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But the night isn’t done with me yet.

Because that's when the next alpha collides with the room - not entering, not gliding, but literally crashing through it like a live wire.

Kai Reed.

I feel him before I see him: that strange, second-skin sensation of being seen before being noticed.

It’s not subtle. It’s not patient.

It’s a thrum behind my ribs.

A full-body jolt like the universe just leaned in, smirking, and whisperedgood luck.

And when I turn, my eyes lock onto him; and holyshit, he’s…

Yeah.

Impossible to miss.

Tousled brown hair. A black button-down hanging open over a plain white tee that fits a littletoowell. A leather jacket that looks like it’s taken punches, and given worse.

Jeans. Boots. Broad shoulders. Biceps that could bench press your ex for fun.

And a wicked grin that says he’s about to flirt with your sister, ruin your credit score, and somehowstillget invited to dinner after.

He doesn’t belong here. Not in a room this polished. Not under lights this soft.

Too real, too wild, too hot in thatwrong side of the law, right side of the bedkind of way.

A woman at the bar adjusts her bra like her life depends on it.

The beta man beside her frowns into his drink like it just betrayed him.

A server trips over his own tray trying to get another look.

Kai Reed isnotsubtle. He’s a spark thrown onto silk; a chaos demon with the shoulders of a Greek statue and the moral restraint of a wolf raised in a frat house.

I’ve seen him before, riding through the city on his motorcycle, weaving through traffic like physics are a polite suggestion.

He moves like the world was built for him to disobey, and hell, if I were a beta - if I wereanyone else- I’d probably already be halfway to climbing him like a jungle gym.

Because Kai Reed is the kind of alpha built for heat with no strings, no promises, and no regret. He’s the midnight laugh with morning amnesia; all hands, mouths, and motion.

A wink and a lie.I’ll call you,even when you already know he won’t.

But I’m not a beta.

And this? This isn’t funny.

Because my skin isburning.

His scent hits me like an uppercut: cinnamon, ozone, and the spark before a thunderstorm. It sizzles straight down my spine, and every nerve ending lights up like it’s just remembered how to scream.

Across the room, Lucian turns.

Slow. Controlled.

Icy.