Page 63 of Clashing With The Grumpy Wolf

Courtney looks pale tonight, with dark circles under her eyes like she hasn't slept much.

Courtney has much to lose if we don’t recover the tiara, same as me. She’s been my assistant since I started this company. If this fails, she’ll be out of a job.

I vow to myself not to let her down.

"I'll take care of it." I tell her with a smile. "You can go now. You've been on your feet all day. I've got this."

My voice sounds normal. Professional. No one would guess that beneath my composed exterior, my heart hammers against my ribs like a trapped bird.

Courtney thanks me, wishes me good night, then leaves, her flat shoes making soft sounds on the carpeted floor, her blond ponytail bouncing, and I watch her go with a hollow feeling in my chest.

Just a few more hours. I stand at the back of the intimate dining room, watching as the dessert course begins, delicate pastries toppedwith edible gold leaf, chocolate truffles infused with spices, crystallized fruit arrangements that look too perfect to eat. I note with satisfaction that the catering staff follows the precise instructions we rehearsed.

My tablet vibrates with a reminder: thirty minutes until I need to slip away.

I weave through the crowd, checking details, adjusting a centerpiece here, directing a server there. Dragon guests glitter under the chandeliers, scales catching and reflecting light in hypnotic patterns. Other attendees look almost dull by comparison, despite their designer formalwear and glittering jewels.

Silverine Draak holds court near the grand fireplace, her injured leg propped elegantly on a velvet ottoman. Despite yesterday's trauma, she looks regal in a silver gown that complements her pale-violet scales. She catches my eye and gives me a nod that contains the barest hint of approval. It’s the closest thing to a "thank you" I'll ever get from her and I know it.

She’s one of the few people who know what’s about to happen. How she can look this calm when I’m about to walk out with a suitcase containing five million dollars of her money is beyond me.

At the head table, Percy and Seraphina slide a long, meaningful gaze to me. They’re still playing their role, pretending they’re going along with the wedding plan, unaware of what is about to happen.

I make my way to a quiet corner, ostensibly checking something on my tablet while actually confirming the details of our operation one last time. The message from Adrian is brief and direct.

*Dock secured. Deputies in position.*

I type back quickly: *See you in 20.*

With a final glance around the ballroom, I confirm that everything is running smoothly. With my heart beating so hard it hurts, I slip through a side door and outside into the garden.

The cool night air is a relief after the warm, crowded ballroom. Moonlight bathes the yard as I make my way to the rose garden, turning the blooms into ghostly sentinels.

White wooden chairs stand in orderly rows on either side of a crimson carpet that stretches like a ribbon of blood through the garden. At the end, a magnificent wrought iron arch awaits, its curves adorned with climbing moonflowers and delicate crystal teardrops that will catch the sunlight during the ceremony. A raised platform gleams beneath the arch, the spot where Percy and Seraphina will exchange their vows before taking flight from the cliff's edge in the ancient dragon tradition.

Tomorrow, this space will witness the union of two great dragon clans.

If Adrian and I succeed tonight. If we don't, then all is lost, for Percy and Seraphina's happiness. For my career.

I swallow through a closed-up throat.

Adrian waits for me in the sheltered alcove behind the rose garden, exactly as promised. His eyes light up when he sees me, and he pulls me into a quick embrace, his warmth steadying my nerves.

"Ready?" he whispers against my hair.

I nod, drawing strength from his presence.

"As I'll ever be," I tell him, lifting the elaborate costume wings. "You're sure this will work?"

"It will work," Adrian reassures me, helping me shrug out of my blazer. "This particular wing color is common in Northern EuropeanPixies. They're rare around here, which makes for a good cover. No one will question details that seem slightly off."

He helps me into the disguise with gentle efficiency, his large hands surprisingly deft with the delicate attachments for the wings. I then affix the long pointed ear covers over my own rounded ears and turn to him.

"For your head," Adrian hands over a short dark-brown wig, sticky fake mustache, and a fedora style hat. "Keep your face hidden as long as you can."

I secure it in place, carefully tucking my own hair underneath. The transformation is startling—in the small mirror Adrian provides, I barely recognize myself. The slender person staring back at me could easily pass for a male pixie, with my features mostly hidden by the shadows from the brim of the hat and my new pointed ears poking from the sides. The mustache hides just enough of my face to throw off anyone who knows me.

"Perfect," Adrian murmurs, circling me with a critical eye.