Chapter 1

The deck of Alger Reynolds’ yacht gleamed like a blade—white lacquer, gold railings, crystal laughter. Everyone looked expensive. Everyone smelled expensive. Wolf nobles in human-tailored suits, human donors in silk dresses, cameras hovering like hungry insects.

I stood at the edge of it all and tried not to breathe too deep.

Salt air carried a memory my body never forgave.

Water.

Cold.

Hands.

A child’s lungs locking up in panic.

I had learned early that an Omega’s fear was entertainment to the wrong kind of Alpha. And Waterfall City had no shortage of the wrong kind.

Tonight was supposed to be simple. A charity gala. A few photos. Alger smiling like a prince so his father’s board would stop whispering about instability. Me at his side—Fontaine money, Fontaine influence, Fontaine legitimacy.

A perfect picture.

Then she arrived in pale pink, clutching her own elbows like she was trying to keep herself from falling apart.

Poppy Bennett.

Human. Crestfall Academy’s newest “bridge student,” transferred into the wolf–human program to prove the city’s harmony wasn’t just a slogan. The kind of story cameras loved.

Her eyes were wet when she spoke. Her voice shook in exactly the right places.

“They keep doing it,” she whispered, staring at the deck boards as if they were more merciful than the wolves watching her. “They whisper. They laugh. They— they bump into me in the hall and act like it’s my fault.”

A small sob. Soft. Controlled.

My jaw tightened.

For three days, Crestfall had been a storm with my name at its center.

Priscilla Fontaine is targeting a human girl.

Omega privilege.

Fontaine arrogance.

I hadn’t even been on campus when the first post hit. I’d been in a meeting with human contractors, discussing flood barriers for the river district. My phone buzzed, then buzzed again, then became a living thing in my pocket.

Anonymous accounts. Cropped photos. A blurry hallway clip with a caption: “She thinks humans don’t belong here.”

People shared it because they wanted a villain. People believed it because I fit the costume.

And Alger—my fiancé, the Alpha who had sworn to stand with me in front of the city—had said nothing.

Not once.

Now he stood beside Poppy as if he’d been born to guard her.

His hand rested at the small of her back. Possessive. Casual. A claim made in public.

Rex hovered near the rail, face tight with discomfort. He was the only one in Alger’s circle who sometimes remembered what decency tasted like.

“Who’s ‘they’?” Rex asked carefully.

Poppy’s lashes fluttered. Then her gaze slid—quick, almost shy—straight to me.

“I… I don’t want trouble,” she murmured. “But it’s… it’s her. The way she looks at me. Like I don’t belong.”

The crowd shifted. Phones lifted. Smiles sharpened.

Alger finally turned his attention to me. His eyes were storm-gray, beautiful in the way hurricanes were beautiful—powerful, unfeeling, inevitable.

“Priscilla,” he said, voice low. A warning wrapped in silk.

I stepped forward. My heels clicked against the deck. I kept my shoulders back even as my wolf paced under my skin, irritated and caged. Omegas were expected to soften. To soothe. To submit.

I didn’t.

“Are we really doing this?” I asked, loud enough for the closest cameras to catch. “On a yacht? In front of donors?”

Alger’s jaw flexed. “You’ve made her feel unsafe.”

The sentence hit like a slap.

“I haven’t spoken to her,” I said evenly.

Poppy’s lip trembled. “See? That tone. Like I’m lying.”

A few women gasped as if they’d witnessed violence.

Alger’s expression hardened into something I recognized too well: the face he wore when he decided he was righteous.

“Apologize,” he said.

“For what?” I asked.

“For hunting her,” he replied, as if it were fact.

I laughed once—short, sharp. “Three days of rumors, and you didn’t even ask me?”

His eyes flashed. “People don’t start rumors for no reason.”

My chest went cold.

That was it, then. The line he was willing to cross. Not because he believed I’d done it—Alger wasn’t stupid. He was cruel.

He wanted an excuse.

Poppy’s fingers slid around his wrist. A gentle touch. A leash disguised as comfort.

I looked at her. She met my gaze for half a second, and the innocence vanished. Under the perfume and tears, her scent carried something thin and bitter.

Satisfaction.

I turned back to Alger. “So you’re punishing me because she cried?”

Alger leaned closer. His Alpha dominance rolled out—pine and smoke, pressing down on my Omega instincts like a heavy hand. My body wanted to react. To lower my gaze. To de-escalate.

I refused.

He smiled. Not kindly.

“She’s human,” he said. “She’s fragile. Alone.”

“She’s not alone,” I replied. “She has you.”

The crowd made a soft sound, like a choir sensing drama.

Rex stepped forward. “Alger, don’t—”

Alger ignored him. His pride had already swallowed the room.

“Maybe you need to learn,” Alger said softly, “what it feels like to be powerless.”

My skin prickled.

Then his palm hit my shoulder—hard.

The world tipped.

For one breathless second I saw the deck lights streak into long lines, saw Poppy’s face twist into something almost gleeful, heard someone laugh as if this was a party trick.

And then the sea opened beneath me.

Cold slammed into my bones. My dress dragged me down. Salt burned my eyes. My throat seized as panic clamped around my lungs.

I kicked, wild, but my body remembered old fear. Childhood fear. Being held under too long.

I couldn’t breathe.

Above the surface, voices muffled into distant thunder.

“Stop acting—!”

“She’s fine—!”

I thrashed, desperate, and the truth knifed through my terror with perfect clarity.

“My God! She's sinking! She can't swim!"

I woke to beeping and antiseptic and the ache of salt scraped into my throat.

A hospital ceiling swam above me, too bright, too clean. My chest burned with every breath, like my lungs were punishing me for surviving.

Someone sat at my bedside.

I turned my head, and rage tried to rise—hot, sharp—before my body dragged it back behind a wall of exhaustion.

Alger Reynolds.

His sleeves were rolled up, hair still damp, as if he’d staged a rescue after staging the fall. His face was drawn tight, but his eyes were alert—watching me the way he watched markets and rivals.

Not with concern.

With calculation.

“Pris,” he said, and the softness in his voice was a performance. “You’re awake.”

I let my gaze settle on him like he was a stranger.

“Who are you?” I rasped.