The Smirk and the Spark

The afternoon sun hangs low and heavy, casting long shadows across the courtyard stones. The light is gold, too warm for the way my skin itches. I tug at the stiff fabric of my dress, itching to be out of it, to run, to fight—to do anything other than sit still and look presentable.

Maids dart around me like anxious bees. They pin, adjust, and tug until I’m certain the next person who touches me is getting elbowed in the jaw.

My mother stands behind me, her presence calm, but I know her too well. She’s worried. Her fingers tremble slightly as she fastens the final clasp at my back.

“You’re beautiful,” she says, but her voice is strained. “You look just like the moon when it rises full.”

I glance at the window, where daylight blurs the sky into amber and rose. The moon won’t rise for hours. I wonder if she means I look distant. Cold. Trapped by the sky.

“I’d rather wear my training clothes,” I mutter.

“And I’d rather you didn’t meet the Alpha of Crimson Moon looking like a bruiser.”

I huff. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Her hand brushes my cheek gently. “There’s power in softness, Selene. You don’t have to fight to be strong.” She cradles my face.

I don’t answer. Because she’s right—but right now, I don’t want to be soft. I want to be sharp, ready, unyielding. The way I felt the day I beat Ethan Alaric as a child.

He was visiting with his father, not even old enough to shift yet. I’d challenged him for fun, laughing, carelessly. He didn’t take it well. One cracked lip and a bruised ego later, he’d looked at me like I’d ruined his life.

Even though he didn't visit again, I heard the gossip about him and all his company. He moved on to a new girl each week. People say he is impulsive, brash, and cocky. It was easy to hate him, especially because our packs hate each other.

A knock at the door stills everything. This will be my first time seeing him after all those years.

Adrienne breathes out slowly. “He’s arrived.”

The courtyard is bathed in honeyed light, wolves lining the edges like silent sentinels. My father, Beta Ronan, stands tall beside me. I see the stiffness in his shoulders, the worry etched into the corners of his mouth. He hasn’t looked at me since the eavesdropped conversation I’ll never unhear.

He’s sacrificing me. And he hates himself for it.

The sound of tires crunching against gravel pulls my attention forward.

A sleek black car rolls into the courtyard—long, gleaming, and expensive. It purrs like a predator as it eases to a stop, tinted windows hiding everything but intent.

Ethan Alaric steps out like he owns the world.

His suit is tailored within an inch of its life—black with a crimson pocket square—and his presence crashes against me like a tidal wave. Taller. Broader. Sharper.

The boy I beat is gone.

In his place stands a man who commands attention like it’s his birthright. His gaze cuts across the crowd, landing on my father first, then sliding over to me with precision.

“Beta Ronan,” he says, voice cool and smooth. “Thank you for your welcome.”

Then he turns to me.

“And this must be your daughter.”

I lift my chin. “Selene.”

No bow. No handshake. No submission.

Just tension, thick enough to choke on.

He studies me with those gold-flecked eyes, lips twitching—not into a smile, but something more dangerous.

A smirk.

Cocky. Confident. Like he’s already won.

I narrow my eyes, refusing to look away. He may have grown into a man, but I remember the boy underneath—the one who hated losing to a girl. I can still feel the sting of his words that day, the way he refused to shake my hand after I knocked him flat on his back.

He hasn't forgotten either.

And yet… the sight of him knocks the air from my lungs.

It’s not just how he looks—though he’s unfairly, annoyingly handsome. It’s the way he holds himself. Every move, every glance, commands attention. My skin prickles as he gets closer, and a strange heat rises at the base of my spine, coiling like a restless flame.

My wolf stirs. Awake. Alert.

Drawn.

I blink hard, trying to clear it. It’s nothing. Just nerves. Just tension. Just… whatever.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” he says smoothly, though his tone drips with challenge.

“Don’t count on it,” I reply before I can stop myself.

My father clears his throat, but it’s too late. The damage—or whatever this thing is between us—has already flared to life.

Ethan’s smirk deepens, as if he enjoys the fight, even craves it. Or maybe he enjoys me. The thought rattles something loose in my chest. I hate it.

He turns to walk inside, but just before he disappears into the house, he pauses. Without looking back, he says, “We’ll talk later.”

Three simple words. But the promise in them feels more like a threat—or a challenge. Or both.

I exhale slowly, not realizing I’d been holding my breath. My mother places a soft hand on my arm. I can’t tell if it’s comfort or restraint.

As the house swallows him whole, I feel something shift in the air.

Like a fuse has been lit.

And the spark is him.