67 — Tristan POV
I push through the crowd, pulse racing. The scent of sweat, wine, and pheromones fills the air—thick and choking.
But none of it matters. None of them matter.
I have only one goal tonight: find him.
My eyes scan through bodies pressed together. Wolves laughing, grinding, kissing, disappearing into alleyways and next to walls. The night is already wild—wolves in all stages of undress or none at all. I'm probably the most clothed man here, and for once, I don't care about appearances.
I only care about him.
And then—there.
A flash of white curls. That familiar, slender frame. Nathaniel.
My breath catches painfully in my throat.
And his outfit—Moon Goddess, what is he wearing?
An oversized shirt. No, not oversized—barely there. Gauzy and sheer, so translucent it might as well be spun air. The fabric clings to him in the glow of the lanterns and fires, outlining every inch of his body. His long legs are bare beneath the hem, which barely covers him at all.
