The Masked Kiss

The ballroom pulsed with tension as I watched Tristan lead Seraphina to the dance floor. My grip tightened around my champagne flute until I feared the delicate stem might snap between my fingers.

She moved with natural grace, the midnight blue fabric of her gown flowing around her curves like water. Her smile—directed at my nephew—twisted something primal and possessive inside me.

Mine. The word echoed through my mind with each beat of the orchestra.

"Chairman Valois," a sultry voice interrupted my dark thoughts. "What a pleasure to see you again."

I turned to find Rosalie Thorne standing beside me, her red lips curved into a practiced smile. The daughter of a wealthy pack Alpha from the East Coast, she'd been pursuing me relentlessly at social functions for months.

"Miss Thorne," I acknowledged coolly, my eyes drifting back to the dance floor where Tristan's hand now rested on the small of Seraphina's back.