CLAWS OF FATE

CHAPTER TWO

"Lady Evangeline, how divine that you could grace us with your presence tonight."

I smile at the Beta's wife like she's just offered me the moon instead of stale compliments. "The pleasure is entirely mine, Luna Catherine. Your reputation for hosting exquisite gatherings has reached even the northern territories."

She preens under the flattery, her diamond necklace catching the chandelier light as she gestures toward the ballroom. "You simply must try the champagne. It's imported from the French vineyards."

"How thoughtful." I accept the crystal flute from a passing server, letting my fingers brush his wrist. He doesn't even notice the tiny device I slip from his tray into my palm. "I do so love French bubbles."

The Silvermoon Pack house hasn't changed much in ten years. Same marble floors that could blind you with their shine, same golden fixtures that scream old money, same portraits of dead Alphas glowering from the walls like they're still judging everyone who walks beneath them.

What has changed is me.

Gone is the scrawny girl who once picked wildflowers in the garden. In her place stands Lady Evangeline Northcrest, a vision in midnight blue silk with sapphires dripping from her throat. My hair falls in perfect waves down my back, and my smile could convince saints to sin.

Nobody looks at me and sees the murderer's daughter.

They see exactly what I want them to see.

"Lady Evangeline!" A young warrior approaches with the kind of swagger that suggests he's had too much of that French champagne. "Marcus told me you're from the Northcrest territory. I've heard your pack produces the finest trackers in the continent."

My grip tightens on the flute. Marcus—not the dead heir, but his younger cousin who inherited the name along with his arrogance. "We do pride ourselves on our... hunting skills."

"Perhaps you'd honor me with a dance?"

"But of course ." I flash him a smile that promises nothing. "Allow me to go powder my nose first."

The bathroom is mercifully empty, all rose marble and gold fixtures that cost more than most packs spend in a year. I slip into the far stall and pull out the listening devices—tiny things, no bigger than buttons, designed to pick up conversations through walls.

One goes behind the toilet tank. Another beneath the vanity sink. The third I save for somewhere more interesting.

I'm washing my hands when the door opens behind me. Through the mirror, I watch a group of she-wolves enter, their voices carrying that particular pitch of gossip.

"Did you see how Alpha Zephyr looked at her?" The redhead adjusts her lipstick with the precision of a surgeon. "I thought he was going to shift right there in the ballroom."

"Who can blame him?" Her brunette friend checks her teeth for lipstick stains. "She's gorgeous, and from good bloodlines too. The Northcrest pack has serious influence."

"Still, he seemed... angry."

"Zephyr always looks angry. Comes with the territory of being Alpha."

I pat my hands dry with deliberate slowness, letting them talk. Information flows more freely when people think you're not listening.

"My mate says there's been unusual rogue activity near the borders," the redhead continues. "Three scouts went missing last month."

"Probably just strays looking for easy prey."

"Or something worse. Remember what happened with Alpha Marcus? They never did find who really—"

The brunette's sharp look cuts her off. "We don't talk about that. You know better."

They leave in a flutter of expensive perfume and nervous energy. I wait thirty seconds, then follow.

The ballroom thrums with music and laughter, couples spinning across the dance floor like they don't have a care in the world. I weave through the crowd, studying faces, memorizing conversations, noting which warriors carry weapons and which exits remain unguarded.

The third listening device finds its home beneath the head table, stuck to the underside with practiced ease while I pretend to admire the floral arrangements.

"Magnificent roses," I murmur to no one in particular.

"They should be. They cost enough."

The voice stops me cold.

I straighten slowly, my mask of polite interest never slipping, and turn to face the man who's haunted my dreams for ten years.

Zephyr.

Except he isn't the boy I once knew. That child who shared secrets and honey cakes has been carved away, replaced by six feet of pure Alpha dominance.

His dark hair is longer now, pushed back from a face that could cut glass. His shoulders strain against his tailored suit, and when he moves, it's with the fluid grace of a predator who's never had to question his place at the top of the food chain.

But his eyes—those dark, unforgiving eyes—those haven't changed at all.

"Alpha Zephyr." I incline my head just enough to show respect without surrendering dignity. "What an honor to finally meet you. I've heard such remarkable things about your leadership."

He steps closer, close enough that I catch his scent—pine and winter storms and something purely masculine that makes my traitorous body respond in ways I'd rather not examine.

"Have you now?" His voice is whiskey rough, designed to make women forget their own names. "And what might those things be, Lady... Evangeline, was it?"

"Indeed." I meet his stare without flinching. "They say you've transformed Silvermoon into the most prosperous pack in the region. Quite impressive for someone so young."

"Flattery?" One dark eyebrow arches. "How refreshing. Most people are too terrified to compliment me to my face."

"Well…I’m not most people now, am I?."

"No." He circles me slowly, like he's examining a particularly interesting specimen. "You most certainly are not?"

The space between us crackles with tension. Every instinct screams at me to run, to put distance between myself and this dangerous man who could unravel all my carefully laid plans with a word.

Instead, I hold my ground and smile.

"You know," he says conversationally, "there's something familiar about you. Something that tickles the back of my memory."

"I have one of those faces, I'm afraid. People often think they've met me before."

"Mmm." He stops directly in front of me, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "But it's not your face that's familiar, is it? It's your scent."

My heart hammers against my ribs, but my voice remains steady. "My perfume? It's a custom blend from Paris. Perhaps you've encountered it before?"

"Perhaps." His smile is all teeth and no warmth. "Or perhaps I'm remembering something else entirely. Something... older."

The music swells around us, couples laughing and spinning, completely oblivious to the deadly game playing out in their midst. I take a delicate sip of champagne, buying myself a moment to think.

"You're quite the mystery man yourself, Alpha. All brooding intensity and dark looks. I imagine the ladies find it quite irresistible."

"Some do." His gaze rakes down my body with insulting slowness.

I took a deep breath and stepped back, “well! I owe a certain gentleman a dance. Now if you will excuse me…”

He leans down until his breath ghosts across my ear. "I'm almost convinced it wasn't you," he murmurs, so softly that only supernatural hearing could catch it. "The resemblance is remarkable, but surely fate wouldn't be so... poetic."

My blood turns to ice, but I force myself to look confused rather than terrified. "I'm sorry?"

"But then again." He pulls back, studying my face with predatory focus. "I could smell your traitorous stench from a mile away."

The champagne flute slips from my suddenly numb fingers. It hits the marble floor with a crystal crash that seems to echo through the entire ballroom.

In the sudden silence, his voice carries like a death sentence.

"Hello, Seraphine. Here to finish what your father started?”