The banquet hall of the Crescent Pack house was an opulent display of desperate appeasement. Crystal chandeliers blazed, long oak tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats and fine wines, and the usually boisterous pack members moved with silent, terrified precision.
At the head table, the atmosphere was suffocating.
Darius sat in the Alpha’s intricately carved chair, his massive frame dwarfing the seat. I sat to his right, wearing a midnight-blue gown his guards had procured—a stark contrast to the faded rags I had worn in my past life. His large hand rested warmly on my knee beneath the tablecloth, a constant, comforting anchor.
To my left, a few seats down, sat Kaelen.
He looked like a ghost. His face was ashen, his lips a bruised purple, and his breathing was shallow. He had
