His mate wore a mask

Remy The black dress hits my ankles before I can catch it. "Put it on." Sasha's voice floats from behind the bathroom door. "Or I post the photos." I stare at the fabric pooled on the tiles. It is barely a dress .... . Silk the color of midnight, thin straps, a slit that climbs higher than any thought I want to have right now. My stepsister bought it specifically to destroy me. "Sasha." I keep my voice flat. "I'm not doing this." "Remy." She mimics my flatness perfectly, then breaks into a laugh. "The photos are already in my drafts. One click, and every wolf in Silverpeak sees beta Harlan's daughter .... his actual, female, very much not a boy daughter .... walking around in a bra and gym shorts. Daddy dearest will have a complete breakdown. Your poor mom will be thrown out by morning." My jaw tightens. She is not bluffing. Sasha Cole never bluffs. She is her father's daughter that way .... Alpha Derrick's blood runs efficient and ruthless in her veins. She has been collecting evidence of my existence since we were twelve years old, waiting for the perfect moment to light the match. Tonight, apparently, is the moment. "What do you need?" I ask. "Silver Veil Club. Downtown Ashford City." I hear the smile in her voice. "They need a last minute performer. Masked, so no one will recognize you. You go on stage, you dance .... just dance, nothing else .... you come home, and your secret stays buried. Simple." Nothing she does is simple. "Why me?" I press. "Because the girl who was supposed to go broke her ankle." A pause. "And because watching you squirm is my favorite hobby. Are you putting the dress on or not?" I pick it up. The car drops me two blocks from the club because I refuse to let her driver know the exact entrance I use. Small rebellions are all I have left. I pull the oversized hoodie tighter over the dress, my sneakers loud on the wet pavement, the October cold biting at my bare legs. My name is not actually Remy. It is Ramona. Ramona Dusk, daughter of Beta Harlan Dusk, who decided on the day I was born that an omega daughter was a liability and a son was an asset. So he made me a son. Cut my hair at three. Put me in trousers at five. Enrolled me as Remy in the pack school, told my mother to cooperate or lose her place in the mansion entirely. My mother cooperated. She always cooperates. She cooperates the way water cooperates with a stone .... flowing around it, wearing herself thin, making no noise. I cooperated too. For nineteen years. I got good at it. Good enough that when my wolf woke up six months ago, I was the only one who felt it. I swallowed pills that mute my scent .... black market, untraceable, the kind omega girls use when they cannot afford to be found. I kept my hair cropped. I kept my voice level. I kept my head down over Dreston Cole's homework while he sat across from me and called me "man" and "buddy" and never once.... Don't. I stop walking. Press my palm flat against my sternum where the rejected mate bond sits like a coal that never fully went cold. Six months since he said the words. Six months since he stood in the packhouse garden and looked at me .... really looked, because I had worn a dress for the first and only time, thinking the day I finally got my wolf was the day I could finally tell him .... and his face did something I will never forget. Not anger. Not guilt. Confusion. Like I was a piece of furniture that had rearranged itself without permission. "You're my mate?" His voice had been so flat. "Remy, that's .... no. No, that doesn't work. I'm with Sasha." And then the words.. I reject you as my fated mate. I felt it snap. Like a green branch. Clean and loud and final. I put the hoodie back on and went inside to finish his calculus assignment. Silver Veil Club is not what I expected. I expected something cheap and frantic. I got marble floors, low amber lights, booths draped in black curtains, and a stage that gleams like it costs more than my father's annual salary. The manager .... a small wolf-woman with silver rings on every finger .... finds me at the side entrance. "Masked Act?" she asks. "Yes." She hands me a gold masquerade mask without another word and points toward a dressing room. "You're on in twenty. The routine is basic .... move to the music, keep the mask on, leave when the song ends. No interaction with the guests." "Understood." "One more thing." She pauses, her eyes doing a quick scan that makes me want to step backward. "There are some guests tonight from the Lycan Court. VIP section, front row. Do not acknowledge them. Do not make eye contact. Do your job and walk off that stage." I nod. I should have asked more questions. The music starts before I feel ready. I stand in the wings, mask strapped over my eyes and nose, the silk dress cold against my legs, my sneakers swapped out for heels that the manager produced with the energy of someone who has seen much worse. The spotlight is gold and soft, and the crowd .... I can see them now .... is exactly as quiet and expensive as I thought. Until I see the front row. Three men. Young. Two of them are leaning back in their chairs like they own the furniture, which they might. The third is different. He is sitting forward. Elbows on knees. Head tilted slightly. Like the stage has said something interesting and he is waiting for it to say more. I cannot see his face clearly in the low light. Just the line of his jaw. The width of his shoulders under a dark jacket. My wolf stirs. Down, I think at her, sharp. Sit. Stay. The first note drops. I walk out onto the stage. And the man in the front row goes completely, unnervingly still. I move the way I was taught .... not trained, I have never been trained, but I grew up watching. I grew up in a body I was told to hide, and hiding something teaches you every edge of it. I know how to move without being seen. Tonight I just have to learn how to move while being looked at. The music builds. I do not look at the front row. I look at the back wall. I breathe. I almost make it to the chorus. Then the lights flicker .... one sharp, mechanical stutter .... and in the half-second of darkness, someone grabs my wrist. Not rough. Not threatening. Certain. Like a hand that has reached for something it already decided was its own. I spin. My heel catches the edge of the stage. I tip forward.... And the man from the front row catches me. His face is inches from mine. Dark eyes, not brown …. A jaw that could cut glass. And an expression I do not have a name for yet, something between shock and recognition and a hunger so focused it feels like standing in front of an open furnace. His nose is at my temple. He inhales. "You," he breathes. One word. Like the end of a very long search. The lights come back. I wrench my wrist free, spin on my stolen heel, and run for the wings. Behind me, I hear a chair scrape back. Then his voice .... low, carrying, the voice of someone who expects to be obeyed .... reaching me through the music and the crowd noise like it was built specifically to find me. "Don't let her leave this building."