Cold air hit my back. Gasps filled the hall. The silk slid down my body in a cruel wave, leaving my breasts exposed. I grabbed the fabric too late.
People shouted. Wolves whistled. Voices hissed in shock. My hands shook as I tried to pull the dress up, but the clasp had been cut. Clean. Deliberate.
I knelt on the ground, tears stinging my eyes.
Behind me, Gwyneth gasped dramatically.
“Oh no, sister!” she cried. “Why would you do that? Again? Freya… is this for attention?”
The crowd turned toward me with disgust, pity, and hunger.
And then … he moved.
Gareth. From across the room, his gaze locked on me—cold, distant, Alpha‑hard. He didn’t shield me.
Didn’t growl. Didn’t protect the wolf who once carried his mark.
He shrugged off his jacket and dropped it. At my feet. Not on my shoulders. Not around me. As if he wanted to say, ‘Cover yourself. You shame us.’
I grabbed it with shaking hands and pulled it around me as I stood on trembling legs.
Gareth guided me toward the exit, his grip firm on my elbow.
No comfort. No warmth. Just the cold duty of a warrior escorting a disgraceful wolf.