The silence was broken by the soft crunch of gravel beneath expensive heels as a sleek, obsidian car pulled up to the estate’s entrance.Seraphina stepped out, her long coat billowing in the wind like a cape. Her sunglasses hid her bloodshot eyes, but her poise was intact—elegant, commanding, untouched by grief on the surface. She carried herself with the grace of a queen returning to her court, though the air around her was colder now, sharper.Behind her, an assistant rushed to unload her bags, but Seraphina barely acknowledged her presence. Her eyes, icy and resolute, scanned the estate with purpose.Gone was the playful charm she used to wear like perfume. The deaths of her parents had changed everything. Her world had crumbled, her safety net obliterated. And in the vacuum left behind, her family’s status among the noble werewolf houses had begun to falter. Allies were suddenly distant, the other Alphas growing bold in her father's absence.But she had a solution—one Dante Calhou
She opened her eyes and looked around. The room was empty except for a small bundle of fur curled at the foot of her bed. Mochi.Emilia smiled gently. “You’ve been here the whole time, huh?”The cat stirred, blinking lazily at her before hopping off the bed. “You needed rest,” she said in her tiny voice, tail flicking. “You’re stronger when you’re not running on fumes.”“Strong,” Emilia echoed with a soft huff. “I don’t feel strong.”Mochi tilted her head but said nothing.Emilia stood and walked to the door, her bare feet padding against the cool floor. “I just need some air,” she murmured, mostly to herself.Mochi silently followed.The hallways of the estate were unusually still. No guards, no servants bustling past. Just golden light pouring through tall windows and the faint rustle of wind outside. Emilia walked slowly, her mind cluttered—still grieving Ivy, still aching for answers, still trying to adjust to the idea that she wasn’t ordinary.A creak echoed behind her.She turne
The scent of parchment, aged books, and faint cologne mingled in the air as Dante walked into his study. Mara stood beside him, her arms crossed, while Luka paced the room, tension stiffening his broad shoulders.“We can’t keep this from her forever,” Luka said, halting mid-step. “The witches are active again. If Emilia hears it from someone else—”“She’s barely come to terms with werewolves existing,” Dante interrupted, his voice low and restrained. “Throwing more truth at her now would do more harm than good.”Mara spoke calmly, but her words were firm. “She has a right to know. If the witches are planning something—and if Emilia is truly who we suspect—then hiding it won’t protect her. It’ll only make her more vulnerable.”Dante’s jaw tightened. He turned to face the window, watching as a pair of guards passed silently through the courtyard below. “You think I don’t know that?” he muttered. “She’s finally sleeping, eating a little… She’s lost her friend, she’s confused, grieving, a
Emilia stirred from her nap, stretching slightly as she sat up in the massive bed that now belonged to her. The plush comforter slid down her arms, and for a brief moment, she simply sat in silence, blinking the sleep from her eyes. Everything still felt surreal—this room, the silence, and most of all, the knowledge that Ivy was gone.Dante had told her she no longer had to serve—that she should rest, recover, and take care of herself. So she had. But sleep hadn't brought much peace. Her mind unknowingly went to thoughts of Ivy’s laughter, Lyra’s cheerful chatter, and the screams from the night of the attack.The knock on the door was soft but distinct. Before she could respond, the door opened slightly, and Dante stepped in.He paused when he saw her sitting on the edge of the bed, her hair tousled from sleep, her eyes distant.“You’re awake,” he said gently, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.She nodded slowly. “I didn’t sleep very well.”He walked over and sat beside
Celeste paced the length of the rug-covered floor, her heels clicking in rhythmic agitation. Marcello stood by the ornate fireplace, arms crossed tightly, his face pale with worry."Do you think he knows?" Marcello asked for the third time, voice strained and cracking with fear.Celeste stopped pacing and turned sharply to face him, her expression stormy. "Of course he knows. He didn’t call that meeting for nothing. The way he looked at you—Marcello, he knows or at least suspects. You handed the witches an invitation to destroy everything."Marcello flinched. "I didn’t mean for Lillian to die. It was supposed to be a diversion. Just something to make Dante look unfit, weak. They promised it wouldn’t go that far."Celeste's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "You were foolish to trust witches. And now your sister is dead, our standing in the pack is crumbling, and Dante’s eyes are on us. Do you understand what you’ve done?"His mouth quivered. "I didn’t mean to. I didn’t think—""Ex
The sun barely peeked over the treetops, casting long shadows across the estate. The atmosphere was thick with tension, so palpable it seemed to settle like fog on the shoulders of every person present. By midday, the great hall of the estate was filled with Alphas and Betas from various werewolf packs, all summoned urgently in the wake of the tragedy that had turned Seraphina's party into a massacre.Emilia stood near the far end of the room, just behind a marble column, watching the proceedings with wide eyes. Despite everything Dante had told and shown her, a part of her was still struggling to accept it. Werewolves. Real ones. Not from books or films, but living, breathing beings now sitting before her, discussing retribution and loyalty like politicians from another world.The circular table at the center of the hall was surrounded by figures exuding authority. Dante sat at the head, his expression unreadable. Beside him stood Luka, his Beta and right hand, arms crossed, ever wat
The room was silent except for the ticking of a clock on the far wall. Emilia sat near the window, her fingers nervously tracing the fabric of her sleeve as the late afternoon light filtered through the curtains. She had been waiting all day, sitting quietly in Dante’s room, a place that still felt foreign and unfamiliar despite the hours she’d spent here.The heavy wooden door stayed firmly closed, and the hours dragged on with no sign of him. She had cleaned, rearranged the room, and even tried to lose herself in a book — but her mind kept drifting back to him.Where was Dante? Was he okay?She sighed and looked down at Mochi, who curled up on the velvet chair beside her, purring softly. The little cat was the only comfort in the quiet stillness.Emilia leaned her head against the cool glass of the window, watching the shadows stretch and deepen outside as the sun dipped lower.Her heart fluttered suddenly as footsteps echoed down the hall.The door creaked open slowly, and Dante st
Marcello paced his room like a caged animal, his jaw clenched tight as he held the phone to his ear. His fingers dug into the edge of the desk, knuckles white with tension. The aftermath of the party had left a trail of destruction no one had anticipated—and among the dead was his sister.“You told me it was just going to be a controlled attack,” Marcello hissed into the receiver. “You said it would cause chaos, make Dante look incompetent, destabilize him. You never said it would get Lillian killed!”The voice on the other end was calm, too calm for Marcello’s fraying nerves.“That’s the price you pay when you play in the dark, Marcello. Casualties are inevitable. If your sister got caught in the crossfire, maybe she shouldn’t have been there.”Marcello gritted his teeth. “Don’t you dare blame her. You manipulated me into agreeing to this madness! I never wanted anyone to die—least of all my own blood!”A knock on his door snapped his attention away. Before he could respond, the door
Flashing red and blue lights cast eerie glows across the manicured grounds now stained with death and chaos. Ambulances rolled in and out of the gates, their sirens muted by the hush of mourning that had settled like a fog.Dante stood at the edge of the estate’s front steps, his shirt slightly wrinkled and a faint trace of dried blood clinging to his cuff. His sharp eyes scanned the scene in front of him—the aftermath of a massacre wrapped in silence and grief. He held a phone to his ear.“Make sure not a single image gets out. I don’t want a single reporter or blogger breathing a word of this,” he instructed coldly.Luka, standing nearby with his own phone pressed to his ear, gave a brief nod. “Understood. I’ve already contacted every media outlet within the region. Any leaks will be tracked and shut down.”Dante ended the call and turned his gaze to the line of bodies being loaded into ambulances. White sheets covered them, concealing the brutal ends they had suffered, but not the