Oliver's POV
I frowned, my patience thinning as the ballroom whispers grew louder. Without a word, I swooped down and swept her off her feet, carrying her bridal-style. She didn't fight me. Instead, she giggled and wrapped her arms around my neck, her warm, alcohol-laced breath brushing my jaw and setting my nerves on edge.
"You're strong," she murmured drunkenly, her lips brushing dangerously close to my ear. "Like a real wolf…"
My grip tightened slightly beneath her knees. She was light in my arms—too light. Fragile in a way that stirred something protective and possessive inside me at the same time.
I walked her out of the gala, my jaw set tight. Every Alpha in that room was watching the King carry away a drunken "assistant," but I didn't care. Let them talk.
