Pridda leaned against the doorframe, dark-blonde hair sliding over her shoulder as she took in the towel in Colette’s hand and the pink stain spreading through it.
“What are you doing in my sister’s room?” she asked, her voice dropping, amused.
“Or did you get lost on your way to the powder room?” Colette forced her wolf back down until the glow behind her eyes faded to violet.
She kept her grip on the towel steady, the throb in her palm sharp enough to ground her.
“I needed somewhere quiet.” She turned and shut off the running tap with her free hand.
“It’s loud down there.” Her veil was resting on the edge of the sink.
“It’s a memorial,” Pridda said, stepping in, her heels clicking against the tile.
“Though I suppose someone outside our pack wouldn’t know how we grieve.” “Is that what this is?” Colette held her gaze in the mirror.
“Grief?” Pridda’s mouth flattened.
The softness she’d worn downstairs dropped away, leaving only pure, unfiltered malice on her face.
Her eyes flicked to the sink, where a thin smear of red still clung to the drain.
“You’re bleeding.” She stepped closer, her nose flaring slightly.
“Did you cut yourself?” “I broke my wine glass by accident.” Colette tucked her hand against her side, turning to face her, and leaned back against the counter.
“Nothing serious.” “Hmmm,” Pridda murmured, her eyes glinting with suspicion as she closed the distance between them.
“Your scent…
it’s familiar.” Something cold moved through Colette’s chest, but she kept her spine straight.
“If you’re done, Pridda, I’ll head downstairs.
Henrik must be waiting for me.” His name landed like a slap.
Pridda’s jaw tightened before she smoothed it over.
“He’s very protective of his bride,” her voice went syrupy sweet.
“It would be a shame if something happened to interrupt your newfound romance.” “Is that a threat?” Colette asked.
Heavy footsteps thudded across the bedroom floor toward the open doorway.
“Step back, Pridda.” Henrik’s voice cut through the tension before he even reached the threshold.
A second later, his massive frame filled the doorway, and his scent—rich pine, rain, and warm cedar—flooded the room.
His grey eyes quickly assessed the space, locking first on Pridda’s aggressive posture, then shifting down to Colette and the blood-soaked towel wrapped around her hand.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.
“I was just checking on your fiancée,” Pridda said, crossing her arms with a tight, artificial smile.
“She looked unwell downstairs.
I followed her up to make sure she was alright.” “I can look after my own woman.
I don’t need your help.” He stepped straight past her, planting his broad shoulders squarely between the two women and cutting off Pridda’s line of sight.
“Marcus is looking for you.
He needs your help with a guest.” Pridda’s eyes flicked to Colette’s hand one last time.
Her face twisted into a scowl; her hands balled into fists as she turned and marched out.
Her heels beat a sharp, furious rhythm against the floor until the outer bedroom door clicked shut.
The room settled the moment she was gone.
Henrik reached for Colette’s arm, his eyes searching her face.
“Let me see it.” “It’s fine—” “Colette.” His thumb traced her wrist, firm and non-negotiable.
“Let me see your hand.” She let him unwind the towel.
Still holding her wrist, he fetched a strip of clean cloth from the vanity cabinet and wrapped her palm with unhurried care.
As he worked, his scent wrapped around her—thick, warm, and distinctly his.
The tight coil of tension in Colette’s chest finally unraveled, the grounding aura of her mate soothing the restless edge of her inner wolf until her breathing evened out.
She stared at his tie, a sudden coil of heat pooling low in her stomach, and let her forehead rest against his chest.
“Give me a minute,” she murmured.
“I just need a minute.” His hand settled against her back, warm through her silk dress.
When she finally lifted her head, she found herself staring directly into his eyes.
The grey in them had gone dark, burning with an intensity that hadn’t been there a moment ago.
He kissed her before she could speak.
She was caught off guard for a heartbeat, then she kissed him back without a shred of restraint.
One arm pressed her against his body while his other hand cradled the back of her head, holding her right where he wanted her.
She felt the low rumble in his chest as a sharp gasp escaped her lips; she clenched her fingers in his hair, her entire body straining toward his as if the space between them had become unbearable.
A shout rang out from downstairs, followed by the violent crash of glass shattering against stone.
Henrik pulled away first, breathless, his forehead resting against hers.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
“We have to go.” She nodded dazedly.
Henrik bent to pick up her veil from the floor where it had fallen, and a blush crept up her neck as she remembered how it got there.
They descended the grand staircase into a hall gone utterly still.
Every face in the room was fixed on the center of the foyer: Marcus and a tall, grey-bearded man stood chest to chest beneath the chandelier, fangs bared, the low growl building between them thick enough to vibrate through the floorboards.
Marcus’s voice boomed across the foyer, low and dangerous.
“You are trespassing, Derek.
Turn around before my guards remove you.” Derek sneered, his bared fangs gleaming under the chandelier, but his gaze swept past Marcus and locked onto the staircase.
Henrik stiffened beside Colette, his fist crumpling the veil in his hand.
“Derek.” “Look what finally decided to walk into the light,” Derek growled, the air crackling as his inner wolf surged.
He ignored Marcus entirely, stepping right toward Henrik.
“Two years overdue, Nightbane.
Your father’s debt, swollen fat with interest.
I came to collect what’s mine.” Marcus stepped sharply between them, a low growl building in his chest as he reclaimed control of the room.
“Not on my watch.
You break into my home, disrupt my daughter’s memorial to make a scene, and think you’ll walk out untouched?” Colette felt her stomach knot.
She watched Marcus closely, seeing right through him.
Derek was an uninvited intruder, but Marcus was instantly leveraging the crash—using Derek’s disrespect to play the grieving, noble father defending his sanctuary.
Beside her, Henrik remained rigid.
Humiliation rolled off him in waves, his scent betraying his shame as the entire room watched the drama unfold.
She stepped forward before either wolf could draw blood.
“How much?” Derek snapped his head toward her.
Whoever he had expected to step up, it wasn’t her.
“How much does he owe you?” Colette repeated.
Derek looked her up and down, his fangs slowly retracting into a sneer.
“That’s none of your business, Alpha Colette.” She closed the distance between them, letting the weight of her Alpha authority bleed into the air, heavy and suffocation-thick.
Derek’s men shifted uncomfortably behind him, eyes dropping to the floor.
“It becomes my business the moment you try to humiliate my fiancé in public,” she said, her voice dead steady.
“I’ll ask one last time.
How much?” Derek studied her, his cold eyes calculating as he weighed the cost of pushing her.
He spat out a number.
Colette didn’t even blink.
She pulled her phone from her clutch, tapped the screen, and brought it to her ear while the entire room hung on the silence.
“It’s me.
Authorize an immediate transfer to the Silverfang pack.” A brief pause.
“Yes.
Do it now.” She waited, keeping her eyes locked on Derek until the line reconnected.
“Confirmed?” She ended the call and slipped the phone back into her clutch.
“You’ll receive the initial sum within the hour.
The balance will be settled after the wedding.” Colette stepped directly into Derek’s personal space, her tone dropping into an icy command.
“Now get out of this house.
And never try to humiliate my fiancé again.” Derek’s jaw tightened.
He gave a brief, forced nod and stepped back.
His men fell in behind him as they retreated toward the exit.
Henrik turned toward her, looking utterly bewildered, as if he no longer recognized the world he was standing in.
Before he could say a word, the sound of quick, light footsteps echoed against the marble.
“Pretty lady!” Laura threw herself against Colette’s legs.
Colette lifted the little girl up, wincing slightly as the movement tugged at her bandaged hand.
Just then, Marcus crossed the marble floor toward them, his chaotic anger smoothing over into a cold, calculating mask.
“Alpha Colette,” Marcus said softly.
“May I have a word with you?”