His Silent Omega's Hidden White Wolf Bloodline

Elodie POV

The Maybach’s door opened, and the night air hit me instantly. It was thick with the sharp pine and heavy musk of dozens of rival Alphas. Camera flashes exploded like white fire, blinding and chaotic.

Kingsley’s hand clamped around mine, his grip iron-clad. The familiar, intoxicating sparks from his touch shot up my arm, but his body was rigid. He pulled me flush against his side, using his massive frame to shield me from a particularly aggressive Alpha glaring in our direction.

*"Don't let them smell your fear,"* Kingsley growled, his voice a barely audible, feral rumble against my ear. *"They will eat you alive."*

Instead of cowering under his heavy Alpha's Command, I kept my gaze fixed forward. With my free index finger, I slowly, deliberately traced a single line down the center of his palm.

*I hear you, but I am not yours.*

Kingsley went completely still. His storm-gray eyes snapped down to me, flashing with pure shock before the irises were swallowed by pitch-black. *Rage*, his Lycan beast, was roaring in his mind—provoked not just by my silent defiance, but by the magnetic, maddening pull of it.

We reached the top of the grand marble steps, flanked by two rows of Silver Creek Pack Warriors. Standing at the entrance was my father, Alpha Richard Schmidt. He didn't even acknowledge Kingsley. His cold, calculating eyes landed solely on me.

"You're finally proving useful," Richard muttered, his voice carrying just enough to ensure the nearby elites heard him reduce me to a mere asset.

Kingsley shifted instantly, stepping entirely in front of me. His scent—cedarwood and the violent ozone of a burning bonfire—exploded outward, suffocating the space with pure aggression.

"Your pack is bleeding territory, Richard," Kingsley said, his voice dropping to a lethal, icy register. "Before you worry about my assets, manage your own. I hear sharks are already smelling the blood in the water."

Richard paled, his jaw tightening. "You're swimming with them, Drake."

Kingsley let out a low, dark chuckle. "I *am* the shark."

Inside the grand ballroom, crystal chandeliers cast fractured light over the crowd. The air was heavy with expensive perfume, roasted meats, and raw power. We barely made it past the towering champagne fountain when Preston Howell blocked our path, Clotilde clinging smugly to his arm.

Preston’s oily gaze raked over me, lingering on my wolfless frame before he smirked at Kingsley. "This must be a very quiet marriage," he sneered. "Considering there's no... mind-link."

My stomach twisted at the vicious reminder of my greatest vulnerability. Instinctively, I stepped a fraction of an inch behind Kingsley's broad shoulder.

He felt the movement. The temperature around us plummeted. Kingsley stared at Preston, his eyes turning to winter ice.

"Your pack's balance sheets are fragile, Howell," Kingsley said, his tone eerily calm but dripping with absolute murder. "Say one more word, and I guarantee by sunrise, you will have nothing left."

Preston swallowed hard, the color draining from his face as he took a hasty step back. But Clotilde’s smirk only widened.

Suddenly, a loud, theatrical gasp echoed near the grand staircase.

Bianca Sterling was descending the steps, draped in a glittering, crystal-encrusted replica of my black velvet gown. Clotilde pointed at her, her voice carrying perfectly over the sudden hush of the crowd. "Oh my goddess, look!"

Bianca strutted over, stopping right in front of me. She looked me up and down, her voice dripping with sugary venom. "Oh, darling. Are you wearing the budget version? It looks so... empty."

Suppressed snickers rippled through the surrounding Alphas and Lunas. The trap had been sprung.

Kingsley’s jaw clenched, a lethal growl vibrating deep in his chest. His Lycan was ready to tear the room apart to protect his mate's honor.

But I didn't flinch. I calmly reached out, lifting a crystal flute of champagne from a passing waiter's tray. I took a slow sip, looking at Bianca with a gaze of absolute, hollow boredom, as if I were watching a terribly written play.

I wasn't breaking. I was waiting.