Behind The Stalls...

Winter stumbled into the grand ballroom like a woman caught in a storm—her hand bloody, her breath shallow, her body trembling from head to toe. No one noticed. Or if they did, they chose to look away. It was the kind of party where secrets were currency and blood was just another shade of red under the low golden lights.

She clutched her right wrist with her left, trying to conceal the deep crimson stain trickling along her palm. It wasn't her blood—thankfully. But that hardly mattered when her hands still trembled and her mind reeled from the sight of Alpha Cornelius's mutilated corpse.

She needed to leave. She needed to find somewhere to wash the blood off before anyone noticed. Before he noticed.

Winter kept her head down as she weaved between glittering gowns and sleek tuxedos. The music swelled—something jazzy and smooth. Someone laughed behind her. Another clink of glasses.

Almost there.

Just a few more steps to the entrance.

Then she heard it.

Her name. Carried like silk on cool air.

"Winter."

She froze.

Her heart thundered in her chest. Slowly, she turned, every muscle in her body tightening as her gaze met a pair of deep, unreadable blue eyes.

Darren Riggs.

Of course.

There he stood—unbothered, magnetic, devastating in a wine-colored tux that hugged his broad shoulders like sin. A half-drained flute of champagne dangled casually from his fingers.

He didn't smile.

He didn't need to.

The very sight of him made Winter's stomach dip.

But his brows were slightly drawn, his voice cool but laced with concern. "I've been looking for you."

She swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of the sticky wetness on her hand and the overwhelming scent of iron masked under the champagne fizz and perfume.

"I went to… get another drink," she said, holding up the untouched flute in her clean hand like proof. "And I was… looking for you too."

To her credit, her voice didn't crack. It sounded calm—even charming. But inside, panic clawed at her ribs like a feral animal. Please don't notice. Please, please don't notice—

Darren's eyes dropped briefly to her hand—just the clean one. Then lifted back to her face.

"I wanted to introduce you to someone," he said, stepping closer.

Too close.

His scent wrapped around her like a noose. Cedarwood, rain, and something darker. Masculine. Unapologetically intoxicating.

Winter took a half-step back, heart in her throat. "I… I really need to use the restroom first."

His brows lifted slightly, amused. "That urgent, huh?"

"Very."

A brief pause. Then, to her horror, he reached out and took her clean hand—the one holding the glass after collecting her glasses and places it with his on the tray of a passing server.

"I'll walk you."

"No, really—"

"It's not up for debate." His lips curved, eyes gleaming with quiet mischief. "Ladies shouldn't wander alone at events like this."

Winter opened her mouth to protest—but found no words.

Because his fingers were wrapping around hers, cool and firm. His touch sent a hot jolt of electricity up her spine. Her breath caught, and she could feel the way people parted for them as they walked through the crowd like royalty. Or like a king and his secret, trembling mistress.

She dared not look down at her other hand—curled into a fist behind her back, still slick with Cornelius's blood.

Darren turned a corner and stopped before the gold-trimmed restroom door. There was no one around. Just the dim hallway, the chandeliers.

He pushed the door open and stepped in first. Then, with a glance over his shoulder, he began opening each stall one by one.

Winter blinked. "What are you doing?"

"Checking."

"For what? A ghost?"

He shot her a half-smile over his shoulder. "You'd be surprised how many people hide in the ladies' room at these kinds of parties."

She didn't know whether to roll her eyes or melt.

When he was done, he turned and faced her—still holding her hand. His thumb brushed along the side of her wrist, and her nearly dropped.

"They're empty," he said, voice low. "You can use one."

Winter looked down at their hands, pulse racing. Her fingers were small against his, delicate. He held her like she was something breakable. Precious.

Butterflies stirred in her stomach, but they were flying too close to the panic burning inside her chest.

"Thank you," she managed, slipping past him.

He stepped aside, but not before brushing his knuckles gently against her lower back.

"I'll wait outside," he said.

She gave a small nod, eyes downcast. "Okay."

The moment she heard his retreating footsteps, she rushed to the nearest basin.

Immediately turned on the faucet with trembling fingers and shoved her stained hand beneath the cool stream. Blood swirled down the drain, diluted and pink, disappearing in twisting ribbons.

Her breath came in shallow gasps. The memory of Cornelius's lifeless eyes haunted her vision. The clean scent of Darren lingered on her skin where he had touched her.

She closed her eyes, forcing herself to breathe. Focus, Winter. Just get through the night. Just survive this.

But when she opened her eyes and raised her head to the mirror—

She screamed.

Then clamped her hand over her mouth.

Darren.

He stood by the door.

Inside.

Watching her.

His back leaned casually against the wall, arms folded. His expression unreadable. But his eyes—those deep, burning eyes—were locked on her with unnerving intensity.

"You didn't leave," she breathed, her voice barely audible.

He didn't blink. "No. I didn't."

Winter froze, her hand still dripping water. She tried to steady herself. "I thought you said you were waiting outside."

"I was." A pause. "Then I changed my mind."

Her stomach twisted.

He took a step forward, slow and deliberate. "You were shaking, Winter."

She inhaled sharply.

"You hid your hand from me. Your eyes wouldn't meet mine. And your voice…" He tilted his head slightly. "You were lying."

She backed away until her spine hit the cold tiles behind her.

Darren came closer—not threatening, not fast. Just steady. Unwavering.

"I don't know what happened to you back there," he said softly, "but I do know when someone's scared out of their mind."

His voice was gentle. But it still made her skin prickle.

"I'm not—"

"You are," he cut in. "You're trembling."

Her lips parted, but no words came out.

"I need to know," he said, his voice suddenly lower, rougher, "is someone here threatening you?"

She looked away.

His fingers gently touched her chin and tilted her face toward him. "Winter."

Her eyes locked with his.

And for a moment, she forgot everything.

She forgot the blood. The death. The body slumped in the hall.

Because all she could feel was the pull between them. The impossible, maddening chemistry that had always existed like a taut string of lightning between their bodies. It sparked now—dangerously so.

His eyes darkened as he studied her, something raw flickering in them.

"I can protect you," he whispered.

Her heart stuttered. "Darren…"