The Council gala is less of a formal dinner and more of a high-stakes poker game where the currency is testosterone and passive-aggressive compliments. We are back in the grand ballroom of the estate, and the air is thick with the scent of wolf musk and overpriced catering.
I am standing by the buffet, nursing a glass of sparkling cider and wearing the moonstone bracelet Malakai sent. Silas hasn't looked at my wrist once in the last hour, mostly because he’s too busy staring a hole through the back of Malakai’s head from across the room.
"You know, if looks could kill, Malakai would be a very handsome puddle on the floor right now," I whisper as Silas stalks over to me.
"The bracelet is glowing, Ivy," Silas growls, his hand twitching near my arm. "It’s literally pulsing. It’s like he’s
