A few minutes later, the real trouble arrived.
The scent of cheap lavender and sour grape juice preceded her. Elizabeth walked down the aisle, her head held high in a desperate attempt to look dignified. She had managed to scrape the worst of the crust from her hair, but it was still damp and pinned back haphazardly. The front of her cream dress was a horrific, purple-smeared mess, clashing violently with the elegant atmosphere of the auditorium.
She stopped directly in front of our seats. Ignoring the stain on her chest, she put on a tight, strained smile and looked at the man to my left.
"Alpha Maddox," Elizabeth greeted, her voice carrying that high, breathless quality she used whenever she wanted to seem fragile.
Maddox did not move. He did not return the greeting. He simply looked
