Wine and Vicious Words

I barely had a moment to recover from my encounter with Charlotte Bennett when a familiar voice called my name. I turned to see Julian's grandmother, Beatrice Bennett, approaching with her cane tapping rhythmically against the marble floor. At eighty years old, she was still an imposing figure in our pack – elegant, sharp-eyed, and utterly merciless.

"Miss Beaumont," she said, her voice carrying the weight of decades of aristocratic breeding. "I'm surprised to see you here."

I straightened my shoulders. "Mrs. Bennett."

"It's Lady Bennett to you," she corrected, her eyes narrowing. "Has your unfortunate... situation caused you to forget proper etiquette as well?"

My wolf bristled inside me. I bit back the retort that threatened to escape my lips.

"My apologies, Lady Bennett."

She studied me with cold, calculating eyes. "Camille must be very kind indeed to invite someone of your... current standing."