The damn dress wouldn’t fit.

Alara stared at her reflection hopefully in the mirror as she tried in vain to zip the dress up. It had fit fine at a size sixteen, but of course soon as her mother had seen the size on the tag, she’d had the dress altered to fit a size smaller. And even that was too large for her appearance-driven mother, High Queen of all werewolves.

Tears pricked Alara’s eyes as her frustration boiled over. On the verge of tearing the dress off, she heard the door open, and her mother, dripping in diamonds and silver gauze, swept into the room. One would never guess she had been one of the fiercest werewolves in their race’s history.

Alara nearly gagged on the sharp perfume that clouded the air as her mother came up behind her and frowned. “You’re late. Why aren’t you dressed yet?”

“I told you—I had to study for an exam. And I’m not dressed because the dress doesn’t fit,” Alara said without irritation.

Her mother rolled her eyes. “What exam? I thought you dropped that ridiculous online course.”

“No, I told you since you wouldn’t allow me to go to a college campus, I had to find a program to accept me online. I’m getting my general ed. courses over with.”

“Why? What’s the point? It’s not like you’re actually leaving us. You have an obligation—”

“To this pack,” Alara finished tiredly. “I know, Mother. You’ve told me so every time I bring up wanting to be a veterinarian.”

Her mother snorted. “Like a common human. Stop fussing with that zipper before you rip your dress.”

Oh, what a travesty that would be, thought Alara dryly.

Steeling her jaw, she dropped her arms and tried to keep her disappointment at bay as her mother wrestled with the zipper. “Guests started arriving over a half hour ago. Honestly, Alara, when are you going to accept your place in this pack?”

When hell freezes over. “Sorry, Mother. I hate to disappoint you.”

“Then why do you keep doing it?”

Alara blinked, but that was all the reaction she showed. Feel numb. Numb takes the pain away. “I don’t know. I have this dream I can’t get out of my head, I guess.” She hated how childlike she sounded. She hated even more how much she wanted her mother’s approval, even after knowing there was no way she’d get it.

“Dreams are for people without responsibility. And you are the crown princess of the most ancient pack on this earth. Your duties lie with this pack before yourself.”

“I know,” Alara said, her chest tightening with the sensation her dreams were crumbling around her again.

“Ugh,” her mother said with disgust as she worked the zipper up another inch. “What have you been eating for breakfast?”

“A nonfat fruit parfait, Mother.”

“What about dinner last night? Lunch?”

“Salad, Mother.”

“Sssh, don’t say anything. Suck in your gut, if you can manage that.”

Be numb.

Alara inhaled as much as she could, bunching her generous breasts as her mother forced the zipper up. “You’ve been working out?” her mother went on.

Alara paused, unsure whether she should speak when her mother told her not to.

“Well?” her mother snapped. “Did you not hear me?”

“Yes,” Alara said in a monotone voice. “Every day for two hours, just like Izzy.”

“‘Isabelle,’” her mother corrected. “‘Izzy’ is not the name of a princess. ‘Isabelle’ sounds much more regal. There!”

Alara gasped as the zipper reached its summit, thus compromising her ability to breathe. Her wolf ears could hear the fabric stretch every time she inhaled. Too much and she’d rip a seam.

Her mother continued examining her, grabbing her arm and holding it up. “And you haven’t lost any weight? Your biceps are jiggling. I’ll have to speak to your trainer. Perhaps I should call Dr. Rolf again, get you on a different weight loss medication.”

Alara sighed carefully. “You ever considered maybe I’m built this way for a reason? Maybe I’m not supposed to be rail-thin.”

Her mother leveled her with an even glare. “If you’re going to be a royal were—one of the high family, at that—there is a certain physical standard of beauty we have to uphold. And ‘fat’ is not it.”

Alara looked down at her body, at the skin bunched around her arms, hanging over the corset’s rim. She was hardly fat. Sure, she wore a few sizes higher than most she-wolves because she had a round bottom, big, full breasts, and wide hips—and okay, maybe she sported a few more curves around the midsection, too—but come on!

Her mother’s ruby lips pursed. “If I’d known your arms looked like this, I never would have gone with a sleeveless dress.” She sighed dramatically as if this was all very taxing to her. “No time to change. We’ll just have to improvise.” She went over to the massive dresser and produced a pair of above-the-elbow black lace gloves that complemented the black lace trimming in Alara’s teal, puffy ball gown. “Here. Put these on. They’ll draw the eye away from your fat.”

Alara felt her cheeks heat as she obediently pulled on the gloves. They were feminine; the dress, despite its size restrictions, made her feel pretty. She smiled at herself in the mirror, her back straightening a bit. But her mother didn’t see her as pretty. She saw her as a failure, a glaring neon sign of how different she was from other werewolves.

Sharp pain lit up her cheeks as her mother pinched her face. “Ow!” Alara said. “What was that for?”

“You’re too pale,” she said dismissively. “You need to have some color in you, look like you’re an outdoors kind of woman to attract a suitable mate. Oh, to think! Twenty-two and unmated! And a high were!”

Alara gritted her teeth. You’d think they were in the 1800s and she was considered an old maid. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to find a mate. She just wanted it to be for the right reasons. Not that she’d have a choice in the matter. “I haven’t marked anyone yet, and no one has marked me,” Alara said simply.

Her mother chose to completely ignore this logic. “Well, it’s hard to mark someone when you haven’t had your Fever yet!”

“You’re talking about it like it’s my period.”

“Don’t say the ‘p’ word. Just because you’ve blossomed doesn’t mean you’re a full-fledged she-wolf yet.”

“Mother,” Alara groaned, “stop talking about people like they’re plants. People don’t ‘blossom.’ Besides, Isabelle hasn’t had her Fever either.”

“She’s younger than you,” her mother said, quick to defend the perfect younger sister.

“By a whole year,” Alara drawled. “Two grown daughters, unmated.” She covered her mouth, feigning shock. “People will start talking if you don’t bend the universe to your will soon.”

Her mother’s even glare made her shut up.

Down girl.

“Enough stalling,” her mother said, clapping her hands. “We have important guests waiting.”

Alara almost said, “Let them wait,” but instead, she gathered her skirts, straightened her back, and put her “princess face” on.

Smile. Make mind-numbingly polite conversation. Survive the drudgery of it all. She almost wished she’d hurry up and get her Fever. At least then she might feel something for once.

Soon as she stepped into the hall, her resolve slipped a bit. A cluster of slender-bodied women in brightly-colored lace and silk approached, all congregated around the tall blonde in the middle. Tiffany, Alara thought with a growl.

They all stopped and curtsied low for the queen, casting frosty, fake smiles at Alara. “Your Highness,” Tiffany drawled with a wink to her friends, “that color looks great on you.”

Alara’s anger flared. She knew Tiffany didn’t like the color one bit—she was being snide. She’d been a viper since they played in the sandbox together. “Thanks, Tiffany,” she said with the same mock enthusiasm. “I wish I could say the same for that Pepto-Bismol pink nightmare of yours.”

The girls all gasped at once while her mother snapped, “Alara!”

Alara gave them a frosty nod and swept past them. When her mother called after her, she kept walking, in no mood for a lecture. Her mother should have defended her, not thrown her to the wolves, literally. She grew angrier with every step, the sight of those lean, toned girls a reminder of the world she didn’t fit into.

“Alara! Wait up!”

Alara quickly composed herself and turned to see Isabelle floating toward her. Izzy always reminded her of Cinderella, the perfect fairy tale princess—who could snap your bones with a flick of her wrist.

Izzy’s delicate pink lips pouted as she gazed at her sister with concerned blue eyes. “I’m sorry about them,” she said in that sweet voice of hers. “They’re usually really nice girls. I don’t know why they get that way sometimes.”

“I can tell you—because they’re bitches.”

“Alara….”

Alara sighed. “I know, I know. I’m sorry. I know they’re your friends, but….” She took Izzy’s hands. “Izzy, you’re so sweet. I don’t want anyone to take advantage of you.”

“I won’t let anyone take advantage of me,” she said cheerily.

Alara just smiled back. Her poor, naive sister wouldn’t have a clue if someone was taking advantage of her. She was entirely too trusting for this corrupt world of backstabbing politics and power plays. The two girls had grown up thick as thieves, remaining close well into adulthood. Her mother had started prying them apart as she prepared them for their “separate roles.” Alara would become High Queen someday, and Izzy would be married off to another royal were, no doubt. Members of the high family usually marked other royal werewolves, so both would marry well—if they could find their mates.

“You do look really pretty,” Izzy said with a small smile.

Alara dropped her hands, looking away.

Izzy wasn’t fooled. “You had another run-in with Mother, didn’t you?”

Alara pressed her lips together. “It’s nothing.”

Izzy hugged her. People walked by, staring, but neither girl cared. “Don’t pay her any attention,” Izzy whispered. “You’re perfect the way you are.”

Alara hugged her sister back tightly, close to tears. She hadn’t realized how much she’d yearned to hear that, to hear someone didn’t find her repulsive. “Thank you.”

They separated and Izzy grabbed her hand. “Come on. Let’s get you some champagne.”

Am I ever going to need it, Alara thought as her eager sister dragged her downstairs into the foyer.

The party was well underway with guests milling about in their finery. Alara thought it was all a bit ridiculous, a pissing contest among the royal werewolves, but this society of jewels and glitter was what she grew up in. They were stopped by a few patrons, at which Alara had to pretend to be happy to see their backstabbing asses. They all adored Izzy. She was usually the center of attention, no matter where they went. Beautiful and kind, she was the perfect lady. Alara wanted to hate her, but she couldn’t. Izzy was too damn nice.

When it became awkwardly clear Alara wasn’t going to be a part of the conversation, she quietly excused herself and made a beeline for the wine table. If she was expected to smile and pretend to be happy, then dammit she was getting buzzed.

She scooped up a glass and took a long sip when her wolf senses tingled, and she looked up anxiously.

Gerard?

Her eyes landed on the source of the strange sensation, finding a tall, handsome man leaning against the opposite wall. And he was staring right at her. She let her gaze rove over him, inch by gorgeous inch. He was cleaned up, but she could tell by the scar running across his brow and the holes in his ears where multiple studs could be placed he had a wild side.

And something about that made her flush with heat.

She blinked. Usually, she wasn’t the type to get all hot and bothered over a guy, but this one made her want to pant.

Dismissing her carnal urges to a fleeting fancy, she downed the rest of her wine. Then she retrieved another glass before disappearing into the crowd, the feel of the stranger’s eyes hot on her back.