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“Hey,” he said softly. “Where’d you go?”

I shook my head. “Nowhere. Just thinking.”

“About?”

“How I ended up at a werewolf gala with you. In a wedding dress you picked out. Wearing makeup you applied. With a fake bite on my neck and a pack full of people who think we’re in love.”

“I didn’t think you’d say yes, you know. Back when this whole thing started.”

“I almost didn’t,” I said, keeping my voice light. “You were kind of a mess. I was, too.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “I still am.”

“You’ve gotten better,” I said, looking up at him. “A little less drama. Fewer growls.”

“Only because you keep calling me out on my bullshit.”

“Someone has to.”

We slowed. The song was ending. The moment was ending. And still, neither of us moved to leave the dance floor. I wanted to say something brave. Don’t let this go. Choose me, please.

I stepped back. Just enough to break the spell.

“Thanks for the dance,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

He nodded. “Anytime.”

And just like that, the illusion snapped. The music kept playing. The lights stayed warm. The champagne still sparkled in other people’s hands. But the ache in my chest stayed.

Because I knew what came next.

And I wasn’t ready to lose him.

28

MAGGIE

I was on my third glass of wine and my third glass of water, trying to strike some kind of balance that wouldn’t leave me clinging to Roman’s arm like a spider monkey at the end of the night. My heels already hurt. My cheeks were sore from fake-smiling. And every time someone clinked a glass too hard or laughed too loud, I jumped like a bomb had gone off behind me.

Roman stood at the bar beside me, deep in conversation with one of his childhood friends whose name I’d forgotten the second he’d said it. He looked relaxed—chin tilted, easy grin—but I knew him well enough now to know he was uncomfortable. It was in the way his fingers tapped against the glass in his hand, the subtle angle of his shoulders like he was bracing for a shift in the wind.

I sipped my water. Cold, thank God. My throat was dry, and the ballroom had grown hot with all the dancing and champagne and unspoken tension in the air.

That was when Lucien appeared. Not his usual grand entrance with a sweep of silk or a stage-worthy proclamation. This was… different. His smile was stretched too tight, his eyes too sharp, his movements a fraction too quick. He caught Roman’s arm like it was urgent but tried to do it with the elegance of a man plucking lint from a lapel.

I wasn’t supposed to hear what he said, but the band was on break, and the hum of conversation had dipped low enough that Lucien’s stage-whisper carried straight to me.

“We have a serious problem,” he said, still smiling like he was complimenting Roman’s tie. “The wards and ley lines are not responding to the bonds. At all. Not like I expected.”

Roman’s tapping fingers went still. “How bad?”

Lucien’s smile didn’t move, but his voice dropped to a sharper register. “Bad enough that if anyone with half a sense for magic takes a walk outside, they’ll notice. The readings are stagnant. There’s no surge from the new pairings. Nothing.”

I froze, glass halfway to my lips.

Roman’s voice was low and even. “Maybe it just takes time. You can’t expect centuries-old magic to rearrange itself overnight…”

Lucien’s jaw flexed in a way I’d never seen. “The magic should have responded instantly.”