Third Person's POV The air in the dimly lit office was thick with tension, the scent of lingering Alpha dominance clinging to the corners like smoke. Quentin's breath brushed against Celestine's ear, low and deliberate, carrying the faint, primal scent of his own pack. "A useless whelp, versus the heir of a bright future for a great family. Miss Ward, if you had to choose... which would you pick?" His words dripped with that peculiar mix of Alpha challenge and predatory amusement. Celestine froze, her muscles taut under the strain of both fear and instinct. His meaning cut sharp through the haze of pain still wrapping her midsection. She leaned back slightly, instinctively away from his proximity, yet in the delicate, retreating posture she assumed, she only seemed more fragile, more enticing-a wildflower trembling in the cold moonlight. The Ward bloodline was renowned for its beauty; from Yuna to Luna Evelyn, and the next generation of daughters, all carried the signature grace and lethal allure of the line. Quentin's lips curved in a faint, knowing smile as he closed the distance. His hand shot forward, gripping Celestine's chin with a possessive, wolfish intensity. "How about it, sister-in-law?" he murmured, voice rough with both mockery and challenge. "Want to consider me? Becoming the daughter-in-law of the Blackwood Pack doesn't necessarily mean it must be Damon, does it? I can give you far more than he ever could." Disgust and conflicted emotions flickered in Celestine's eyes, but when Quentin leaned closer again, the scent of other women clinging faintly to him, she did not retreat. Her claws bit into her palms, and she closed her eyes, bracing for the imagined dominance-but the anticipated kiss never came. Instead, his grip on her jaw tightened. She blinked in startled realization, meeting the gleaming, mocking eyes of Quentin. His expression carried the thrill of a successful hunt and a hint of disappointment. "My older brother, that prideful, brilliant wolf, isn't so clever after all," he teased, tapping her cheek with a casual, dismissive hand. "Miss Ward... you don't really think I have any interest in you, do you? Everyone knows you've tangled with the future Mrs. Sanchez. You think it's worth my risk with Magnus? Only my brother could be that naive-abandoning his lifelong companion to protect a woman, and still-well, this is all he earns." Shame burned through Celestine like a hot iron, the humiliation raw, gnawing at her pride. She swung her hand forcefully, but Quentin intercepted with effortless strength. "Don't be hasty," he whispered, still in that predatory, low-pitched tone. "Miss Ward, you've been here enough times to know these offices are under surveillance. Tell me... shall I send the footage to Damon for him to enjoy?" Her pupils dilated, the realization hitting her like an icy gust. She hadn't anticipated this trap, this subtle snare into a deeper pit. But she forced herself to calm the storm of fury and murderous instinct that surged in her chest. "If you truly mean to do it, then do it. No need to waste words. Tell me-what exactly is it you want?"Quentin's smirk widened, approving of her quick-mindedness. He released her wrist and reclined back into his chair, limbs relaxed but predatory energy radiating like heat from a wolf sunbaked in the snow. "Nothing much. Simply to lend you a hand. You know Damon's mother has been seeking a new mate for him, yes?" Celestine's mind flashed to the young heiress she had glimpsed in the marketplace, and a weight settled over her chest. "I don't want her plans to succeed. You marrying Damon... that would serve me better." "Exactly," Quentin replied, voice smooth, each word a measured strike. "So all I ask, Miss Ward, is that you hold Damon close. Once the plan succeeds, I will ensure you receive a valuable gift upon the bride's entry into the Blackwood Pack. This cooperation... I presume you won't refuse?" Celestine's resolve held fast, anchored not by sentiment but by necessity. Her attachment to Damon was layered with years of invested effort, but now, with her career and family standing in ruins, she could not afford to withdraw from the upper echelons entirely. The whole city knew of her conflict with Aysel; any man in the social packs-unless a kept wolf-was barred from approaching her. The past suitors, scattered like startled prey, had proven this perfectly. Damon, though sidelined, remained the legitimate scion of the Blackwood Pack-a wolf of his generation, a top Alpha in his own right. Survive this ordeal, and perhaps, one day, he might reclaim his place. But until then, Celestine understood: she could maneuver only through cunning, strategy, and careful positioning, like a wolf stalking the edge of the alpha's hunting grounds.