped the girl would get through the evening without another disaster.

At last, she was summoned to the entrance.

Captain Rourke stood beside the doors.

"Lady Sylvie, Alpha Prime requests your presence in his private study after the banquet."