Meeting my mortal enemy

Stella’s POV:

The conference hall of the London Werewolf Summit was everything I expected—opulent, crowded, and mind-numbingly boring. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ornate ceiling, casting prismatic light over the assembled supernatural dignitaries. 

From my carefully chosen seat in the back row, I had a clear view of the exits—something that had become second nature to me over the years.

"The North American packs propose a twenty percent increase in the mutual defense budget, with particular emphasis on anti-hunter technologies..." droned the current speaker, a portly Alpha from Canada whose name I'd already forgotten.

I stifled a yawn behind my hand. Three hours of territorial disputes, budget allocations, and supernatural politics had drained whatever enthusiasm I'd had for this excursion. Even my disguise—a chestnut brown wig styled in a sleek bob and green contact lenses that obscured my natural hazel eyes—felt increasingly irritating as the day wore on.

Beside me, Harper scribbled furiously in her notebook, her brow furrowed in concentration. Unlike me, she found all of this fascinating. Her doctoral dissertation on "Power Dynamics in Modern Werewolf Politics" practically wrote itself with every passing minute of this conference.

"How can you possibly find this interesting?" I whispered, nudging her with my elbow.

She shot me a look of mock offense. "This is history in the making! The first time the Russian packs have agreed to the international hunting restrictions. It's huge."

I rolled my eyes, slumping further into my seat. "Wake me when something actually happens."

"Pay attention," she hissed. "The next speaker is about to begin."

With a sigh, I straightened in my chair, forcing myself to focus on the stage where the moderator was introducing the next presenter. But as the tall figure strode confidently to the podium, every muscle in my body seized.

No. It couldn't be.

Those sharp cheekbones. That proud, aristocratic nose. The blonde hair - swept back from a high forehead. And those eyes—piercing gray, like the winter sky before a storm.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the man at the podium began, his Russian accent lending a musical quality to his perfect English, "I am Valentin Volkov, Alpha of Pack Volkov."

The world around me blurred as memories—not dreams, not visions, but actual memories from a thousand years past—slammed into me with physical force.

I saw glimpses of how in my past life Valentin Volkov had fought with my mate Orion Lockwood over me. 

Valentin Volkov is my mortal enemy from the past, reincarnated in the present.

"Shit," I whispered, ducking my head and covering the lower part of my face with my hand. And she was here in the conference with him?!

Harper leaned closer. "What? What's wrong?"

"It's Valentin," I hissed, not daring to look up again. "From my past life."

Her eyes widened. "Are you sure? Don't overthink it—it could be someone else too. Reincarnation isn't always so neat and tidy."

I shook my head, sweat beading along my hairline despite the conference hall's aggressive air conditioning. "No, it's him. I'm certain. The same soul. The same energy signature."

On stage, Valentin continued his speech, his rich voice carrying effortlessly through the hall. "As we move into this new era of cooperation, Pack Volkov is proud to announce our development of enhanced silver-resistance gene therapy..."

Gasps and murmurs rippled through the crowd. Silver-resistance was the holy grail of werewolf medical research—a way to neutralize our most lethal weakness. No wonder the room was entranced.

"Maybe you're right," Harper whispered, her eyes now fixed on Valentin with renewed interest. "But don't worry, you're in disguise. Probably he can't recognize you."

I wasn't so sure. In my past life, Valentin had been Orion's greatest rival—a powerful Alpha in his own right who had wanted not just Orion's territories but me as well. He had waged a decade-long war to “win” me from Orion.

As if summoned by my thoughts, Valentin's piercing gaze swept across the audience—and locked directly on me. 

Though I still wore my disguise, a cold shiver raced down my spine as his eyes narrowed slightly, his head tilting in a gesture of curious recognition.

He knew. Somehow, despite the wig, the contacts, the witch's enchanted perfume masking my natural scent, he *knew*.

"I have to go," I whispered urgently to Harper, already gathering my bag. "Now."

Without waiting for her response, I stood and edged past the other seated attendees in our row, murmuring apologies as I stepped on toes and bumped knees. 

From the corner of my eye, I saw Valentin track my movement, though he never paused in his delivery.

The moment I reached the aisle, I broke into as dignified a speed-walk as possible, making a beeline for the ornate double doors at the back of the hall. 

Behind me, I heard Harper excuse herself, following in my wake.

As I pushed through the doors into the lobby, I nearly collided with a cluster of reporters setting up cameras and microphones, presumably to interview the speakers after the session.

"Excuse me," I muttered, trying to navigate around their equipment.

"Hey, watch it!" a photographer snapped as I bumped into his tripod.

"Sorry, so sorry," I said, not slowing down. My only thought was to run - and save myself. 

Harper caught up to me just as I was pushing through the hotel's revolving doors into the crisp London afternoon. "Stella, wait! What just happened there?"

"He recognized me," I said, frantically scanning the street for an available taxi. "I don't know how, but he did."

"That's impossible. The enchantment on that perfume cost a small fortune. No werewolf should be able to detect your true scent through it."

I spotted a black cab approaching and thrust my arm out desperately. "Valentin isn't just any werewolf."

The taxi pulled to the curb, and I yanked the door open, practically diving inside with Harper right behind me.

"Heathrow Airport, as fast as you can," I told the driver, already pulling out my phone to change our flights.

As the taxi pulled away from the curb, I finally allowed myself to exhale. Harper reached over and squeezed my hand.

"And this is why I told you I wouldn't leave Poland," I said, my voice shaking slightly. 

She had the grace to look apologetic. "I'm sorry. I thought the disguise would work."

"If only." I leaned my head back against the seat, suddenly exhausted. "Maybe they can sense something else about me, something deeper than scent. Something the enchanted spell perfume can't disguise."

Something like the bond that had once tied the three of us together in a deadly triangle of desire, power, and betrayal.

The taxi driver wove through London traffic with impressive skill, and I kept my eyes on the side mirror, half-expecting to see another vehicle in pursuit. But nothing seemed amiss, and by the time we reached our hotel to collect our hastily packed luggage, my racing heart had calmed somewhat.

"You don't think we're overreacting?" Harper asked as we checked out of the hotel barely twelve hours after checking in.

"Trust me," I said grimly, "when it comes to Valentin Volkov, there's no such thing as overreacting."

Back at Heathrow, I used every connection I had—and a significant amount of money—to get us on the first flight back to Warsaw. I didn't breathe easily until we were through security and waiting at our gate.

Our flight began boarding early, which struck me as unusually fortunate given the day's events. Even more surprising was how empty the plane seemed as we walked down the jet bridge.

"Must be an unpopular route," Harper commented, settling into her window seat in the nearly vacant cabin.

I took the aisle seat beside her, glancing around at the scattered few passengers. Something felt off, but I couldn't put my finger on it. The stress of the day had left me paranoid, jumping at shadows.

"Maybe we were just lucky," I said, though I didn't believe it. Luck had never played much of a role in my life.

The boarding process completed with surprising speed, and soon the cabin crew were demonstrating safety procedures to the sparse audience. 

I kept my eyes on the entrances, half-expecting to see Valentin appear at the last moment, that knowing smile on his aristocratic face.

But the doors closed without incident, and the plane began to taxi. Only then did I allow myself to relax fractionally, slumping back in my seat.

"See?" Harper said. "We made it. We're going home."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak. 

Home. Safety. Poland, where neither Orion nor Valentin had any reason to look for me.

As the plane climbed into the clouds above London, I found myself wondering who else from my past life might have been reincarnated. 

Was this some cosmic joke? 

Were we all doomed to play out the same tragic drama, century after century?

Hours into the flight, with Harper dozing beside me, I realized something else unsettling: despite the economy cabin's capacity for over a hundred passengers, I could count fewer than ten people scattered throughout the seats. No families with children, no business travelers tapping on laptops. Just a handful of solitary figures, none making eye contact.

A chill ran through me. Commercial flights were rarely this empty, especially on a major European route.

"Something's wrong," I whispered to myself.

I unbuckled my seatbelt and stood, intending to walk the aisle, perhaps strike up a casual conversation with one of the flight attendants. As I stepped into the aisle, the cabin lights flickered briefly, and I froze.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and a familiar sensation—the brush of another familiar force against my skin—washed over me.

"Going somewhere, sweetheart?" a masculine voice called from behind me—a voice I hadn't heard in a thousand years, yet recognized instantly.