TRISTAN
The moment Celeste turned from me, my chest tightened. The crowd swallowed her, golden pillars and jeweled gowns hiding her from view, but my eyes refused to leave the path she'd taken. My wolf surged, restless, aching to follow.
But I couldn't. Not here. Not with every Alpha, every heir, every schemer watching my every move.
Then came the voice.
"Tristan."
Low, smooth, sharp as a blade.
Lyra.
She stood just behind me, her hand brushing my arm with deliberate weight. The glitter of her gown caught the firelight, her eyes locking on mine with a force that demanded obedience. She didn't smile. She didn't tease. She commanded.
"Take my hand," she said. "Now."
I turned slowly, jaw tight. Every instinct screamed to refuse, to tear free, to chase Celeste. But Lyra's gaze warned me. If I faltered here, in front of them all, weakness would spread like blood in water.
So I took her hand.
The music swelled. The crowd parted, and we stepped into the dance.
