Dressed for Display

POV: KAELIA

The heavy silence of the dim living room shatters the moment the Alpha rises from his leather chair.

"We are having people here in a few hours and you two have been out galavanting with Thorne." The Alpha barks the accusation. His voice booms with fury before we even take another breath. The dark atmosphere from their quiet waiting turns into an explosive confrontation.

Adrenaline spikes in my chest. My heart hammers against my bruised ribs. I step in front of Lorna to shield her as she shrinks back in pure terror.

"He picked us up from school. What did you want us to do? If we did not go with him, he knew that something would have been up." I snap back, desperate to redirect his anger away from my best friend.

My excuses fall on deaf ears. My father steps out of the shadows. His expression hardens into a cruel sneer. He and the Alpha seize on our slight delay to punish us, assigning an impossible mountain of manual chores to complete before the upcoming gathering.

"Well, now you two have a lot of work to do, do you not? There is cooking that needs to be done and all the bedrooms in the packhouse need to be ready in case anyone decides to stay over." My father states.

"I will go and help Lorna with the rooms and then get started in the kitchen." I offer. I hope to keep us together to share the punishing load.

The Alpha scoffs, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

"There is not enough time. Lorna can clean the bedrooms. Scrub the bathrooms, change the sheets, vacuum everything. In every single guest bedroom in this massive packhouse. And Kaelia, you need to get started on appetizers, then the first course, then the second course, the main course, and an extravagant dessert from scratch."

I nod once. I look back at Lorna. We are forced to split up, leaving me vulnerable and alone.

I head straight for the sprawling industrial kitchen. The massive space is empty and cold. The Alpha and my father make us do the bulk of the manual labor, keeping the omega staff away to maximize our burden. I pull heavy ingredients from the walk-in fridge and start prepping the main course. I chop root vegetables and prep the raw meat in a frantic rhythm to beat the ticking clock. The rhythmic thud of my chef's knife against the wooden cutting board is the only sound in the room.

The swinging kitchen doors part without a sound.

My father slips into the room.

My breath hitches in my chest. I grip the handle of the knife tighter, keeping my eyes fixed on the chopped vegetables. His dark eyes are filled with malice. He does not step closer. He does not say a single word. He just stands in the far corner, leaning against the stainless steel counter, tracking my every move.

My body tenses. The air in the room turns suffocating. I know exactly what he is doing. This silent, looming intimidation is a sick, twisted game designed to keep me living in perpetual terror. He thrives on knowing I am waiting for a physical blow that could strike at any second. I force myself to keep chopping. My hands tremble as his heavy gaze burns into my back.

Hours drag on in an agonizing silence. I push through the exhausting prep work, plating the intricate courses until the omega staff finally arrives to take over serving duties.

I drop my apron on the counter and escape up the back stairs to our apartment.

I lock the bathroom door behind me. I cannot bear to look at my battered reflection in the mirror today. I strip off my clothes and step into a blistering quick shower. I wash the grease and sweat from my skin, moving with extreme caution to spare my broken ribs. Every twist of my torso sends a sharp ache through my side.

Once dry, I pull the mandatory attire from my closet. The floor-length gown features a delicate pink floral lace bodice. The sweeping, heavy black skirt drops all the way to the floor. It is the perfect design to cover my bruised legs. I slide into black strappy high heels, brush my snow-blonde hair down to my waist, and clasp a silver diamond bracelet around my wrist. I leave my neck bare, hoping my long hair provides enough of a shield.

I step out into the hallway. Lorna is pacing outside her door. She wears her own formal gown, her hands wringing together in raw anxiety.

"It is like our fathers are putting us on display." She whispers. Her voice trembles with hatred for the charade.

I hook my arm firmly through hers to steady her frame.

"That is exactly what they are doing. And they know it too. Just remember, it is only because we are the hottest ones here." I agree with a bitter tone.

She lets out a shaky breath. We force our heads high and descend the grand staircase together.

The living spaces have been transformed. All the daily furniture has been cleared out to create a sprawling, crowded ballroom. The dining room now features four massive, long tables ready to seat hundreds of important guests. We paste polite, hollow smiles onto our faces and step into the dense crowd.

Visiting Alphas and their arrogant heirs roam the room. We force ourselves to play our designated parts. We flash smiles and engage in light, meaningless conversation with older Alphas and young men eager to boast about their future titles. The sheer number of dominant wolves in one place makes my skin crawl. The live band plays an upbeat tune in the corner, masking the nervous racing of my heart.

Twenty minutes pass. We mingle near the lavish buffet table.

A rancid, familiar scent hits my nose.

Before I can even turn around, thick, muscular arms clamp tight around my waist. The sudden, brutal force presses agonizingly against my freshly broken ribs.

It is Draken.

He buries his face into the crook of my neck, inhaling my scent.

"Take note of the people that you like in this room sweetie. We can invite them to our wedding." He hisses directly into my ear.

Pain stabs through my chest in sharp, blinding waves. I grab his thick forearms, trying to unravel his hands from my stomach. I gasp softly through the radiating agony in my ribs. My malnourished body lacks the physical strength to break his suffocating, possessive grip. He locks his hands together, trapping me against his chest. I am trapped in a cage of pure torment.

A terrifying, deafening growl rips through the elegant ballroom.

The raw predatory force of the sound makes the live band stop playing mid-note.

Something heavy, like a solid wooden chair, shatters against the far wall with a massive crash. Wood splinters rain down on the polished marble floor.

Every single eye in the room snaps toward the source of the noise.

A towering stranger stands at the grand entrance. He looks to be in his early twenties, boasting shoulder-length brown hair and a sharp goatee. Heavy, defined muscle packs his massive six-foot-six frame.

I freeze in Draken's arms.

The stranger's intense, glowing eyes are locked on us. They burn with pure, unadulterated hatred. He radiates a lethal, blood-chilling aura that paralyzes the entire room. The dominance rolling off him is suffocating.

In a split second, I realize his murderous glare is not meant for me. It is aimed at Draken.

The stranger takes a heavy step forward. The floorboards seem to shudder beneath his heavy boots.

"Mine." The stranger demands, his voice a low, earth-shaking rumble.