Kaya
I press my cool palm to my aching forehead and drop my gaze, hoping the small motion hides me from the sharp attention circling the room.
The dinner gathering at our pack's estate has dragged on for hours, and I still feel completely misplaced. No matter how many times I show up at events like this, I never grow comfortable. I don't fit here. Yet here I stand, wrapped in the kind of luxury only high-ranking wolves ever touch.
I let my eyes drift across the wide dining hall, careful not to stare too long at anyone or accidentally lock eyes with the wrong person.
I barely know most of the guests. Every one of them is male.
Tonight's celebration marks the closing of a political agreement between alphas from neighboring packs. That alone explains why the room is filled only with men—alphas, betas, and a few ranking warriors.
To my right, a group of beta males sprawl across heavy leather couches, cigars in one hand and whiskey in the other. They drink as though it's nothing stronger than water. One of them has an omega maid perched neatly on his lap. His calloused fingers drag up her lifted skirt, brushing the bare skin of her inner thigh with lazy control.
The others pretend to stay absorbed in their conversation, but now and then, they glance at the exposed curve of her leg, eyes gleaming with hungry interest.
This is normal here in the Dark Wood Pack. Alpha Damien understands exactly what the men want, and he leverages that knowledge whenever it benefits him.
A small squeak makes me turn. Another maid tries to slip away from a gamma warrior who smacks her lightly on the rear as she moves past. Her tray shakes in her hands, though she forces a flirty smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
I see the lie in it instantly.
I shift my gaze again, and my chest tightens for a moment. Damien Windthorne, my alpha, sits in the farthest corner with yet another omega girl resting at his feet. Her hands drape over his knees like she belongs there.
Damien is handsome in a way that steals air from a room. Tall, broad-shouldered, and striking, he looks even more intense tonight in dark blue pants and a white shirt under a loose vest.
White suits him. So does silver. Both highlight the warm tone of his skin, and the few undone buttons at his collar only draw more attention to his strong neck and sharply defined collarbones.
When he shifts, the fabric moves with him, revealing the shape of his chest and the subtle line between his muscles. It's a silent invitation that makes many women itch to undo the rest of those buttons.
Even in his late thirties, he carries the kind of strength and drive that radiates off him like heat.
I sigh and sip from my champagne, though it has long gone warm and dull. I barely notice the taste as I finish the rest in one swallow.
Jealousy prickles through me. I wish I were the one kneeling at his feet.
I lift the empty flute again, pretending to take another drink while sliding my eyes toward the man beside Damien. Something deep in my stomach twists.
Alpha Steven Arcanis of the Golden Lake Pack.
Just seeing him makes my skin crawl. He is awful in every way that matters.
No, he isn't deformed or unpleasant to look at. It's his very presence that disturbs me.
He is known for cruel behavior toward female wolves. Like Damien, he keeps several mates of different ranks, but unlike Damien, he treats them as objects—tools meant only for his pleasure.
It's almost laughable. Male wolves have been complaining about the dwindling number of successful mate bonds. I once overheard Damien saying that fated mates have become rare, so many wolves now choose partners out of necessity.
You would think such scarcity would make them value the women they have. Instead, it has made them even more careless.
Damien is far from perfect, but his Luna, Camilla—his wife by choice—keeps him somewhat restrained.
I understand her. I feel the same jealousy myself.
Still, Damien chose two other mates besides her. One of them is me.
And somehow, despite everything wrong with me, I am his favorite.
When Steven's dark eyes land on me, I flinch and look away, shrinking back without thinking. I always react like this when someone studies me with too much interest.
I know that look. He likes what he sees. The curiosity in his stare turns my stomach.
Here in the Dark Woods Pack, I'm considered strange. My gray hair carries a faint blue shimmer in the right light. My eyes are silver, bright enough for Damien to call them "twin stars." But my most obvious flaw is my scars.
Thin white lines trail across my body like winding paths—over my back, stomach, and limbs. I hide them under my clothes, though everyone knows they're there.
And when I'm frightened or furious, the marks glow faintly, as if reflecting distant moonlight.
I don't know why I look this way. No one does. Damien says I'm special, but I don't believe it. I'm just an orphaned omega who can't shift. Whatever fascination men feel toward me isn't real.
They want me because Damien favors me.
And no one else is allowed to have me.
I catch fragments of the alphas' hushed conversation, though their exact words escape me. Still, the sharp looks Steven keeps sending my way say enough—they are speaking about me. The thought makes my chest tighten, and I stare at my empty glass, wishing I could fade into the floor. I hate being discussed, especially by men like them.
Before I can retreat further into my thoughts, the mood in the hall abruptly shifts. The double doors swing open with a crisp echo, and the sharp click of heels cuts through the noise. Voices falter. Heads turn at once.
I look up too, a knot forming in my stomach the moment I see who has arrived.
Camilla.