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The Solstice Shadow
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2026-01-17 08:17:35Three 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 shadow organization, Girard,” I said, turning the laptop toward him. “They’re a coalition. Governments, pharmaceutical giants, and the remnants of the Italian mafia. They didn’t want the serum for a small war. They wanted to create a subspecies of humans who could outlive the planet’s decline.” “And they think our DNA is the map,” Girard growled, his eyes flashing amber. “They don’t just want the DNA anymore,” I said, my voice trembling slightly. I pulled up a sub-file labeled Project: LUNA BRIDGE. “They realized the synthetic serum only works if it’s stabilized by the human-shifter bond. They’re looking for a way to replicate the Lien de Sang artificially.” “They’ll never touch you,” Girard said, his hand slamming onto the desk. “It’s not just me they’re after,” I said. I stood and took his hand, placing it over my stomach. For a few weeks, I had suspected. The link had been different—softer, filled with a strange, golden light that didn’t belong to either of us. Girard froze. His entire body went still, his pupils dilating as he processed the truth. Through the bond, I felt a tidal wave of emotion—shock, terror, and a joy so profound it made me weep. “A pup,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “Arielle… a child? Between us?” “The first of a new generation,” I said. “The Solstice Group knows, Girard. They’ve been monitoring the biometric data from the Monaco vault. They know the bond has created a third heartbeat.” The erotic peace of the last few months vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp resolve. We were no longer just fighting for a throne or a pack. We were fighting for the future of a child who was the ultimate prize in a global game of gods and monsters. “We go to the Alps,” Girard said, his voice shifting back into that terrifying Alpha growl. “We don’t wait for them to come to us. We burn the facility, we burn the data, and we make sure the Solstice never sees the light of day.” “We go together,” I said.
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Bait for the devil 24. The Rising Sun
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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