THE WORST REJECTION EVER.

If this grey-suited idiot thinks he’s going to beat me to the last smoked salmon canapé, he is dead wrong.

I didn’t squeeze into a borrowed dress that’s cutting off my rib circulation, or strap on stiletto heels threatening to snap my ankles, just to go home on an empty stomach. I’ve been at this absurd high-society wolf gala for exactly forty minutes and I’ve already housed three dozen appetizers. My inner wolf, a creature governed entirely by the law of minimum effort and maximum caloric intake, growls in my head, demanding her trophy.

The stuck-up beta extends his manicured hand toward the silver platter. I don't think twice. I grab a dessert fork from the adjacent table and plant it with military precision right between his knuckles and the cream-cheese cracker.

"Damn it!" the beta shrieks, yanking his hand back and cradling his fingers. He glares at me like I just committed a war crime.

"Street rules, buddy," I say, popping the entire canapé into my mouth. I chew with exaggerated slowness to enjoy the taste of expensive salmon, wiping the back of my hand across my lips. "You snooze, you lose. Go beg for food somewhere else."

The guy shoots me a look loaded with absolute disgust, scans my cheap dress that clearly doesn't belong to any designer's winter collection, and storms off muttering curses about the lack of filters at event security. My friend Sonia, the only reason I’m trapped in this golden cage full of fanged millionaires, appears at my side rubbing her temples.

"Violeta, by the Goddess, did you just stab the Northern Clan's VP of Finance?" Sonia whispers, looking around in a panic.

"I didn't stab him. I gave him a tactical warning with a dessert fork. Besides, the salmon was incredible. Want one? Oh, right, they're gone…"

Sonia swats my arm. She works in accounting for one of the pack's many shell companies and begged me for a week to tag along tonight because she "needed moral support for networking." I only agreed when she uttered the magic words: open bar and free food. I don't give a flying rat's ass about elite politics, who bites who, or how many millions the new Alpha Supreme has sitting in his Cayman Islands account. I have to pay rent on Tuesday and my bank balance is sitting at exactly twelve dollars and fifty cents. If I can skip paying for dinner tonight, the sacrifice of wearing uncomfortable clothes is worth it.

The main mansion’s ballroom is a visual obscenity. There are crystal chandeliers up there that probably cost more than my entire apartment building. The air smells like a suffocating blend of French perfumes, spilled champagne, and the dominant pheromones of dozens of territorial Alphas competing to see who has the biggest ego.

I’m bored, my wolf yawns in the back of my mind, scratching an imaginary ear. Can we go home? You promised we’d buy pizza. It’s two-for-one Thursday at Mario’s.

Chill, wild thing. We just wait for them to do the stupid ceremonial toast, I swipe a couple of champagne bottles to resell, and we bounce to eat pizza, I answer her mentally.

Suddenly, the temperature in the room nosedives. The murmurs of hundreds of millionaire wolves cut out like someone yanked an audio cable. A raw scent of ice and dark pine punches my nostrils so violently the hair on the back of my neck stands up. My wolf jolts upright in my mind, shaking off her laziness.

Alistair, the new Alpha Supreme, just walked into the room.

He’s flanked by four guards built like brick outhouses, but he’s the one stealing all the oxygen. He’s well over six-foot-two, with broad shoulders stuffed into a flawlessly tailored black suit and a jaw so tight it looks ready to crack his own teeth. His face is a sculpture of ice and arrogance. He has the look of a guy who gets taxed for smiling. I hate guys like him. Guys born in silk cribs who think the world revolves around their schedules.

Alistair climbs the steps toward the marble altar in the center of the room. Tonight isn't just a boring party; it’s the Moon Ceremony. Tradition dictates the new Alpha receives the Goddess's blessing and, if the stars align, gets presented with his fated mate. Elitist bullshit, if you ask me. Everyone knows Alistair already has a backdoor deal with Magnus, the ancient Alpha of the neighboring clan, to marry his insufferable daughter Camila and merge their shipping empires.

The glass dome on the ceiling mechanically slides open, exposing the night sky. The full moon shines with a brutal, unnatural intensity. Alistair raises a glass, delivers a five-word speech about honor and duty that sounds phonier than a three-dollar bill, and his Alpha voice booms off the walls. It’s a sound that vibrates in your bones, demanding absolute submission. Several omegas and betas duck their heads on pure instinct. I cross my arms and raise an eyebrow.

Then, the Moon Goddess decides to ruin my night.

A beam of silver light, thick and bright as a theater spotlight, shoots down from the open sky. It doesn't illuminate Camila, who is standing in the front row holding a rehearsed smile. It doesn't illuminate Alistair, either.

The light beam cuts across the entire ballroom, bypasses the millionaires, clears the appetizer tables, and smacks me right in the face.

I freeze, holding a half-empty champagne flute. The light is warm, wrapping my skin in static electricity that makes my wolf howl in pure shock. The entire room goes dead silent. Hundreds of heads snap toward me at the exact same time. I feel the crushing weight of their stares scanning my cheap dress, my messy hair, and my slouched posture.

I look up at the altar. Alistair is staring dead at me, and the disgust in his eyes is so palpable I can almost touch it.

Great. I just won the cosmic disaster lottery.