Chapter 3

Ayla Davis POV:

The violent boom shook the crystal sconces along the corridor wall. Harper gripped my upper arm so tightly her nails left crescents in my skin, her face drained of blood.

"What the hell is happening in there?" she whispered.

Without hesitating, I wrenched my arm free, turned back, and shoved the heavy wooden doors open.

The banquet hall looked like a war zone. The thirty-foot mahogany table had been flipped entirely onto its side, littering the carpet with shattered porcelain and dark pools of spilled red wine. The air reeked of copper blood and the suffocating, feral pheromones of an enraged predator.

Preston lay crumpled in the wreckage like a broken doll, blood gushing from his shattered nose as he whimpered on the floor.

Carmel stood over him. He had tossed his suit jacket aside and rolled up the sleeves of his black shirt, revealing corded forearms speckled with Preston's blood. Along the walls, the wealthy pack elites huddled together, trembling violently and unable to lift their heads against the crushing weight of Carmel's dominance.

Preston spat out a mouthful of blood and a broken tooth, his eyes bulging with humiliation.

"Benton, you lunatic!" Preston wheezed. "You dare beat me over a worthless wolfless bitch? My father's pack won't let you walk out of here!"

A terrifying, dark golden light flared in the depths of Carmel's eyes—a color far more ancient and lethal than an ordinary Alpha's red glow. He took a single step forward and planted his Italian leather shoe squarely on Preston's chest.

A sickening crack of snapping ribs echoed through the hall. Preston let out a bloodcurdling shriek before his eyes rolled back, passing out cold.

Carmel didn't even breathe heavily. Pulling a white silk handkerchief from his trousers, he wiped the blood from his knuckles with slow, deliberate strokes, as if he had merely squashed a cockroach.

Then, he turned his head. Cutting through the terrified crowd, his dark golden gaze locked straight onto me standing by the doorway.

For a fraction of a second, the murderous violence in his eyes receded, replaced by a suffocating, possessive heat that made my throat go dry.

Harper yanked me behind a marble pillar, her shoulders shaking.

"God, he's a complete monster," she gasped into my ear. "Did you see that? He nearly killed the Stone heir just because Preston scared that pretty Omega sitting next to him!"

I followed Harper's pointing finger. Ten feet away from Preston's unconscious body, a delicate socialite who had been sitting near Carmel's original VIP seat was sobbing on the floor, clutching her torn dress.

A strange, cold heaviness settled in the pit of my stomach. Of course. He hadn't lost control because Preston insulted me; he had gone berserk because Preston's commotion had frightened his latest conquest.

I lowered my lashes, swallowing the absurd tightness in my throat.

"Let's go," I said quietly, tugging Harper's sleeve. "It's not safe here."

Using the chaos as cover, we slipped out the side service exit. The chilly night air hit my flushed cheeks as we hurried across the asphalt parking lot.

"Stay as far away from Carmel as humanly possible, Ayla," Harper warned, patting her chest as she unlocked her van. "The rumors about him being a weak playboy are bullshit. That man is a tyrant."

I offered a stiff, bitter smile, unable to tell her that my name was already bound to his on a marriage contract.

After waving goodbye to Harper, I climbed into my battered secondhand sedan and drove toward the upscale western district of Silvercrest City. Bennet's earlier text had reminded me of one thing: my late mother's notebooks and my backup script manuscripts were still in his villa. I needed to get them back tonight while he was likely out partying with his new fiancée, Daniela.

I parked outside the familiar iron gates. Five years of devotion to Bennet felt like a sick joke now. Using my spare key, I unlocked the front door. The living room was pitch-black, silver moonlight spilling across the plush rug.

I walked straight up the stairs to the second-floor master bedroom, pulled a small suitcase from the closet, and stuffed my remaining clothes and handwritten drafts inside. At the very bottom of the nightstand drawer, my fingers brushed against cold metal.

It was a delicate laurel-leaf bracelet. Three years ago, Bennet had given it to me for my birthday, claiming its pure silver links would ward off evil spirits since I had no inner wolf to be burned by the metal.

Staring at it now, my chest ached with disgust. I snatched the bracelet and shoved it deep into my coat pocket, planning to sell it at a pawnshop tomorrow.

As I zipped my suitcase and turned toward the bedroom door, the violent, deafening roar of a twin-turbo V12 engine tore through the quiet neighborhood.

Tires screeched against the pavement outside. My heart leaped into my throat. I walked to the window and parted the blinds.

Down on the street, a matte-black Aston Martin sat angled across the driveway like a crouching beast. The driver's door was kicked open, and Carmel stepped out into the moonlight, radiating a terrifying, suffocating aura of pure rage.

He tilted his head back, his glowing eyes locking onto me through the second-floor glass as if he were about to tear the entire house down with his bare hands.