The curtains of the Grand Ambrose Hotel suite shimmered like molten gold under the city lights. The same night as her victorious appointment, Delilah leaned against the balcony door, celebrating her win.
Her red silk robe slipped from her shoulder just enough to expose a curve of pale skin. Her expression, however, was not of desire, but calculation.
Behind her, the door to the bedroom creaked, and a deep, gravelly voice spoke.
“You’re early, pumpkin” said Lord Harold Hawthorne, Head of the Senate and Alpha of the Blood Moon pack. His tone was smug, the kind of confidence born from age, power, and arrogance. He was a rich and old werewolf with grey at the temples, built like a bear, and infamous for having fathered eight children with two different women.
Delilah turned slowl
