Page 186 of Knot Like Other Girls

"Has there been any sign of her yet?"

"Not yet, but we've heard she's on her way. Savva has a contact at the entrance texting updates."

"Good to know." I finish my champagne and set the empty flute on a passing waiter's tray. "Wish me luck."

"You don't need luck," Liam says with quiet confidence. "You're stronger than anyone here."

"Thanks," I say softly, smiling at him.

He smiles back to me as I turn away from the bar.

I notice Braxley across the room right away. He's engrossed in conversation with some tech investor whose name constantly escapes me. His hands move animatedly, his smile too wide andshowing all his teeth. He looks like a robot in human skin, its movements cranked up to eleven.

Pretty on the surface, but solidly in uncanny valley.

I move through the crowd, acknowledging familiar faces with polite nods. The ballroom is stunning, I'll give the Worthingtons that much. Crystal chandeliers scatter light over strangely phallic ice sculptures. White roses and peonies blanket every surface that isn't covered in glittering trays of food and wine.

I miss the pack house in the mountains already.

A woman whose name escapes me air-kisses near my cheek. "That gown is divine. Valentino?" she asks, scrutinizing me.

"Thank you," I say, deciding not to tell her the designer is the gorgeous alpha with the mane of auburn hair watching over me from just a few feet away. "Lovely to see you."

She moves on quickly, already scanning the room for someone more important. That's how these events work. Everyone constantly evaluating their next strategic conversation, their next social ladder rung.

Troy appears at my elbow with surprising quietness for someone his size, offering me a fresh flute of champagne. "You look like you could use this, princess."

"My hero," I murmur, accepting the drink gratefully. "How's everything going?"

"Secure," he replies, his easy smile not quite reaching his eyes. "Though Roman's got that furrow between his eyebrows. You know the one."

I do know it. That expression that indicates he's noticed something concerning but doesn't want to alarm anyone yet.

"What is it?" I ask quietly while sipping my champagne.

Troy subtly angles his body to block us from view, his broad shoulders forming a private pocket of space. "Heather's car just pulled up outside. Savva's contact at the door says she's broughta small entourage—personal photographer, two friends for the inevitable social media posts, and what looks like a bodyguard."

My insides knot with unease. "A bodyguard? That seems excessive for a charity gala."

"Unless you're planning to start some bullshit," Troy points out.

I take a larger sip of my champagne than I probably should. "Hopefully not murderous bullshit," I mutter.

"You're safe," Savva promises me.

I nod, smiling at him even though I'm not as concerned as I probably should be. The shooter wasn't aiming for me, and he'd had plenty of opportunity to take me out if he wanted to.

Instead, he'd looked at me in confusion and insulted Braxley. I replay that surreal moment in my head once in a while, and I doubt I'll ever stop.

"Some alpha you've got there, miss."

Some alpha indeed.

Troy's eyes track something behind me, and his expression shifts subtly. "Speak of the devil."

I turn casually, as if just surveying the room, and spot her immediately. Heather Donovan makes her entrance like she's walking a red carpet at the Met Gala rather than attending a charity function. Her platinum blonde hair is styled in elaborate waves that must have taken hours, and her form-fitting silver gown catches the light with every catlike movement.

Behind her, a man with a professional camera follows her every step, and a fourth figure—broad-shouldered and wearing an earpiece that screams "security"—hovers just behind their little procession.

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