Chapter Twenty

The city shimmered in the late afternoon light; its skyline bathed in golds and soft blush tones as the sun dipped low behind the high-rises. Victoria sat beneath the striped awning of a rooftop café nestled in the upscale northern district—an intentional choice. Everything about this place screamed curated elegance, from the gold-rimmed menus to the quiet hush between tables. Perfect for two women of status to be seen while keeping their conversation far from prying ears.

Across from her, Blair slipped off her sunglasses with practiced flair, letting her chestnut curls fall perfectly over one shoulder. She scanned the menu, though Victoria doubted she’d eat much.

“This place is divine,” Blair purred, lips glossed and smiling. “You really do have excellent taste. But I suppose you Royals are born with that, aren’t you?”

Victoria returned the smile, poised and polite. “Only if we’re paying attention.” She paused, folding the cloth napkin over her lap. “And I wanted to say—I’m sorry about how I acted at the meeting. I’ve been a little on edge lately.”

Blair waved a hand dismissively. “You weren’t that bad. Just sharp-tongued. It’s kind of your thing.”

Victoria gave a soft chuckle. “Still, I like to think I can manage a bit more grace in public.” She took a sip of her wine before continuing. “I also wanted to apologize for the boutique. I tend to get defensive when people yell at service workers. They’re already dealing with enough, especially in a city crawling with humans. I just hate seeing them treated like they’re beneath us.”

Blair tilted her head, sipping from her glass. “I guess. Still, no harm done. You were with someone that day, weren’t you? The girl with the pale hair?”

Victoria nodded with casual ease. “She’s an old friend. From out of state. She’s got a flair for aesthetics—loves to change things up constantly. That day, she was trying out a fairytale look. Even wore a wig to pull it off.”

Blair raised her brows. “Really? A wig?”

Victoria laughed softly. “She’s dramatic like that. Always reinventing herself. Honestly, it’s hard to keep up.”

Blair leaned in, intrigued. “She looked real enough to me. Thought maybe she was one of your cousins or something.”

Victoria waved the idea off with a graceful hand. “No, just a long-time friend. We hadn’t seen each other in ages.”

As the wine flowed and the food was picked at, Blair rambled through a carousel of gossip, recent fashion tragedies, and tedious pack politics. Victoria nodded, asked the right questions, let Blair’s self-importance drive the conversation. It wasn’t difficult. Blair had never been short on ego.

Eventually, Victoria steered back to that day, “You mentioned seeing me at the boutique that day.”

Blair blinked, then grinned. “Yeah! You were with that silver-haired girl. Goddess, she looked like a storybook character. Pale as moonlight and all soft-looking. Didn’t think you were the whimsical type.”

“She’s an old friend,” Victoria said again. “She changes her style like most people change moods. That month, she was in some type of fairy tale phase. Wanted a dress to match.”

Blair tilted her head, clearly intrigued. “That’s... funny.”

Victoria’s spine went rigid, but her expression didn’t shift. “Funny?”

Blair set down her glass. “Well, all this talk about the girls being targeted. You know—blue eyes, light hair, delicate features. I just think it’s a weird coincidence. You—being seen with someone like that. When everyone’s been trying to figure out what links the victims.”

Victoria’s pulse flickered. She forced a soft laugh. “So now I’m a suspect in rogue activity?”

Blair giggled. “Don’t be dramatic. I just think it’s odd. But then again, most things are these days. Maybe she should’ve stayed out of the city. It’s not exactly safe for anyone that looks like that.”

Victoria leaned forward, the movement relaxed, calculated. “You think someone’s going to start rounding up every girl with fair features?”

“I think people will do anything if they’re scared enough,” Blair said with a shrug. “But that’s not my problem. I’m not blonde.”

Victoria raised her glass to her lips to hide the disgust curling in her mouth.

Blair carried on, oblivious. “Anyway, you probably don’t want to hear about all that. You’re here to get to know me, right?”

Victoria smiled, though her jaw ached from the effort. “Of course.”

And Blair didn’t need more encouragement. She launched into a story, proud and glowing.

“I’ve known Grayson since we were kids. Our parents were friends. My family left the pack for a few years—something about expansion and politics, blah blah. But when they died, I came back. And there he was.”

Victoria tilted her head. “But by then, wasn’t he—?”

“Yeah, he had a mate. Poor girl. Too quiet, too perfect. She was playing Luna, not being a mate. Everything was about titles and appearances. No passion. No fire.”

“And you brought the fire?” Victoria asked smoothly.

Blair smirked. “Always have. I didn’t need to steal him. I just made sure he saw me. That’s all. I reminded him what it was like to be wanted.”

Victoria let her stare rest flat and neutral.

“He came to me eventually. The bond faded. Love beat destiny, or whatever poetic nonsense people believe. And the girl? She came to the ceremony. Just stood there like a ghost. What was her name…”

Victoria’s hand went still around her fork.

“C-something. Collette? No. Cressida? No…” Blair snapped her fingers. “Celeste. That’s it! Pretty name. Made me think of stars. Tragic, though. She just wasn’t meant for him.”

Victoria froze.

Celeste.

Her vision tunneled slightly, but she stayed perfectly still. Kept smiling.

Then it hit her.

Her breath caught, a sudden sting behind her eyes. It was him. Grayson. The name echoed in her skull like a curse.

She could see it now—Celeste’s haunted eyes, the way her body had shut down even in sleep, like her soul was hiding somewhere too deep to reach. It all made sense. He had done this. Grayson was the reason.

Victoria’s fingers trembled beneath the table, but she curled them into a fist against her thigh, anchoring herself to the moment. The wine, the warm breeze, the distant clinking of silverware—all of it faded beneath the swell of realization.

He had broken Celeste.

And Blair, smiling across from her, didn’t even realize the poison she was bragging about.

Victoria felt the burn of rage settle beneath her skin like a slow fire. Grayson would pay—for the cruelty, for the abandonment, for leaving someone as rare and delicate as Celeste to wither in silence.

Someday, she would make him see what he had destroyed.

But for now, she just smiled.

And Blair? She was proud of it. Every step.

Victoria nodded, eyes cool. “Did he reject her officially?”

Blair waved her hand. “Please. He’s too soft to hurt anyone that directly. He let time do the work. Eventually, the bond just died. And that’s how it goes.”

Victoria’s fingers tightened around her napkin. She could still hear Blair’s voice, airy and light, talking about grief like it was an old accessory.

But in her mind, all Victoria could see was Celeste.

And she would not forget this moment.

Because Grayson Stone had left more than a broken bond behind.

He had shattered something sacred.

And someday, he would answer for it.

**

The Alpha King lay sprawled across the long couch in his private sitting room, one floor below his bedroom. The soft drone of the television played in the background—some late-night program no one ever really watched, flickering across the high ceilings and glass walls of the second-tallest tower in the city. His shirt was still half-unbuttoned, boots kicked off at the base of the couch. Sleep had crept up on him before he could resist it, dragging him under.

And when it took him, it took him hard.

At first, the dream felt like memory.

Celeste.

She stood in the doorway of his bedroom, pale light haloing her like moonlight made flesh. Her hair was longer, silver cascading past her waist, and her skin almost glowed. She didn’t speak. She only looked at him.

But her eyes… they were empty.

He called her name, but no sound left his mouth. She turned and walked away, deeper into the shadows of the room that now stretched endlessly behind her. He tried to follow, but the floor beneath him turned to mist. He fell—fell through time, through silence, through suffocating cold.

He landed in a forest.

A familiar one.

Except it was rotting.

Trees bent inward like crooked teeth. The air stank of death. Celeste stood again—this time in a white dress soaked at the hem with something dark. Her back was to him again. She didn’t move.

“Celeste,” he rasped, the name catching in his throat like a wound.

Still, she didn’t turn.

Then he saw the hands. Long, pale, bone-thin fingers reaching up from the forest floor, curling around her ankles, pulling her down inch by inch. She didn’t struggle. She didn’t scream. She only whispered—

“You were too late.”

He ran. The world dragged at his legs like thick water, his wolf howling inside him, clawing at his ribs. But he couldn’t reach her. Couldn’t stop the earth from swallowing her whole.

Her face turned toward him just before she vanished completely. Her eyes locked on his—empty. Condemning. Silent.

Then everything shattered.

He woke with a start.

Chest heaving. Sweat soaked into the back of his shirt. His hands clenched around the couch cushions like claws.

Upstairs, above this very room, Celeste slept in his bed—silent, unmoving.

He pushed a hand through his hair, rising to his feet. The TV was still playing nonsense in the background, but the dream wouldn’t leave him. It clung to him like ash.

He moved to the window, palms pressed to the cool glass, eyes staring into the sleeping city beyond. The skyline glittered, serene and distant, uncaring.

But she was just upstairs.

She was real.

And broken.

And if he didn’t act fast—if he failed her the way that nightmare warned—he wouldn’t just lose her.

He would lose himself.