Knox’s hand settles on my back. “Breathe. You just survived a press conference. This is just dinner.”
“With every powerful wolf in North America judging me.”
“They’re always judging someone. Make every second worth it.”
The doors swing open wide, and a voice booms across the massive ballroom:
“His Majesty, Knox Volkov, Lycan King of North America—”
A dramatic pause.
“—and his guest, Miss Ember Aragon.”
Dead silence.
Then everyone turns to stare.
Oh Goddess.
The whispers start immediately, a wave of vicious curiosity:
“That’s her?”
“She’s the one?”
“Look at that dress.”
“Gold digger.”
“Homewrecker.”
“She’s got nerve, I’ll give her that.”
The ballroom is massive—white, silver, and blue everything. Fake snow coats every surface. Christmas trees the size of buildings drip with
