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6. The Blood Rite
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2026-01-09 19:16:28The air in the tower was thick with the scent of sex and ozone.
Girard had me pinned against the stone basin, my silk robe a ruin around my ankles. His skin was burning, a fever that seemed to be consuming him from the inside out. I could feel the beast beneath the surface—the way his muscles twitched, the way his heartbeat was far too fast for a human. “The bond isn’t finished,” he groaned against my neck, his voice a layered rasp of man and wolf. “The marriage was just a legal formality. The pack needs to see the Rite. I need to feel the Rite.” “What rite?” I gasped, my fingers digging into the hard muscles of his back. He pulled back, looking at me with eyes that were no longer human. He reached for a small, silver blade on a nearby pedestal. “The Lien de Sang,” he whispered. “The Blood Link. It will make us one, Arielle. You will feel what I feel. You will see what I see. You will never be alone again.” He took my hand and, before I could protest, made a small, quick nick across my palm. He did the same to his own. He pressed our palms together. The world disappeared. It was like being struck by a bolt of white-hot lightning. I screamed, but the sound was swallowed by the roar in my mind. Suddenly, I wasn’t in the tower anymore. I was in a forest of shadows. I could hear the heartbeat of every living thing for miles. I could smell the salt of the ocean, the pine of the woods, and the deep, earthy musk of the pack. And I could feel Girard. His rage. His loneliness. His overwhelming, soul-shredding desire for me. It was a tidal wave that threatened to drown me. I felt the beast inside him—a massive, black wolf with eyes like stars—reaching out for me, claiming me. Mine, the voice echoed in my soul. Forever mine. I snapped back to reality, gasping for air. I was slumped in Girard’s arms, my body shaking with the aftershocks of the connection. The wound on my palm was already gone, leaving only a faint, silver scar. Girard looked at me, his eyes finally fading back to amber, though they were filled with a new, terrifying clarity. He looked at me not as a prisoner, but as a part of himself. “It’s done,” he whispered, his lips ghosting over my forehead. “You are the Luna now. My blood flows in yours.” He picked me up, carrying me back toward the main house, but I felt different. The cage didn’t feel so small anymore. The world felt larger, sharper, and far more dangerous. But as we reached the master suite, a high, haunting howl echoed from the cliffs. It wasn’t a howl of celebration. It was a howl of war. “The Monets,” Girard hissed, his jaw tightening. “They’ve come to take back what they think is theirs.” I looked at the man who was now a part of my soul and realized the truth: my father wasn’t just coming for a rescue. He was coming to kill the monster I had just become a part of. And for the first time in my life, I wanted the monster to win.
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The story of my life had begun in a basement, surrounded by the cold smell of damp concrete and the terrifying realization that my father had sold my soul for a patch of territory. But as I stood on the balcony of the North Tower, watching the sun begin to bleed over the Mediterranean, I realized that the story hadn’t ended in tragedy. It had transformed into a legend. The North Tower was no longer a place of screams and silver chains. We had gutted the torture chambers, replaced the stone basins with libraries of ancient lore, and turned the cold, spiraling staircase into a gallery of Roux history. It was no longer a cage for the “Devil”; it was a sanctuary for the Alpha. I held a bundle of soft, cream-colored wool in my arms. Inside, tucked away from the cool morning breeze, was a tiny, sleeping miracle. My daughter. She had been born three weeks ago, during the first snowfall Marseille had seen in a decade. She had my dark hair and the delicate features of a Monet, but when
Bait for the devil The Solstice Shadow
Three months had passed since the Moot, and Marseille had transformed. The estate was no longer a fortress under siege; it was the seat of a new supernatural power. I sat in the grand library, surrounded by the ancient scrolls of the Roux lineage and the digital files of the Monet Syndicate. I had become the pack’s primary strategist, using my human education and my father’s data to secure our borders and our bank accounts. But today, I wasn’t looking at ledgers. I was looking at a single image on my laptop—a photo taken by a drone in the Swiss Alps. It showed a sterile, black facility built into the side of a mountain. “The Solstice Group,” I whispered to the empty room. The door opened, and Girard walked in, carrying a tray of coffee. He looked relaxed, his shirt unbuttoned, the Alpha’s crown sitting lightly on his head. But as he saw the screen, his expression darkened. “Bastien found the coordinates?” he asked, setting the tray down. “They’re not just a sha
Bait for the devil 22. The Aftermath of Fire
The master suite felt different that night. The fireplace was roaring, casting long, dancing shadows across the velvet curtains and the mahogany furniture. For the first time since I had been traded to this house, the air didn’t feel heavy with secrets. It felt light. It felt like victory. I stood on the balcony, the cool Mediterranean breeze pulling at my silk robe. Below, the fires of the pack were still burning, the sounds of celebration echoing up from the olive groves. They were singing ancient songs, melodies of blood and moon that I finally understood. Girard stepped out behind me. He had showered, his skin smelling of cedar and the expensive soap I liked. He didn’t speak; he just wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me back into the furnace of his heat. He buried his face in the crook of my neck, his stubble grazing my skin. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he murmured, his voice a low, vibrating rumble. “You could have been lost in that void, Arielle.”
Bait for the devil 21. The seven minutes of hell
The attack wasn’t physical. It was as if the air had turned into liquid lead, pouring into my ears and eyes. The Seven—the pack’s most ancient shifters—didn’t move. They simply stared. Through the Lien de Sang, I felt a sudden, violent surge of images that weren’t mine. I saw the cellar where I was first held. I heard my father’s voice, cold and mocking, telling me I was nothing but bait. I felt the sting of the silver harpoon in the North Tower. They were using my own memories against me, trying to find the crack in my soul where my humanity would break. “You are a toy,” a voice hissed in my brain. Soline? Or the pack’s collective unconscious? “A human parasite clinging to a god. He will grow tired of you. He will find a female of his own kind, and you will be discarded like a broken doll.” I fell to one knee, the stone of the amphitheater biting into my skin. My vision was blurring, the glowing eyes of the pack swirling into a dizzying vortex of gold. I could feel Gi
Bait for the devil 20. The judgement of the moon
The descent from the private jet into the cool, salt-heavy air of Marseille felt like stepping into the mouth of a waiting beast. We didn’t head for the limestone arches of the estate. We didn’t head for the safety of our bedroom. The black SUVs sped toward the northern cliffs, where the ancient amphitheater sat—a natural scar in the earth where the Roux pack had judged its own for five centuries. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs as I stepped out of the car. The night was oppressive. Above us, the moon was a bloated, silver eye, watching. Hundreds of pack members stood on the surrounding ridges, their human forms motionless, but their eyes—those glowing embers of amber and gold—betrayed their hunger. They weren’t just here to witness; they were here to see if their Alpha was still the Apex, or if he was finally prey. “Stay close,” Girard murmured. He had shed his ruined suit jacket, standing now in a black silk shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Even in the dim lig
Bait for the devil 19. The Silent Island
The hum of the private jet’s engines was a low, vibrating drone that seemed to pulse in time with the headache throbbing behind my eyes. I sat in the oversized leather captain’s chair, staring out the window at the French coastline as it blurred into a smear of indigo and charcoal. We were flying low, skimming the edge of the Mediterranean, avoiding the radar of the remnants of the Moretti family and whatever was left of my father’s fractured Syndicate. Across the aisle, Girard was a statue of obsidian and repressed violence. He hadn’t changed out of the suit he’d worn in the Monaco lab, though it was ruined—the silk of the lapel was scorched, and there were faint, dried splatters of purple ichor on his cuffs. He was staring at his own reflection in the darkened window, his jaw so tight I could see the muscles jumping in his cheek. Through the Lien de Sang, the connection between us was a raw, frayed wire. I didn’t just see him; I felt the absolute, crushing weight of his
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