Moonbound

The chandeliers glimmered like captured stars, throwing fractured light across the ballroom floor. Laughter rippled through the crowd, shallow and bright, clinking glasses and practiced smiles blending into a single hum of wealth and pretense.

Evelyn Cross stood at the edge of it all, half-shadowed by the tall glass doors that led to the balcony. The air outside was cool, sharper, cleaner—yet heavy with the scent of perfume and champagne that clung to her skin. Her reflection wavered in the glass, pale beneath the silver moon that hung impossibly low above the city.

The dress she wore was fitted and pale gray, chosen not for her but for the image her family needed her to be. The pearls at her throat caught the moonlight and gleamed like tiny chains. Behind her, her adoptive mother’s voice drifted from the crowd, soft and deliberate.

“Lucien has taken the drink.”

Evelyn froze.

Her mother’s smile never faltered as she brushed past a cluster of socialites, her tone light, conversational, as though she were discussing wine rather than strategy. “You know what to do, dear. Remember what’s at stake. If tonight goes well, the Cross name will finally matter again.”

Evelyn’s stomach turned to ice.

Before she could respond, her mother’s hand—cold, perfumed, unyielding—touched her arm. “Go. Now.”

The crowd swallowed her mother’s silhouette, leaving Evelyn alone with the echo of that command.

The corridor outside the ballroom was quiet, lined with gold-trimmed mirrors that reflected her hesitation. The deeper she walked, the more distant the laughter became, until only the rhythmic click of her heels remained. Her pulse followed the sound, steady but fragile.

Lucien Valehart’s suite waited at the end of the hall.

She had seen him only twice before: once at a charity gala where he hadn’t bothered to hide his boredom, and once at a business dinner where he’d shaken her father’s hand but not looked her in the eye. The heir of the Valehart empire—cold, untouchable, carved from the same marble as the world he ruled.

And tonight, drugged.

Evelyn stopped in front of the door. For a moment, she could almost hear her heart beating against it.

She didn’t knock.

The latch clicked softly beneath her trembling fingers.

Inside, the light was dim, tinted silver by the full moon spilling through the tall windows. The air was warm, too warm, thick with something she couldn’t name—metallic, wild, almost alive.

He was there.

Lucien stood by the window, shoulders tense beneath his unbuttoned shirt. His breath came unevenly, sharp enough to cut through the silence. When he turned, his eyes caught the moonlight—pale gray shot through with a faint, impossible shimmer.

“Who told you to come here?” His voice was rough, a scrape of gravel and restraint.

Evelyn took a step back, her heel catching on the carpet. “I—I didn’t—”

He moved closer. The sound of his footsteps was slow, deliberate, the kind that made the air feel smaller.

The scent of him hit her before his shadow did—cool pine and iron, a clean, dangerous scent that made her pulse stutter. Something in her spine tightened.

Lucien stopped a breath away. “Get out.” The words were calm, but his voice shook. His fingers twitched once, then stilled, curling into fists at his sides.

She should have run. She didn’t.

Her back met the wall; the cold bit through the silk at her shoulders. He stood so close she could see the faint tremor in his jaw, the way his control was slipping one breath at a time.

The moonlight slid between them, thin as a blade.

“Your scent…” he murmured, almost to himself. His head tilted, and the space between them vanished.

Evelyn’s pulse leapt to her throat. His breath brushed her skin, hot and unsteady.

“Lucien—”

He flinched at his own name, stepping back as if burned. The wall cracked under his palm where he’d braced it. His breathing was ragged now, the animal under his skin clawing to be free.

“Leave,” he said again, lower this time.

But before she could move, something unseen shifted in the air—a current, a pull that wasn’t sound or touch but deeper, older. It hummed through her chest, through him, binding.

He froze.

So did she.

The connection was instantaneous—painful, magnetic, consuming. Her vision blurred for a heartbeat, filled with silver light and heat. Lucien’s eyes widened; his expression twisted, half shock, half horror.

His hand found her shoulder—not rough, not gentle. His thumb brushed her neck, and her skin burned beneath it.

A shiver tore through her. The air itself seemed to pulse.

Then, in one silent instant, it was done.

Whatever had awakened between them settled into the air like static before a storm.

Lucien staggered back, pressing a hand over his chest, eyes blazing with something fierce and unspoken. Evelyn pressed trembling fingers to her throat, feeling nothing—and everything.

The moon outside seemed brighter, colder, watching.

He looked at her, breathless.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said. It sounded more like a plea than a command.

Evelyn opened her mouth, but no words came.

The silence between them stretched, heavy with something they didn’t understand yet—something that would never let them go.

Moonlight bled across the floor, catching on the edge of her gown as she turned.

Behind her, his voice broke the stillness, low and unsteady.

“You don’t know what you’ve done.”

And for a moment, she almost thought he sounded afraid.

Evelyn didn’t remember leaving the room.

Only the sound—the sharp slam of the door behind her, her pulse in her ears, and the cold that rushed in when the heat of him was gone.

Her heels echoed down the corridor, uneven, almost frantic. She didn’t stop until she reached the far end where the glass windows overlooked the city.

Below, the lights of Elaris burned like a field of tiny suns. Above, the moon still watched—bright, silent, merciless.

She pressed a hand to her throat.

Her skin was cool, but underneath, something pulsed. Every heartbeat carried a faint echo of his breathing, as if a rhythm outside her body had been forced into hers.

You shouldn’t be here.

The words still rang in her head.

But she had been there.

She had seen the look in his eyes when reason cracked—the way his restraint had snapped for a single breath and she had felt it, not just seen it.

And whatever that spark between them was—it hadn’t faded. It lingered, invisible, thrumming in the space between each thought.

The elevator doors opened at the far end of the hall. Two men in black suits stepped out—Valehart security, unmistakable. She turned before they could notice her and slipped into the stairwell.

The cool air there steadied her a little.

Each step down was a silent question.

What had she just done?

Or worse—what had they just become?

In another room, far above, Lucien Valehart stood before the same window she had fled from.

His reflection stared back at him—pale, shaken, the silver still burning faintly in his eyes.

He could taste her scent on the air: something soft, human, maddeningly pure. It shouldn’t have been possible.

He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled his sleeves back with slow precision, trying to breathe through the ache under his skin. The drug should have been flushed from his system by now.

But this wasn’t the drug.

The mark.

He could feel it—like a brand beneath his ribs, a thread pulling tight toward something that should never have been his.

Lucien’s jaw tightened. He had spent years mastering control—control of instinct, of desire, of the wolf that slept behind his ribs. One single lapse could destroy everything.

And yet tonight, he had lost it over a woman he didn’t even know.

A human woman.

He closed his eyes, forcing the breath out between his teeth. The warmth in his blood didn’t fade. It only settled deeper, heavier, as though the moon itself had laid claim to him.

From the doorway came a voice.

“Sir? The guests are leaving. Should we call the physician?”

Lucien turned. “No.”

The single syllable was enough to make the guard bow and vanish.

Alone again, he pressed his fingers to the faint tremor at his pulse.

A bond born of instinct, sealed by moonlight and chaos—impossible.

And yet, when he closed his eyes, he could still hear her heartbeat.

Morning came pale and slow.

The city outside Evelyn’s window was washed in mist, the skyline blurred into shades of gray. The air smelled faintly of rain and metal—cleaner than the night before, but it didn’t make her breathing any steadier.

She hadn’t slept.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him.

Not clearly—just fragments: the flash of silver in his eyes, the sound of his voice when he said her name, the heat that rolled off his body like a living thing.

Her throat still throbbed where his touch had been. When she looked in the mirror, she saw nothing unusual—no mark, no bruise.

And yet something inside her felt different.

She pressed her fingertips to the skin just below her collarbone.

A pulse answered—hers, and something faintly not hers.

The memory of his voice whispered in her head: You shouldn’t be here.

But she was. And she couldn’t undo it.

A knock came at her door, sharp, impatient.

“Evelyn?” Her mother’s voice, cool and clipped. “Get dressed. We’re having breakfast with the Valeharts.”

Evelyn’s stomach turned. “Now?”

“They’ve requested it. And you will be on your best behavior.”

The sound of heels retreated down the hall, leaving her in silence. Evelyn closed her eyes for a long moment before forcing herself to move.

The Valehart estate looked different in daylight.

Colder. Larger. Less human.

Every wall was white marble veined with silver; every corner reflected light like the inside of a blade. The air carried the faint, sharp scent of pine and smoke.

Helena Valehart waited in the sunroom, dressed in black, posture perfect. Her beauty was ageless but severe, her smile almost kind if not for the calculation behind her eyes.

“Evelyn,” she said, rising gracefully. “You look pale.”

“I didn’t sleep much,” Evelyn admitted.

The older woman’s gaze lingered on her for a beat too long. “A shame. Last night was… eventful.”

Evelyn’s breath caught. “You heard?”

Helena smiled. “In this family, my dear, nothing stays unheard.”

Lucien was already there, standing near the far wall.

He looked composed again—crisp shirt, dark tie, no sign of the chaos that had torn through him hours before.

But when his eyes met hers, the air shifted.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but she felt it—a faint pull beneath her skin, like a whisper tugging from somewhere deep inside.

He looked away first.

Helena gestured for them to sit. “There are things we must clarify, before the press decides to write the story for us.”

Evelyn’s fingers tightened around the edge of her chair.

Lucien spoke without looking at her. His voice was flat, almost indifferent. “What happened last night was a misunderstanding. It will not happen again.”

Her pulse jumped at the words.
Misunderstanding.

That was what he called it.

Helena nodded. “Then we are agreed. To protect both our names, a temporary engagement will be announced. A month should suffice.”

Evelyn’s head snapped up. “Engagement?”

Her mother’s voice answered before she could protest. “It’s the only reasonable choice. You’ll do as you’re told.”

Evelyn turned toward Lucien, searching for something—anger, regret, anything—but his expression was carved in stone.

The meeting went on around her, words blending into background noise: schedules, announcements, photographs.

All she could feel was the pulse beneath her skin, matching the rhythm of a heartbeat that wasn’t hers.

When the conversation ended, Helena’s voice cut through the air again. “Lucien, see Miss Cross out.”

He hesitated only a second before standing. “This way.”

They walked in silence down the marble corridor, their footsteps echoing between glass and light.

Evelyn kept her distance, but even so, she could feel him—his presence, heavy and magnetic, like gravity.

Halfway to the exit, he stopped.

“Whatever you think last night meant,” he said quietly, “forget it.”

She swallowed hard. “Can you?”

Lucien didn’t answer. His jaw flexed once.

For a heartbeat, the tension between them thickened—the air hot again, laced with the faint metallic scent that only she seemed to notice.

Then he stepped aside, letting her pass. “Go home, Miss Cross.”

Evelyn walked past him, but her pulse refused to steady.

The space between them felt alive, like something unseen had been drawn taut, waiting to snap.

Outside, the wind carried the scent of pine and rain.

She tilted her face toward the pale sky and let out a slow breath.

The mark—whatever it was—had tied her to him.

But it hadn’t bound her will.

Not yet.