His Silent Omega's Hidden White Wolf Bloodline

Elodie POV

The morning sun felt too bright after a night spent dismantling Clotilde’s financial portfolio. I sat quietly at the far end of the massive obsidian dining table in the Aerie. Gamma Arthur Vance stood beside Kingsley, sliding a cream-colored envelope across a pristine steel tray. The Schmidt Pack crest gleamed in heavy gold wax.

Kingsley’s jaw ticked. The foyer was already suffocating under his scent—cedarwood and the ozone of an impending thunderstorm. His inner wolf, *Rage*, was highly agitated. Clotilde had poisoned him weeks ago, and this Gala invitation was a blatant, arrogant provocation.

My eyes caught the handwritten note attached to the invitation. *Preston Howell*.

The name of the man who had discarded me for my half-sister simply because I was wolfless. A phantom sting of old humiliation flared in my chest, causing my fingers to twitch slightly against my porcelain coffee cup.

Kingsley didn't miss it. His storm-gray eyes snapped to me, instantly misreading the microscopic physical reaction.

"You want to go," he sneered, his voice dripping with absolute ice. "Like a pathetic, dependent Omega, you're actually eager to crawl back to the very social circle that spat on you."

I kept my face a blank mask, weighing my options in silence.

He took my silence as a confession. A harsh, mocking laugh tore from his throat. "Spineless." He turned to his Gamma, his voice dropping into the heavy, inescapable timber of an Alpha's Command. *"Arthur. Get her styled. I won't have my wife looking like some banished Rogue. Make her presentable."*

He shoved his chair back and stalked out, leaving the room vibrating with his contempt.

Back in the security of my suite, I locked the door and pulled out my encrypted phone. A message from my informant, Cole Parrish, blinked on the screen.

*Target confirmed. The Schmidt Gala's silent auction includes The North Lot. Howell Pack is the buyer.*

My blood ran cold. The North Lot wasn't just a piece of territory. It was my mother's resting place, the only remaining tether to my hidden White Wolf bloodline. My father was selling it to Preston.

This was no longer about surviving a social execution. It was a territorial war. I had to stop that sale at all costs.

Hours later, Arthur wheeled a rack of gowns into my dressing room. They were explosions of sequins, feathers, and tulle—garments designed to make a Luna look like an expensive, submissive ornament.

"No," I said flatly.

I walked to the back of my closet and unzipped a garment bag, pulling out the *Velvet Noir*. It was a long-sleeved, high-necked black velvet gown with a plunging back. It didn't scream wealth; it whispered lethal authority. Like a shadow cast at midnight.

Arthur frowned, crossing his arms. "With all due respect, Luna, that’s a bit... aggressive for tonight, isn't it? The Alpha requested—"

I turned my head and met his gaze. I didn't speak. I simply let a fraction of my suppressed, ancient bloodline bleed into my stare. Arthur was a battle-hardened Gamma, yet he instinctively took a half-step back, his inner wolf recognizing an apex predator even without a scent. He swallowed hard, bowing his head slightly, and left the room without another word.

When I descended the grand black marble staircase of the foyer, the air was thick with Kingsley’s oppressive aura. He was pacing, clearly ready to leave without me.

Then, he looked up.

Kingsley froze. The icy gray of his eyes was instantly swallowed by blown-out black pupils. The sheer, dangerous elegance of the dress clung to my curves, transforming the 'wolfless freak' into a dark queen. For a split second, the air crackled. His Lycan beast was clawing at the surface, roaring a single, possessive word in his mind.

I felt the pull, a heavy, intoxicating gravity drawing me toward him, but I anchored my feet to the marble.

Kingsley blinked hard, his jaw clenching as he violently shoved his instincts down. "Barely adequate," he muttered, his voice rougher than usual.

Inside the dim, leather-scented cabin of the Maybach, the tension was a physical weight. As the car took a sharp turn, the soft velvet of my skirt brushed against his thigh.

Kingsley flinched as if burned. He shifted sharply toward the door, putting as much distance between us as the backseat allowed. He glared straight ahead, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

*"Don't speak tonight,"* he growled, lacing the words with a heavy Alpha's Command meant to cage me. *"Just stand there."*

I turned my head toward the window. In the reflection of the dark glass, I saw the tight lines of his face, the subtle tremor in his clenched jaw. He wasn't just angry; he was terrified of his own lack of control.

I let the silence stretch. Tonight, I wouldn't just stand there.