The Trap Gala

The Winter Accord Gala was held every year in the ballroom of the Silverlight Hotel. Every Alpha, every Council member, every pack with an ounce of power came to be seen.

Elena hated it on sight.

"I look ridiculous," she muttered, tugging at the deep blue gown.

"You look," said Adrian from the doorway of her dressing room, "like someone who could end a war."

She turned. He was wearing black, a perfect tailored suit with a white shirt open at the throat, no tie. His hair was still damp. He looked lethal and unfairly beautiful.

She forgot what she was going to say.

"Thank you," she managed.

"I mean it."

"I know."

"I'll be beside you all night."

"I can protect myself."

"I know that, too." He crossed the room, slowly. "But I'd like to be there while you do."

His hand rose, and for a moment she thought he'd touch her face. Instead he fastened a thin silver chain at her neck. At the end hung a small black crescent.

"What is it?"

"My mother's. It's a warning charm. If anyone with a weapon comes within ten feet, it burns." He met her eyes. "I want you to have it."

Her heart did a strange little roll.

"Adrian..."

"Wear it. Please."

She did.

The ballroom was a blaze of gold and glass. When they entered, the music faltered. A hundred heads turned, and Elena felt every one of them like a hand on her back.

She lifted her chin and took Adrian's arm.

"Smile," he murmured. "They're watching."

"Do I look like I'm smiling?"

"You look like you're deciding who to murder."

"That, too."

He laughed, a real, rough laugh that made nearby guests stare. Then his hand slid to the small of her back, warm, possessive, and the room around them seemed to blur.

The orchestra began a slow waltz.

"Dance with me," he said.

"I don't dance."

"You did, once."

"I don't remember."

"I do." His thumb brushed her spine. "Trust me."

She let him lead her onto the floor.

It was easy. That was the worst part. Her body knew his rhythm, his weight, the pressure of his hand. He turned her under his arm and drew her back, and the whole world narrowed to the heat of his chest and the dark gold of his eyes.

"You're staring," she whispered.

"I'm allowed."

"Are you?"

"I'm your husband."

"Technically."

"Legally. Biologically. Magically."

"You're insufferable."

"And yet you haven't stepped on my foot."

She bit back a smile.

Across the floor, a tall dark-haired Alpha with a hungry smile was watching them. He lifted his glass to Elena. She ignored him.

He cut in anyway.

"Alpha Blackthorn," he said smoothly. "May I?"

"No," said Adrian.

"I only wish to speak with the lady."

"You can speak from there."

The man laughed, undaunted. "Surely the Queen may choose her own partners."

Adrian's eyes went black.

Elena laid a calming hand on his chest. "It's all right."

"It's not."

"I can handle one man in a tuxedo."

"That's what worries me."

"Your jealousy is showing again."

"I'm not jealous."

"You've broken a champagne flute."

He looked down. Glass glittered in his hand. He swore under his breath.

She laughed. She couldn't help it.

"Go and get a drink," she said. "I'll be fine."

He gave her a long, dark look. "Five minutes."

"Three."

"Two."

"Deal."

He kissed her forehead, quick, fierce, public, and vanished into the crowd.

The Alpha with the smile bowed. "Rowan of the Ashfall Pack. Seraphina's father."

Her smile cooled. "Alpha Rowan."

"May I be blunt, Your Majesty?"

"Please."

"There is great interest in your son." His voice stayed pleasant. "The Council is concerned. A child of that power, with no pack, no protector. It is dangerous for him. Ashfall would be honored to offer guardianship."

"Guardianship."

"A home. An education. A safe place to grow." His eyes glinted. "At very little cost to you."

"And if I refuse?"

"It would be a shame," Rowan said gently, "if anything happened."

Elena's blood ran cold.

"Is that a threat?"

"An observation."

Her hand drifted to the silver crescent at her throat. It was warm. It was getting hotter.

"Alpha Rowan," she said very softly, "step back."

"I only..."

The lights went out.

The ballroom plunged into darkness. Screams. Glass breaking. A heavy arm closed around Elena's waist, and cold steel pressed against her throat.

"Don't scream," a rough voice whispered in her ear. "Or the Queen dies."