Chapter 12

Killian's POV

I can't breathe.

Not because something is wrong. But because something is too right.

Every time I see her, my lungs lock up. My chest tightens. My skin feels too tight. My wolf claws at the inside of my ribs, struggling like a caged beast. The bond is pulling at me and I'm losing the war.

Layla.

That damn girl. That omega with the sharp tongue, the beautiful hazel eyes, the curvy body and the maddening scent of wild honey.

And the worst part? She doesn't even try.

She walks around like she doesn't know what she's doing to me. Like she's not driving me to the edge of insanity every time she steps into my line of sight with those hips swaying beneath plain cotton skirts, that hair always half-falling out of her bun, that mouth of hers always ready to challenge me.

The moon is close. I can feel it boiling in my blood, rising beneath my skin. My pack feels it too. The tension spreads through the walls like a current, setting everyone on edge. But none of them feel it the way I do.

Because I'm tethered to her. And I refuse to fall.

I'm Alpha. I don't kneel.

So, I do what I always do when the pressure builds: I throw a party. A big one. Something loud filled with lots of women. What can go wrong with that?

The great hall is a filled with loud music and the scent of perfume. All I can see are short silks and skin. Bodies press together under the crystal chandeliers. Here, I invite elites, nobles, emissaries from allied packs, and of course—women.

Dozens of them.

They're all eager and beautiful in the most obvious of ways. The best part? They're all willing to please me without me even having to ask.

I sit on the raised dais with my golden goblet in hand and a woman curled into my side. She's got dark hair, a body that fits snugly against mine, and the boldness to run her hand down my chest in front of everyone. I let her. I tilt my head back as her lips graze my jaw, trying—trying—to let it drown out the ache I feel in my chest.

But it's empty.

Every laugh I force sounds hollow. Every touch on my skin is too cold, too foreign.

There's only one woman I want to touch me like this, even though I don't want to admit it. my wolf yearns for her.

And then—She walks in.

Layla.

Wearing those plain servant's clothes, the ones that cling to her curves like they were stitched to taunt me. Her hands are full of empty goblets, and her braid is slipping over one shoulder. There's sweat on her brow from work, and yet she walks in with her head high, eyes sharp and her mouth set in that familiar line of "don't-test-me."

She's a servant in a room full of glittering elites, and still—

My entire body locks onto her.

The music fades. The heat from the women beside me disappears. All I smell is her. All I see is her.

Her eyes find me, and they narrow.

I smirk.

She looks pissed.

Good.

Is she jealous?

The woman beside me trails a hand down my chest. I don't stop her. I watch Layla instead. Her lips part in irritation. Just a fraction. But I see it. I feel it.

Jealousy.

It punches something in my gut. My wolf rises like a wave.

I push the woman's hand off me and stand. The crowd parts as I move down the steps, goblet still in hand. My eyes are fixed on the one girl who won't kneel before me.

When I reach her, she turns, pretending she's here to collect the goblets and not to look at me.

"Jealous, little Omega?" I murmur.

She snorts. Doesn't even flinch. "Of you? Hardly."

My smirk falters. Just a breath. But I feel it.

She should care. She should burn to see me with another.

I want her furious. I want her to feel the madness she's caused.

But she doesn't blink. She brushes past me, casually like I'm nothing. Like I'm not the goddamn King of the Pack.

I step after her. One pace. Two. I block her path with my body.

"You think ignoring this will make it go away?" I ask. The scent of her is flooding me now. My wolf growls "Pretending you're not affected?"

She lifts her chin, looking up at me with those eyes that always see too much.

"I'm not pretending," she says.

I step closer. Close enough that our chests almost touch. "You forget who you're speaking to."

She arches a brow, slowly. She looks infuriatingly calm. "No. You forget who you're speaking to. I'm not one of your courtesans. I'm not here to dance or flatter you. I'm not yours, Alpha."

I growl.

Gods, if she wasn't so close—if she wasn't so herself—

She leans up on her toes, bringing her lips dangerously near mine. My body reacts instantly. I feel the heat shooting down my spine. My cock shits in my pants. My hands twitch to grab her, claim her—

And then she whispers softly.

"You're the one who's affected, Killian. Not me."

And just like that, she turns and walks away.

She doesn't look back.

She disappears into the crowd with the same cool indifference and I'm left standing there..

Because she's right. I am the one affected. And it's killing me.

I spin back toward the dais, grab the nearest goblet, and drain it in one angry swallow. I slam it down on the table, ignoring the startled looks from my guests.

"Another," I bark.

A servant rushes to refill it.

The music plays again. The dancers twirl. The wolves laugh.

And I?

I sit back in my chair with my drink in hand, and glare into the sea of faces.

Waiting.

Burning.

Because the moon is coming. And I don't know how much longer I can resist her.