Chapter 4

The ballroom is massive, its grandeur only now sinking in as the atmosphere shifts. The air grows electric, anticipation crackling through the crowd. I hear it before I see it—the steady, deliberate sound of approaching footsteps. The men are coming.

I don't know what to expect. So far, I've only encountered men from the Embered and Duskborn clans, along with a few Veiled ones—Charlie's uncle and his attendant being the only notable ones. That's it. A small, carefully controlled sample of this world's male population. But whatever I was expecting, it wasn't this.

As they step through the ballroom's grand double doors, the sight almost knocks the breath out of me. Tall. Imposing. Unfairly attractive in ways that shouldn't be possible. Each man is a different kind of dangerous beauty, their features ranging from sharp and refined to rugged and severe. Some wear badges on their coats, indicating they already belong to a pack—unfortunate, as I'd much rather meet someone unattached. Less politics, less hierarchy to navigate.

I wonder what kind of men they truly are beneath the polished exteriors. Are they kind? Do they respect women? Or do they wield their power over them like a weapon? For a society that places such an obsessive importance on female mates, they sure love making life unbearable for us before we actually become one. The logic behind it escapes me, and perhaps it always will.

Different types of men filter into the room—some with animalistic ears twitching atop their heads, others with elongated, elvish points. A few have sharp tails, some have horns curling like a crown, and others are built like walking stone fortresses. Gargoyles, perhaps. There are lean ones, broad-shouldered ones, golden-skinned and pale, but all devastatingly handsome in their own unique ways. Beauty is clearly abundant here. Let's just hope it's not wasted on rotten personalities. What? I don't have much faith in men, supernatural or otherwise.

Human men here are no exception. In fact, from what Aenie's human servant told me, they're worse. More insecure, more desperate for control—whether it's power, status, intelligence, or even the air they breathe. And, of course, all that frustration is taken out on women. Human women suffer doubly, shackled at the bottom of the social hierarchy. No wonder so many of them choose to become concubines or house slaves. At least that way, they're treated marginally better than if they remained under the rule of their own men. It's a grim reality, but reality nonetheless. I thank whatever higher power exists that Aenie made sure I wouldn't have to go down that path.

Back to the present. The Embered and Veiled men are mingling, and I quickly realize something: not a single one of them spares me a glance. Not even a curious flicker of interest. They pass by as though I'm invisible, like I don't belong here.

Insulting.

I should be relieved—being ignored is safer. But it still grates.

Deciding that standing here like an unwanted ornament isn't doing me any favors, I make my way toward the refreshment section. At least there, I can keep myself occupied. The seats from my group are already empty, their occupants all swept onto the dance floor. Predictable.

As I near the long banquet table, something catches my eye. A side pathway leading out to a veranda, bathed in soft moonlight. A pond glistens beyond it, the night breeze stirring the water into gentle ripples. It's an inviting escape.

Grabbing two small desserts—something that looks like pudding but tastes far better—I slip outside.

The guards at the door barely glance at me before one of them exhales sharply, unimpressed. Disdainful.

Excuse me? I may not be wanted here, but would it kill them to at least be civil?

Shaking off the irritation, I move toward the open-air veranda. But just as I step forward, something—or rather, someone—collides into me.

Hard.

My grip on the desserts falters. A thick, creamy glob of pudding splatters onto a very expensive-looking coat.

Oh, no.

I snap my head up, already wincing in preemptive guilt. The man before me is tall, broad, and radiating irritation. His auburn hair gleams under the moonlight, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as he takes in the mess on his chest. He looks powerful, though I can't immediately tell what kind of supernatural he is.

Great. Just great.

His jaw tightens as he mutters something under his breath. Then, his cold gaze locks onto mine. "You should watch where you're going, human wench."

Ah. There it is.

The sheer arrogance.

I know I should apologize and move on. I should bow my head and let it go. That would be the smart thing to do. But there's something about the way he says it, the effortless condescension, that makes my blood boil.

So, I don't bow. I don't cower. Instead, I keep my voice polite, but my words sharp.

"Well, perhaps if you weren't taking up half the walkway like an entitled peacock, I wouldn't have bumped into you."

His nostrils flare, his irritation deepening. But he doesn't say anything, merely clicks his tongue and brushes past me, disappearing back into the crowd.

I exhale, letting my shoulders loosen. That could've gone worse.

Deciding that my luck has been tested enough for the night, I turn back toward the ballroom. Better to retreat before I invite any more trouble.

As I re-enter the grand hall, the music swells, couples spinning across the dance floor. Laughter and conversation weave through the air, the world moving on as if I were never here to begin with. And maybe that's for the best.

I am not one of them.

Not yet.

And maybe… not ever.

...….

It's been probably an hour, and nobody has approached me. Shocking. Truly.

I had half a mind to march up to some of these men myself and strike up a conversation, but my patron advised against it. Apparently, the males here don't like that. Because, of course, they don't. Nothing bruises an inflated male ego like a woman with initiative.

So here I am, on my sixth glass of pudding—yes, sixth—because if I can't enjoy this cursed event, I might as well indulge in the one good thing here: dessert.

And that's when I feel it. A shadow looming over me.

I glance up and—well, hello.

A man stands before me, blond hair catching the golden glow of the chandelier, ocean-blue eyes that seem to gleam with something unreadable, and—oh. Orange ears twitching slightly. He has the kind of face that belongs in paintings, the kind of smile that has probably charmed half the room already. It's an infuriatingly swoon-worthy sight.

I blink at him. He smiles.

Then, to my absolute surprise, he extends his hand toward me. "Would you do me the honor of a dance?"

I hesitate, glancing at my patron, who gives a small nod and an approving smile. Did my patron arrange this? I hope not. That would be humiliating.

Still, I place my hand in his, allowing him to lead me to the dance floor. His grip is warm, steady, and I quickly realize something else: he smells good. Unfair.

As we start moving, he speaks first. "So, how did you find yourself in this...situation?"

I snort. "Wanna know seriously?"

He grins. "Absolutely."

"Well," I say, raising an eyebrow. "Out of sheer luck."

He twirls me effortlessly, then tilts his head, mock-studying me. "I don't think I've ever seen luck shine through this much."

"Oh, you should see me tripping over thin air. It's spectacular."

He laughs—a real, amused laugh. Not the kind men give when they're pretending to find you funny, but one that seems... genuine. Interesting.

"I like you," he says easily. "Most women in these halls are too worried about impressing people."

"Who said I'm not trying to impress?" I say, arching a brow. "Maybe I think my pudding obsession is my best-selling point."

That earns me another chuckle. "A tragic waste. I would've gone with your wit."

"Well, now I know you're lying."

"I never lie."

"That sounds like a lie."

He smirks but says nothing, guiding me through a graceful step. The room has noticed us—more specifically, the other men have. Their eyes flicker toward us, interest sparking where there was none before.

Great. It takes one attractive duke to make me marketable.

"So," I say, eyeing him. "Do I get to know your name, or are we keeping things mysterious?"

He bows his head slightly. "Duke Callum of Erenwood."

My brows lift. A duke. And not a part of a pack. Well, that's refreshing.

Before I can respond, the dance ends. He steps back, something flickering across his face—a brief shift in his expression. His eyes darken just a fraction, so quick I almost miss it.

Then he smiles. "See you again, little human."

And just like that, he walks away.

I stand there, blinking after him. What... was that?

My patron appears beside me, looking pleased. "Well done. A duke taking an interest in you means the others will follow suit."

I scoff. "Bullshit."

But as I glance around, I see it. The shifting gazes. The renewed curiosity.

Fantastic. Just fantastic.

And then, just as I start making my way back, something—or rather, someone—steps into my path.

And I know, instinctively, that whatever happens next… it won't be good.