Betrayal Under The Blood Moon

Chapter Nine

SADIE

"Canapés or sit-down dinner?" Pete's whiskers twitch as he scrolls through catering options, claws clicking against his tablet. The sound echoes in the war room, sharp against morning silence.

"Both." I lean over his shoulder, catching his scent—paper and ink and something distinctly raccoon, wild beneath secretary polish. "Cocktail hour with canapés, then seated dinner. Five courses minimum."

"Five?" Suki looks up from her flower arrangements, roses and wolfsbane twisted together in dangerous beauty. "That's—"

"A statement. These Alphas think they can buy me? Let's see their table manners when faced with fish forks and dessert spoons." I tap the menu, leaving fingerprints on his pristine screen. "Add the wine pairings. Different vintage for each course."

The war room table groans under samples and charts. My pack works with focused intensity—Julie cross-referencing every unmated omega within traveling distance, Melanie calculating publicity angles that won't violate pack law. The old conference room fills with coffee steam and determination, stress-sweat sharp beneath perfume.

"First course." Pete pulls up options. "The Moonrise chef suggests oysters—"

"Too obvious. Aphrodisiac implications." I scan alternatives. "What about the venison carpaccio? Shows we're predators who appreciate delicacy."

"With blood orange reduction." He makes notes. "Second course?"

"Soup. Something that requires grace—no slurping." My mind races through options learned at countless DC dinners. "The butternut squash bisque with truffle oil."

"Third?"

"Fish. Whole branzino, deboned tableside." I smile at the thought. "Let's see how they handle watching someone wield a knife near their prize."

"You're evil." Ella sets down her clipboard, flower calculations abandoned. "I love it."

"Fourth course—the meat. Elk tenderloin for the mountain packs, grass-fed beef for the traditionalists, wild salmon for the coast." Every detail matters when you're feeding territorial predators. "With roasted root vegetables. Familiar but elevated."

"And dessert?"

"Dark chocolate soufflé. Has to be eaten immediately or it falls." Another test disguised as luxury. "With gold leaf because we're showing off."

"Dietary restrictions?" Pete pulls up another screen, endless notes scrolling. "The coast packs don't eat shellfish—religious reasons dating to the founding. Mountain packs consider vegetables garnish at best. Henderson pack has that genetic lactose intolerance. The Riverside wolves are kosher, the Yosemite delegation maintains vegan diets during moon phase—"

"Create options. Label everything clearly." I think of diplomatic dinners where one wrong ingredient caused international incidents. "No one goes hungry at my table. And Pete? Source everything locally where possible. Support pack-owned businesses."

"Your table?" The voice cuts through our planning like a blade through silk. Mike leans in the doorway, disapproval radiating from every angle. His forest fae heritage makes him too beautiful for the scowl he wears. "Last I checked, this was Alpha's territory."

"Last I checked, Alpha gave me discretionary funds and trusted my judgment." I don't look up from the seating charts spreading like battle plans. "Unless you're here to help with flower arrangements?"

"I'm here because the kitchen staff is panicking. Two hundred formal place settings? The good china hasn't been used since the treaty signing in 1987." He enters properly, moving like water over stone. "Thirty-six years gathering dust. Half might be cracked. And now Pete's talking about renovating the guest cabins?"

"Twelve cabins, four bedrooms each. Basic math." I finally meet his eyes, letting him see the predator I'm becoming. "Unless you want Alphas camping on the lawn? Or worse, staying in human hotels where reporters can find them?"

"Those cabins have been closed since the Enclave Act passed. Boarded windows, rotting floors. Probably raccoon families in the walls—no offense, Pete."

"None taken." Pete's whiskers twitch. "My cousins are very respectful tenants."

"Alpha planned to demolish—"

"Plans change." I cut him off with words sharp enough to draw blood. "We have seventy-two hours. Every minute you waste complaining is one less to prepare. Either help or leave."

"The cost alone—"

"Is mine to manage. Next objection?"

The door opens again before he can respond. A woman fills the frame—six feet of barely contained violence in tactical gear. Asian eyes, African cheekbones, Nordic jaw. She surveys the room like a general studying terrain before battle.

"You the white wolf causing all this fuss?"

"You must be Maxine." I don't stand, don't submit. Still learning pack hierarchy, but instinct says white wolf trumps enforcer. The air between us crackles with unspoken challenge. "Third in command?"

"Among other things." She enters uninvited, boots heavy enough to shake floorboards. "Pete says you need security. I don't do party planning."

"Then you're in luck. We're planning controlled chaos." I gesture to an empty chair, making it invitation and dare. "Sit. Unless you have somewhere better to be?"

She grins, all teeth and danger. Takes the seat and props her feet on the table, scattering Suki's carefully arranged samples. Roses and baby's breath drift to the floor like casualties.

"Talk to me about threats."

"Every Alpha who shows up is a threat." Julie slides her the preliminary guest list, names written in blood-red ink. "Marcus from Cascade brings four enforcers minimum—brothers, all trained fighters. Thomas from Silver Mountain travels with a small army. Seven guards last count, plus his beta and that advisor who smells like dark magic."

"The ones who declared are manageable." I trace patterns on the seating chart, already seeing where violence will spark. "The real threats haven't announced. Hill packs who've stayed isolated since the treaties. Old bloodlines with older grudges."

"The Yosemite packs haven't left territory in fifty years." Mike again, still hovering like a disapproving shadow. "They won't—"

"They will." I slide him an invitation, handwritten on paper that whispers money. "Personal request from a white wolf. First Challenge of Moons in decades. They'll come."

"To support you?" Maxine asks, but her eyes say she already knows.

"To judge if I'm worth the fuss. White wolves are legend to most packs. They'll want proof I'm not just albino with good PR." I think of the stories, the weight of expectation. "Some probably think I'm fake. An elaborate hoax to strengthen Byrne territory."

"Let them come and smell the truth." Jinsoo speaks from her corner, medical supplies already ordered. "Your scent alone—"

"Will drive them mad." Mike cuts in. "Partial bond makes it worse. Claimed but not owned. Every Alpha will think they can complete what Dante started."

"The Challenge itself." Pete pulls up ancient texts, projected on the wall in fading script. "Three trials as tradition demands. Wealth displayed through the gathering—that's your ball. Hospitality as power. Wisdom through puzzle or riddle—traditionally set by the omega. And warrior's prowess..."

"Combat." Maxine's grin widens to something feral. "Single elimination. No weapons, no shifting until the final round. Last Alpha standing wins the right to court."

"Court." The word tastes like ash and obligation. "Like I'm a castle to be sieged."

"Aren't you?" Mike moves closer, and I smell his unease—moss and rain and barely controlled fear. "White wolf, first heat barely passed, unclaimed by all traditional standards. Every unmated Alpha dreams of you."

"I'm a person who already chose." But the words ring hollow as old bells. Traditional law doesn't recognize partial bonds, doesn't care that Dante's blood saved me or that I begged for his claim. "The Challenge is formality."

"Formality that could get the Alpha killed." Mike's voice drops to whisper. "Ten Alphas minimum, all fighting for the chance to claim you. You think they'll fight fair? Think they won't bring poisoned claws or hidden silver?"

"I think they'll fight smart." Maxine corrects, but her hand drifts to the knife at her hip. "Public Challenge means public rules. Anyone caught cheating loses more than the competition—they lose face, allies, future opportunities. Their packs could disown them."

"Speaking of opportunities." I pull out a separate list, written in my neatest hand. "Pete, I need you to arrange something. Tea tomorrow afternoon. Local omegas only."

His whiskers go completely still. Even his breathing pauses. "Omegas gathering without Alphas? That's—"

"A social event. We'll discuss the ball, appropriate attire, expectations." I keep my voice light while dropping revolution into their laps like a grenade with the pin pulled. "Surely omegas are allowed to dress appropriately for formal events?"

"The traditional packs won't like it." Mike states the obvious. "Omegas gathering independently, sharing ideas—"

"Sharing fashion tips." I correct with sweetness that could rot teeth. "Unless traditional packs also control conversation topics now?"

"You know what you're doing." Not accusation, just fact hanging between us. "This isn't about dresses."

"Everything's about dresses when you're female presenting at a formal event." Melanie jumps in, recognizing the game from years of DC manipulation. "I've already contacted stylists. Supernatural body types vary wildly—some omegas have wings, tails, anatomical differences that standard formal wear doesn't accommodate."

"We'll need permits." Pete pulls forms from thin air, good secretary magic. "This many Otherkind in one place violates the Enclave Act. Local enforcement gets twitchy about gatherings over fifty. They'll want detailed lists—names, pack affiliations, travel routes."

"I'll call Patterson." The solution tastes like my old life—favors and phone calls and knowing which strings pull which puppets. "She owes me. Plus she's quarter fae herself. She understands."

"The budget—" Pete starts.

"Is mine to worry about." I think of Dante's resources, quarry contracts worth millions per year. Fishing rights that feed half the coast. Tourism revenue from humans desperate to glimpse our world. "Focus on logistics. Ella, double the flower order. Storm season means half won't survive transport."

"Specific arrangements?" She pulls out her notebook, covered in sketches. "Centerpieces need to be low enough for conversation but impressive enough for photos."

"White roses for purity. Red for passion. Wolfsbane for danger—treated so it won't poison anyone. Baby's breath to soften the threat." I can see them already. "And moonflowers. They only bloom at night. Let them watch the petals open during dinner."

"Romantic." Suki approves. "Also slightly threatening."

"Perfect tone." I turn to practicalities. "Alcohol?"

"Premium bar, experienced bartenders. Nothing but top shelf." I think of DC fundraisers, men in thousand-dollar suits drinking themselves stupid. "Water down drinks as the night progresses. Keep them loose but not sloppy. And coffee service starting at midnight. Strong."

"Food allergies, pack feuds, seating arrangements that don't start wars." Julie ticks off impossibilities. "Plus overnight accommodation for at least a hundred, parking for that many vehicles—some packs still travel by horse."

"The lower field for parking. Post guards to prevent vandalism—you know someone will try to s***h tires." Old political trick, strand your enemies. "Use the old stables for overflow sleeping quarters. Clean them out, add cots and heating. Basic but serviceable."

"Those haven't been used in decades." Mike protests again, stuck on repeat. "The roof leaks. Probably bats."

"Then fix the roof. Relocate the bats." I stand, energy building under my skin. "This Challenge happens once. Either we do it right or we fail spectacularly. I prefer the former."

"What about the trials themselves?" Jinsoo speaks up from her medical preparations. "You need to set the wisdom challenge. Something that tests intelligence without favoring specific education. Mountain packs might not read, but they're not stupid."

"I have ideas." Vague, because I'm still working through options. "Something about cooperation versus domination. Maybe a puzzle that requires multiple Alphas working together."

"They'll hate that." Maxine approves. "Most Alphas think cooperation is weakness. Asking for help means admitting imperfection."

"Then most Alphas will fail." Simple truth sharp as winter air. "I want a partner, not a dictator. Someone who knows when to lead and when to follow."

"The combat rounds need space." She continues. "The ballroom's big but not fight-friendly. One shifted wolf and your chandeliers are history. Those crystals are pre-war, irreplaceable."

"The courtyard. String lights for visibility, hay bales for seating. Make it feel intentional." I can see it—blood on cobblestones while party guests watch in formal wear. "Medical stations at each corner. Discrete but ready."

"This is insane." Mike runs hands through perfect hair, messing it into something almost attractive. "You're planning three days of events that could reshape pack politics. With a week's notice. While half the Alphas in the country circle like vultures."

"Yes." I meet his eyes. "Problem?"

"Alpha might have opinions about you revolutionizing omega dynamics under his roof."

"Alpha gave me permission to handle this." Not quite true but close enough to count. "Unless you'd prefer to plan it? Choose flowers, organize seating that doesn't restart blood feuds?"

He backs down, recognizing the trap. No one wants to handle social dynamics this complex.

"Security rotations." Maxine pulls out her own tablet, screen cracked from violence. "I'll need fifty guards minimum. Discrete but visible. Silver bullets?"

"Absolutely not." The thought of silver at my party makes phantom wounds ache. "Traditional weapons only. Claws and teeth if it comes to that."

"Your funeral." But she's already adjusting plans. "Pete, I need the grounds layout. Every entrance, exit, and hiding spot. Plus underground tunnels—some of these Alphas know our infrastructure."

"Speaking of infrastructure." Pete looks up from endless lists. "Bathroom facilities for two hundred? The guest cabins only have forty-eight total. We'll need to rent portable—"

"Discrete luxury units. Not construction site boxes." I remember campaign events, donors complaining about inadequate facilities. "Hidden behind decorative screens. Fresh flowers in each."

"Catering staff?" Ella asks. "We'll need servers who won't flinch when Alphas growl."

"Pack members. Volunteers get first pick of leftovers." Old motivational trick. "Plus hazard pay for anyone who has to serve the Alpha tables directly."

"Music?" Melanie pulling up options. "Live band or DJ?"

"String quartet for dinner. Jazz ensemble for dancing. Both pack-approved—we've got musicians who need the work." Support your own first. "Nothing too modern. These old bloodlines think electric guitar is sacrilege."

"Transportation from the parking to the main house?" Maxine thinking security. "That's half a mile through forest. Dark path, perfect for ambush."

"Golf carts with drivers. Torches lining the path—real fire, not electric. Guards every hundred feet." I can see it forming. "Make the journey part of the experience."

"Weather contingencies?" Julie ever practical. "Full moon means clear skies usually, but if it storms—"

"Tents ready to deploy. Clear walls so we keep the ambiance." I move to the window, watching clouds gather on the horizon. "This is Oregon. Rain is always possible."

"What about the morning after?" Suki asks. "Breakfast for survivors? Transportation home for the losers?"

"Continental breakfast in the main hall. Nothing fancy—they'll be nursing wounds and hangovers." I think of aftermath, bodies and egos equally bruised. "Medical checks before anyone leaves. Can't have Alphas dying on the road home."

"Liability insurance?" Pete groans. "This many Alphas, formal combat, alcohol—we're looking at property damage minimum. Death and dismemberment likely."

"Standard Challenge coverage. Triple the usual limits." I know these laws now, studied during heat-fevered nights. "Each Alpha signs waivers. They know the risks."

"Do they know you're planning to reshape their world?" Mike asks.

"They know I'm white wolf." I turn back to the table, energy focused. "They know I chose Dante despite their interest. They know they're coming to his territory to compete for what he's already claimed. What they don't know..."

"Is that you're using their own traditions against them." Maxine finishes. "Gathering omegas. Forcing pack cooperation. Making them dance to your tune literally."

"Revolution looks different to everyone." I touch fabric samples, imaging dresses that launch a thousand conversations. "To them, it's a party. To me, it's progress."

"To the omegas?" Julie asks.

"Freedom to choose their own clothes. Meet others like them. See that life exists beyond pack borders." I think of tomorrow's tea, casual sedition over petit fours. "Small steps toward bigger changes."

They dive back into planning. Menu tastings, flower arrangements, security protocols. Normal concerns wrapped around revolutionary intent. I watch them work—my human pack adapting to supernatural politics with terrifying efficiency.

Three days until the ball. Three days to show these Alphas that modern omegas have thoughts beyond breeding. Three days to prove white wolves are more than legends and losses.

The revolution starts with choosing the right forks.

Everything else follows like dominoes falling upward, defying gravity with every tumble toward change.