Betrayal Under The Blood Moon

Chapter Eight

DANTE

Ten Alphas wait at my borders like vultures circling carrion. I smell them before Mike reports in—testosterone and ambition, territorial pissings and barely leashed violence. Each one convinced they deserve what's mine.

"Marcus from Cascade Pack brought financial statements." Mike drops files on my desk, disgust clear. "Wants to prove he can provide for a white wolf."

"Thomas from Silver Mountain's worse. Brought breeding records. Three generations of successful omega matches." Eric adds his own stack. "Like she's f*****g livestock."

Through the window, I watch Sadie in the garden with Morgana. Twenty-four hours since her heat broke, since I promised tonight we'd complete what biology demands. Now these bastards want to steal even that.

"Tell them no."

"Can't." Pete enters without knocking, whiskers twitching with nerves. "Council laws are clear. Unclaimed omega of exceptional value requires formal presentation."

"She's claimed."

"Partially." The distinction tastes like ash. "Blood bond without physical consummation doesn't count for white wolves. Ancient laws, Alpha. Even you can't break those."

The old laws. Written when white wolves were hunted, bred, traded like precious gems. Designed to ensure the strongest Alphas claimed the rarest omegas. Democratic in the way sword fights are democratic—everyone gets a chance to bleed.

"How many?"

"Ten so far. More coming." Pete scrolls through his tablet. "David from Coastal Range. Samuel from Riverside. James from Seattle—"

"James is dead."

"His brother Jeremy, I mean. Took over the pack last month." He pauses. "They're organizing, Alpha. Saying you forced a bond on a traumatized omega. That she deserves choice."

Choice. The word they'll use to justify trying to steal her. As if she didn't choose when she begged me to claim her. When she carved my name into her skin with need.

"Bring them in."

Mike and Eric exchange glances. "All of them?"

"All of them. Let them see what they're challenging."

The main hall fills with Alpha ego and barely contained violence. Ten of the most powerful wolves on the coast, each convinced their c**k and bank account deserve my mate. They posture and prowl, marking territory with scent and stance.

I enter last, letting them wait. letting them stew in their own pheromones and ambition. When I finally appear, I bring the full weight of four centuries of Byrne authority.

"Gentlemen."

"Byrne." Marcus speaks first, always the politician. "We're here about the white wolf."

"My mate."

"Your partially claimed omega." Thomas corrects, lawyer-smooth. "Who never received formal presentation. Never had the chance to choose."

"She chose when she bit me first." I let them smell the truth of it, the mark she left that still aches. "When she begged for my claim."

"Heat madness doesn't count as consent." This from David, sanctimonious prick. "The Council will agree. Either present her formally or—"

"Or?"

"We file charges. Forced bonding. Omega abuse. Treaty violations that could—"

The door opens, cutting him off. Sadie enters like a storm given legs, Morgana trailing behind. She's dressed simple—jeans, my shirt, barefoot—but might as well be naked for how every Alpha responds. The partial bond makes her scent unique. Claimed but not owned. Forbidden fruit begging to be plucked.

Marcus actually whimpers. Samuel takes an involuntary step forward before catching himself. Even David, all his righteous fury, goes slack-jawed at the sight of her.

White wolf in the flesh. Moon-blessed. Sacred.

Mine.

"So." She surveys them like a general reviewing troops. "You're the ones who think I need saving?"

"Ms. Westbrook—"

"Don't." The temperature drops ten degrees. "That's not my name anymore."

"Then what should we call you?" James's brother—Jeremy—tries for charming. "Besides beautiful?"

She laughs, dark and rich. "Taken. You can call me taken."

"But not formally." David recovers his composure. "You deserve the choice tradition demands. Formal presentation. Let all worthy Alphas—"

"Worthy?" She moves closer, and they track her like magnetized needles. "What makes you worthy? Your money? Your territory? The size of your knot?"

Crude words from someone raised political. But the heat changed her, stripped away decades of careful conditioning. Now she speaks wolf-plain, cutting through bullshit to bone.

"The ceremony exists for a reason." Morgana intercedes before violence erupts. "White wolves are rare. Sacred. The old ways ensure the strongest partnership."

"I don't want the strongest. I want him."

Simple. Devastating. But the Alphas don't back down. Can't, now that they've caught her scent. Biology overrides logic when white wolf pheromones fill the air.

"Three days." Morgana's voice carries ancient authority. "The Challenge of Moons. Any Alpha who wishes may compete. Prove worth through wealth, wisdom, and warrior's skill."

"That's archaic—" I start.

"That's law." David cuts me off, smelling victory. "Unless you're afraid of fair competition?"

"Fair?" I'm across the room before thought completes, hand around his throat. "Fair is letting her choose without your d***s getting involved."

"Dante." Sadie's voice, careful. Not afraid but calculating. I feel her mind working through our bond, that brilliant political brain finding angles. "Let him go."

I obey, but only because she asked. David stumbles back, throat already bruising. The others smell blood in the water, opportunity in my loss of control.

"Three days." Marcus speaks for them all. "Formal challenge. May the best Alpha win."

They file out, already planning. How to prove themselves worthy of my mate. How to steal what's already claimed. How to—

"I have a better idea."

Sadie's voice stops them at the door. She's smiling now, sharp as winter moonlight.

"The Challenge is about proving worth to me, right? Then let's do it properly." She glances at me, and I see mischief mixing with heat-drunk memories. "A presentation ball. Like the old days. Formal. Elegant. Expensive."

"A ball?" Thomas frowns.

"Why should I settle for looking at financial statements when I could see your wealth displayed? Watch you dance, dress, demonstrate culture beyond rutting?" Her smile widens. "Unless you're afraid of actual civilization?"

The trap springs beautiful. Refuse and look like the beasts humans think we are. Accept and play by rules that favor the established, the refined. The ones with actual wealth versus paper promises.

"Brilliant." Morgana cackles approval. "Yes. A proper ball. And to make it fair—" She pauses for effect. "All unmated omegas in the territory may attend. Give everyone choices, not just our sacred child."

The Alphas brighten at that. More omegas mean less focus, better odds. They don't understand they've already lost. Sadie played them like a Congress vote, turning their challenge into my showcase.

"Three nights hence." I take control before they can object. "Full moon. Black tie. Any Alpha who can't manage proper evening wear forfeits by default."

Some of them pale at that. Mountain packs run casual, their wealth in land not liquid assets. A proper ball means tailors, jewels, knowing which fork to use. Half of them will embarrass themselves before the dancing starts.

"Agreed." Marcus speaks through gritted teeth. They know they've been maneuvered but can't back down now. "Three nights. May the best Alpha win."

They leave reeking of frustration and arousal. The moment the door closes, Sadie collapses against me, laughter shaking her frame.

"Did you see their faces? When I said 'knot'? David nearly swallowed his tongue."

"That was dangerous." But I'm pulling her closer, her scent making rational thought difficult. "They could have—"

"What? Attacked the white wolf they're trying to court? In your hall? With Morgana watching?" She nips at my throat, playful and possessive. "I'm not some helpless omega, Dante. I'm a political operative who happens to have fangs now."

"You're mine." The words come out growled. "That's what you are."

"Prove it." Challenge in her eyes, in her scent, in the way she presses against me. "You made me wait four days. Now you get to wait three more. Fair's fair."

"That's not—"

"What? Fair?" She echoes my earlier words. "You wanted me to choose with a clear mind. Now I'm giving everyone the same chance. Unless you're worried one of them might actually—"

I kiss her to stop the words. Hard, claiming, full of promises for later. She melts into it, then bites my lip hard enough to draw blood. Message clear—she's not tame, not conquered, not sorry for what she's done.

"Three days." She pulls back, eyes bright with mischief and heat. "Then you can prove to everyone why I chose you first."

"You're enjoying this."

"Immensely." She stretches against me, shameless. "Ten Alphas fighting for my favor. Dancing, posturing, probably brawling by the end. It's like C-SPAN but with better production values."

Morgana clears her throat, reminding us we're not alone. "The ball will require preparation. Invitations, catering, security for that many Alphas in one place."

"Pete can handle logistics." I don't look away from Sadie. "He's been wanting to use the ballroom for decades."

"And clothes." Sadie's smile turns wicked. "I'll need something spectacular. Something that makes them forget their own names."

"You could wear burlap and they'd still drool."

"But where's the fun in that?" She steps back, putting distance between us before we do something stupid. Like complete the bond on my desk while Morgana watches. "I want to make a statement. Show them what they're competing for isn't some helpless omega but a white wolf who knows her worth."

"And what's your worth?"

"More than they can afford." Simple. True. "But it'll be fun watching them try."

She leaves with Morgana, discussing dress options and protocol I didn't know the old healer remembered. I'm left with the taste of her blood in my mouth and three days stretching like a death sentence.

Mike and Eric return once the females are gone. Both look like they've swallowed lemons.

"A ball?" Mike manages. "We're hosting a f*****g debutante ball?"

"We're hosting a bloodbath in formal wear." I correct. "Ten Alphas, probably more by the time word spreads. All competing for one omega. There'll be challenges, fights, maybe deaths."

"Good." Eric's practical as always. "Thin the competition before the formal challenge."

Because that's what this is beneath the civilized veneer. The Challenge of Moons demands physical combat, proof of warrior's worth. But first, we dance. First, we pretend we're not animals barely leashed.

"Double security. Triple the medical staff." I move to the window, watching Sadie disappear into Morgana's cottage. "And make sure the ballroom floor's reinforced. When this goes south—and it will—I want room to work."

"You think they'll actually try something?"

"I think ten Alphas high on white wolf pheromones and competitive rage are going to tear each other apart." I bare teeth at my reflection. "And I'm going to help."

"What about Sadie?"

What about her? My mate who turned their challenge into my advantage. Who plays politics like warfare and smiles while doing it. Who's currently planning a dress that will drive every Alpha to madness while she dances in my arms.

"She'll be magnificent." Truth in that. "And when the blood's dry and the challenge settled, she'll be mine. Completely. Finally."

Three days.

Then anyone who thinks they can take her learns why Byrne Alphas have held this territory for four centuries.

We don't lose what we claim.

Ever.

---

The taste of her blood lingers on my tongue like a promise. Copper and moonlight, wild magic barely contained under human skin. I touch the fresh bite on my lip, already healing but the memory burns deeper than flesh.

Three days feels like three centuries.

Outside, Pete coordinates with the efficiency of a field marshal. Caterers arrive first—human staff who don't ask questions about the silver-lined serving trays or why we need the dining room cleared of anything breakable. They've worked our events before. Know wolves play rough even when dressed pretty.

The ballroom's been sealed for decades. Dust motes dance in afternoon sunlight streaming through stained glass windows older than the territory itself. Built when Byrnes still thought civility mattered. Before we learned that sometimes you have to break things to keep them.

"Floors need refinishing." Eric runs a hand over scarred hardwood. "Blood's hell to get out of old wood."

"Leave the scars." I trace a gouge from my grandfather's time. "Let them see what happens to wolves who challenge us in our own den."

Mike's already positioning security. Motion sensors in the corners, silver-laced reinforcements along the walls. Emergency medical station tucked behind the orchestra alcove where human staff won't see the specialized equipment. Tranquilizer guns loaded with enough wolfsbane to drop an Alpha mid-shift.

"Rules of engagement?" Mike checks his tablet, ever practical.

"No killing inside. Bad for the carpets." I pause. "Outside's fair game."

Because they'll try. Alpha pride won't let them just dance and go home. Someone will push too far, scent-drunk on white wolf pheromones and territorial rage. When that happens, I want them to remember this isn't just my house.

It's my hunting ground.

Morgana returns alone, silver hair catching the light like spun starlight. Her smile promises trouble.

"The dress is ordered." She settles into my grandmother's chair like she owns it. "Custom work from New York. Express delivery."

"What kind of dress?"

"The kind that starts wars." Her laugh carries centuries of feminine satisfaction. "Your mate has excellent taste in weapons."