C1

“You came,” Valen Duskbane said, not even turning around to face me on our mating night.

“I am sorry,” I whispered. My hands shook so hard I had to ball them into fists to hide the trembling. “I should have told you before we stood under the full moon.”

“Who was he, Elara?” His voice was dangerously quiet, the low growl of a Beta who felt humiliated. He turned, his dark eyes ablaze with hurt. “You were supposed to be untouched. Pure. My mother chose an Ashwolf Omega for me because you were meant to be unsullied. Yet I bare my neck to you and smell another wolf’s scent buried deep in your blood?”

“I cannot say his name,” I choked out. The truth choked me like ash. I could not bring myself to utter the name buried deep in my heart, not to my new husband, not in the Duskbane Night Manor. “Please, Valen.”

“Get out of my sights,” he snapped, turning his back on me.

That night built an unbreakable wall between us. My arranged marriage to the Pack’s Beta was ruined before it even began. But I had no idea that a far more dangerous crisis was waiting in the shadows of Ravenhollow City.

My phone chimed violently, breaking the silence of the Ashwolf Moon Lodge. I picked it up to see the name of my editor, Rowan Frostclaw.

“Elara, drop everything you are doing right now!” Rowan barked through the receiver, not even waiting for me to say hello. “The Blood Sovereign wants your work.”

“What are you talking about, Rowan?” I asked, rubbing my aching temples.

“I mean the Crimson Eclipse Dominion wants to buy the rights to your prophetic moon-scroll, I Only Want to Be With You,” she practically shrieked. “The Primogen himself requested it. He wants to turn your pack prophecy into a full treaty record! You need to drag your skinny Omega self to the Crimson Chalice Hall right now. VIP Moon Eclipse Chamber, fifth floor.”

“No,” I said instantly, my heart dropping straight into my stomach. “Rowan, no. That scroll… it isn’t meant for vampires. It’s pack history. Why would a Blood Sovereign care about an Omega’s moon-whispers?”

“Are you insane?” Rowan yelled. “If you refuse the Nightthorn House, they will burn our archives to the ground! Get over there before he loses his patience!”

The line went dead. My skin flushed hot, then icy cold. I stared at the phone, my throat dry.

I pulled a dark cloak over my thin frame and headed straight for the Crimson Dominion Quarter. I walked through the heavily guarded archways of the Crimson Chalice Hall, my claws nervously digging into the palms of my hands.

I pushed open the heavy oak doors of the Moon Eclipse Chamber.

The room was dim, lit only by the pale glow of the full moon filtering through massive floor-to-ceiling windows. Sitting in front of the glass, bathed in silver light, was a broad-shouldered man in a heavy, dark wheelchair. He kept his back to me, looking out over the city’s dark skyline. The thick, metallic scent of blood and ash filled the air, mixed with a faint trace of clove smoke. Between his pale fingers rested a burning cigarette. Beside his wheel sat a polished white cane.

My wolf stirred violently inside my chest, letting out a sudden, confused whine.

I froze. His silhouette, even seated, felt terrifyingly familiar.

I took two cautious steps forward, my voice barely above a whisper. “Are you... the Blood Sovereign who wants my moon-scrolls?”

The man stopped moving. The smoke from his cigarette curled silently into the dim air. Very slowly, he spun his wheelchair around to face me.

My breath caught in my throat. My blood turned to liquid ice, a numbing wave rushing straight to my brain.

His pale skin was striking under the moonlight, almost luminous against the shadows, his sharp jawline rigid, his muscular chest practically bursting through his dark silk shirt. And between his lips, the white cigarette glowed faint orange.

“What’s with that look, little wolf?” he purred, his deep, velvet voice slicing through the quiet room. “Have you forgotten your old master? Let me introduce myself again. I am Cassiel Nightthorn. And I have returned.”

Cassiel Nightthorn.

The Primogen of the Nightthorn House. The vampire whose scent had marked my soul five years ago. The very name I could not bring myself to speak to Valen on our wedding night.

I stared at him, paralyzed, my eyes dropping lower against my will. My gaze landed on his useless legs, resting limply against the leather of the chair.

“Your... your legs,” I gasped, my vocal cords straining just to produce the sound. “Cassiel, what happened to you?”

He lifted the hand holding the cigarette and casually patted his knee, a cold, indifferent smirk touching his lips. “It is nothing, Elara. Just a minor price for surviving. Sitting in a chair suits a monster, don't you think?”

His coldness hit me like a physical blow. Five years ago, he was a wild, untamed nightmare who swore he would tear the world down for me. Now, he sat before me as the ruler of the Coven, cold as stone.

Tears sprang to my eyes before I could stop them. I stepped forward, forgetting the danger, forgetting my pack, forgetting everything. “Cassiel, please... who did this to you?”

His eyes flashed red for a split second. Before I could draw another breath, his powerful arm shot out, grabbing my wrist and pulling me hard into his lap.

I gasped as my front slammed into his broad, rock-hard chest. His scent—heavy, dark, possessive, dripping with vampire magic—flooded my senses, making my core throb with a sudden, betraying heat. His large hand wrapped around the back of my neck, holding me tight against him while his other hand brushed the white cane at his side.

“You do not need to concern your sweet little head with my legs, my little Omega,” Cassiel murmured into my ear, his lips grazing my skin, making my skin burn with a terrifying mix of fear and arousal. “All you need to know is that your quiet little life with the Duskbane wolves is officially over.”

My breath hitched as his thick fingers dug into my hip, holding me helpless against his lap. He hadn't bought my scroll for pack treaties. He had come back for me.

“Did you really think,” Cassiel whispered, his white fangs brushing the sensitive pulse point on my neck, “that I would let another male mark what belongs to me?”