CHAPTER 16: THE ENEMY ALPHA

EMBER’S POV

Knox leans back, swirling the last of his whiskey. "Rayana's family has serious political pull—old money, Council connections, the kind of influence that can make my life unnecessarily complicated. She's also actually sick, even if she's milking it. Telling a dying woman to fuck off publicly would give my enemies ammunition, and I'm not handing them that for free."

"So you need a human shield."

"I need to show I've moved on without creating a political shitstorm." His eyes meet mine. "This is cleaner."

I'm not entirely convinced that's his real motivation, but whatever. Not my circus, not my monkeys.

At six, Simone returns with an army.

She sweeps in with her team and enough garment bags to outfit a small country. The dress she pulls out makes my jaw drop—midnight blue, floor-length, with a neckline that plunges almost to my navel and a slit that goes up to there.

"You're kidding."

"I never kid about fashion." Simone holds it up. "Trust me. You'll look like a queen. I need all the focus on your pretty cleavage. They’d be too dazed stupid to judge you."

I slip into the red lace from earlier—because apparently I'm living in lingerie now—then the dress. It fits like a second skin, which is both flattering and mildly terrifying.

Simone attacks my hair with the efficiency of a general leading troops, twisting it into an elegant updo with a few loose pieces framing my face. Makeup is smoky eyes and a nude lip.

When I finally look in the mirror, I freeze.

This woman staring back at me—polished, glamorous, expensive—doesn't look like Ember Aragon, the nobody omega who fled Seattle with nothing. She looks like someone who belongs on Knox's arm.

It's all fake, I remind myself. Just a costume. A role I'm playing.

But god, part of me wants it to be real.

Knox walks in wearing a tuxedo that should come with a warning label. All black, perfectly tailored, making him look like the sexiest man alive.

My heart skips.

I don't think I'll ever get used to how stupidly handsome this man is. Or the fact that he's throwing all his attention—and apparently all his money—at me. It still doesn't feel real.

His eyes go molten when he sees me.

"Fuck," he breathes.

Heat floods my face. "It's the dress doing all the work."

"It’s you. The dress is just fabric. You make it deadly." He pulls out a box. "Turn around."

"What are you—"

"Turn around, Ember."

I do, and something cold and heavy settles against my throat. I catch my reflection in the mirror, a breathtaking diamond collar necklace that probably costs more than my entire existence up until this week.

"Knox, this is insane—"

"Every person at that dinner," he says, fingers trailing down the side of my neck as he fastens it, "will see this and know exactly who you belong to. They will know that you’re all mine."

My breath catches. The possessiveness should piss me off. Should make me want to rip this thing off and chuck it at his head. Instead, my knees go weak.

"I don't belong to anyone," I say, but my voice comes out breathy and unconvincing.

"Keep telling yourself that." He spins me around, hands holding my waist. "You ready to walk into that room and let them tear you apart?"

"God, no."

"Perfect. Fear makes you sharper." He kisses my forehead. "Just stay close and try not to stab anyone. I'll handle the rest."

"What if I want to stab someone?"

"Then make it look like an accident."

We take the elevator down and I can hear the chaos before we even reach the doors. Music, laughter, the hum of hundreds of conversations. My heart is trying to escape through my ribs.

Knox's hand settles on my back. "Breathe. You just survived a press conference. This is just dinner."

"With every powerful wolf in North America judging me."

"They're always judging someone. Make every second worth it."

The doors swing open wide, and a voice booms across the massive ballroom:

"His Majesty, Knox Volkov, Lycan King of North America—"

A dramatic pause.

"—and his guest, Miss Ember Aragon."

Dead silence.

Then everyone turns to stare.

Oh god.

The whispers start immediately, a wave of vicious curiosity:

"That's her?"

"She's the one?"

"Look at that dress."

"Gold digger."

"Homewrecker."

"She's got nerve, I'll give her that."

The ballroom is massive—white, silver, and blue everything. Fake snow coats every surface. Christmas trees the size of buildings drip with crystals. Ice sculptures of wolves and crowns line the walls. Mistletoe hangs from chandeliers wrapped in evergreen.

It's Christmas threw up in here.

Knox's jaw goes tight. I can feel his barely controlled hatred for all of this radiating off him in waves.

At the far end, Gale stares at me like he wants me dead. Logan Reeves whispers in his ear, probably fueling whatever fresh hell he's planning.

"Keep walking," Knox murmurs.

Right. Walking. I can do that.

We make it to the head table without me tripping, which feels like a miracle. Knox seats me between him and a gruff-looking older man I vaguely remember from this morning. Nathaniel?

Across from us sits a woman with warm brown skin and the kindest smile I've seen all day.

"Ember, meet Queenie Garcia," Knox says. "Nathaniel's mate. She runs HR and will keep you sane tonight."

"Or at least tipsy enough not to care," Queenie says, already pouring me wine. "That dress is incredible. Simone?"

"How did you know?"

"Because you look expensive and terrified, which is her signature." Queenie grins. "Ignore the harpies at table seven. They're just mad Knox finally picked someone with a spine."

I like her immediately.

The dinner is seven courses of pretentious food I can't pronounce, wine that probably costs more than my car used to, and a live orchestra playing Christmas carols that make Knox look like he's contemplating murder.

I have no idea which fork to use for what.

Queenie leans over. "Start on the outside, work your way in. And if you're not sure, just wait and copy me."

"You're a lifesaver."

"I've been to too many of these things. The trick is wine and strategic bathroom breaks."

Knox's hand stays on my thigh under the table the whole time—warm, possessive, grounding.

Between courses, alphas parade over to "pay respects" which really means "get a look at the scandal."

"This is Ember, my girlfriend."

Every time Knox says it, my stomach does something complicated.

The questions are invasive: How did you meet? How long have you been together? Isn't this sudden? Did you meet while she was still married? What pack are you from?

Knox deflects like a pro, giving answers that sound like answers but reveal nothing. Then a man approaches who makes Knox's expression go carefully neutral.

He's tall, dark-haired, stupidly handsome in that sharp-featured way that screams danger and money. His tuxedo is perfectly tailored, his smile charming but with an edge that sets my teeth on edge.

"Knox," the man says smoothly, accent vaguely South American. "Still pretending to enjoy this circus, I see."

"Montenegro." Knox's tone could freeze fire. "Still pretending anyone wants you here?"

The man—Montenegro—laughs, completely unbothered. His dark eyes slide to me and something predatory flickers there.

"And who is this vision?"

"My girlfriend," Knox says flatly. "Ember, this is Rafael Montenegro. South American alpha who hasn't learned when he's not wanted."

Rafael takes my hand before I can stop him, bringing it to his lips. Knox stiffens.

"Encantada. Any woman who can tame the Lycan King is either very brave or very foolish."

"Or just here for dinner," I say, pulling my hand back.

His smile widens. "Sharp tongue. I like that."

Knox's hand tightens on my thigh—a warning I can feel in my bones.

"Montenegro was just leaving," Knox says.

"Was I?" Rafael's eyes never leave mine. "I don't recall agreeing to that."

The tension between them is thick enough to choke on. Whatever history they have, it's not friendly.

"Enjoy your evening, querida," Rafael says to me, completely ignoring Knox. "I'm sure we'll speak again soon."

He walks away, and Knox looks like he wants to murder something.

"Friend of yours?" I ask.

"No."

"Enemy?"

"One of many." Knox drains his wine. "Stay away from him."

"He seemed ni—"

"Dangerous," Knox cuts me off. "He's dangerous. And possibly doesn't believe our relationship is real, which makes you a target."

Great. Add it to the list.

Then the music shifts.

The room's energy changes.

And Rayana Moreau makes her entrance.

Of course she's late. Of course everyone stops to watch her glide through the room like she's floating. She's ethereal—pale, delicate, wearing white like she's already half-ghost.

She stops at tables, dispensing air kisses and charm like a queen granting favors. When she finally reaches us, the temperature drops.

Her smile is dazzling and cold as winter.

"Darling," she purrs, leaning down to kiss Knox's cheek—way too close to his mouth, way too familiar.