Chapter 2: Thorns in Velvet

Lydia’s POV

I knew I shouldn’t have come.

From the moment I stepped out of the car and saw the gates of House Morvain glowing under a bleeding moon, I knew this would be a night worth regretting.

But I came anyway.

Draped in black velvet, a strapless wrap dress with corset lining at the back, my pale breast pushed forward almost touching my neck, my lips stained red and resentment dripping off every step of my silver stilettos, I entered the Founders Ball like a ghost re-entering the ruins of her own grave.

The estate had been cleaned up since my last visit. Too cleaned. Like they were trying to scrub off the blood history with lemon polish and gold chandeliers. Still, nothing could mask the air thick with old magic and older grudges.

The ballroom shimmered in decadence. Chandeliers floated without chains. Musicians played harps made of bone and string. The marble floor was carved with the crest of every ruling vampire house a warning more than decoration.

And then there were the guests.

Vampires, mostly. Cloaked in silk and superiority.

Whispers danced between glasses of blood-tinged wine.

But there were others too.

Fae in sharp crystal-laced suits, their eyes like mirrors. Their ears like swords.

Wolves in dark leathers, smelling of forest and raw power.

I paused mid-step, frowning, my lips pressed into a thin line, eyebrows raised in amazement.

Wolves.

Here.

Why in hell’s teeth were they here?

My father hated werewolves. Despised them. I’d heard him call them mutts and mongrels more times than I could count. And now they stood among the founding clans laughing, toasting, discussing... treaties?

Something was wrong.

And then I saw him.

My father.

Standing in a circle with three wolves and two Fae nobles, his posture stiff, his smile sharper than the knives hidden in his sleeves.

And he was talking.

Not insulting.

Not threatening.

Talking.

I made my way into the ballroom slowly, every movement deliberate, eyes watching me like a plague had just walked in on heels.

The whispers returned like smoke slipping beneath closed doors. Voices echoing in my ears.

"That’s her. The exile."

"She ran off to live with the humans. Shameful."

"She should’ve been stripped of the Morvain name."

"And now she comes back, like nothing happened?"

Their thoughts were louder than their lips, but none of them dared speak them aloud not while I carried his blood.

I straightened my shoulders and stared down anyone bold enough to meet my eyes.

Let them look.

Let them judge.

Let them choke on it.

But my stomach twisted. Anger in the form of bile rising to my throat because I hadn’t expected this.

Not the wolves.

Not the fae.

Not the political stage I’d been dropped onto without warning no script, no plan.

And certainly not the way my father was watching me now not with disappointment, not even anger.

But with warning.

His eyes shot daggers across the ballroom, pinning me in place.

 His eyes speaking a thousand useless words.

Behave.

Don’t speak.

Don’t ask questions.

I held his gaze with practiced indifference. But inside, I was unraveling.

Why bring me here?

Why now?

Why surround yourself with creatures you once called enemies?

And more importantly...

What did this have to do with me?

The murmurs shifted.

I noticed it first in the stillness, that kind of sudden hush that spreads in a crowd like a sickness.

Then the scent hit me.

Forest. Thunder. Blood.

The doors opened behind me and someone stepped through.

I turned. Slowly. Carefully.

And saw him.

He didn’t walk, he arrived. His steps echoing with command in the whole room.

Every head turned. Every conversation stuttered.

The wolves straightened. The fae watched closely. Even the vampires, ancient and arrogant took a step back.

He was tall. Broad. Dressed in black. There was nothing decorative about him, no sigils, no gold. Just presence. Dense. Alive. Encompassing.

And everyone watched him like he was a natural disaster wearing skin.

They said nothing.

But their fear said everything.

Whoever he was, he wasn't just powerful.

He was known.

Respected.

Feared.

And I... I felt something stir in me when our eyes met.

It was only a glance, but it struck.

Like we’d collided in some other life.

Like we had unfinished business.

Like I’d been dreaming of him without knowing.

And worse, it wasn’t the first time I’d seen him.

My breath caught.

My mind raced.

I couldn’t pinpoint what it was, but I knew. I knew our fates were interlocked. Or did I just want it to be?

 I made my way to the drink table, trying to look like I wasn’t shaking. I picked up a crystal goblet filled with some kind of expensive vintage. Blood and berries. Probably unicorn. Who cared.

Behind me, footsteps approached, slow and steady.

“Daughter.”

I tensed, shoulders stifling.

“Father,” I replied without turning. “Nice company you keep these days.”

His voice was a low thread. “We make alliances where we must.”

“Ah. So hell froze over.”

“I need you to behave tonight,” he said. “Your presence is already a topic of conversation.”

“Let them talk,” I said, sipping. “They already think I’m a traitor.”

His jaw flexed. “You left. Without blessing nor permission.”

“I left to stay sane.”

He didn’t reply.

Instead, he leaned closer, lowering his voice to a near growl.

“This night is more than ceremony, Lydia. It’s history being rewritten. Pay attention.”

I turned then, fully facing him. His eyes that commanded men with a single glance blazed with anger and distaste for me.

“And what role do you expect me to play?”

His silence was heavier than the chandeliers above.

That was when it hit me.

This wasn’t about reconciliation.

This wasn’t about punishment either.

It was about positioning.

I wasn’t a guest.

I was a piece.

And I hadn’t even been told the game.

I took more sips of my drink. The blood doing little to quench my racing heart and wandering mind, both from my father’s interaction with me, his sudden fascination with his enemies and this strange enigma of a man who I felt so familiar yet distant too.

I needed fresh air. This party just further reminded me why I left in the very first place.

It was daunting, draining and dark. I felt exhausted before I even begun.

I took a trip outside, the familiar part bringing back memories of when I was a little girl, a little girl with happier memories and plenitude of friends. 

I found myself in the deep alley my brother and I usually frequented when we were still close.

However something was wrong. Or rather someone..

I smelled wolf before I saw him.

It was a sharp, metallic stench, something primal and musky, like heat and blood soaked into old leather. The kind of scent that clings to you, crawls down your throat, and dares you to gag. I hated it. But I didn’t gag. I inhaled it, deeply. I needed to know how many there were.

Turns out, I only needed to know one.

I walked further to where the stench came from, my silver clutch tight in my hands.

There laid a body already dead.

Slumped against the alley wall, eyes wide and glassy, throat torn so deep I could see spine. Blood soaked the ground beneath him, thick and black in the moonlight. His hands were still half-shifted, claws frozen mid-defense, lips curled in a final snarl.

He fought a good fight.

The scent hit me first, wet fur, metal, and something sharp with fear. A rogue. Definitely. But not just any rogue.

Whoever killed him didn’t just want him dead.

They wanted it to send a message.

I heard the growl a second too late.

Suddenly, I was slammed against a cracked pillar. A strong arm pinned me by the throat, not enough to choke me, just enough to let me know I could be.

And then I saw him.

Amber eyes. Fierce. Burning. Too wild to be fully human. Too focused to be feral. Face contorted in boredom.

The strange yet familiar man..

His body pressed against mine, tall, muscled, furious. I felt the tremble of his restraint as if the beast inside him was clawing to get out.

“Smells like blood,” he growled, breath hot against my skin. “Yours?”

I smiled despite myself, excitement seeping into my veins much to my annoyance.

“Disappointed it’s not?”

He didn’t blink. Just stared at me with that maddening, unreadable expression, as if I were a puzzle he already intended to break. I jerked my knee toward his groin, fast and vicious. But his reflexes were faster.

He caught my leg. Held it midair, balancing me with one hand as if I weighed nothing.

And for a heartbeat, we just… looked at each other.

His eyes weren’t just amber. They were gold. Like molten metal cracked open under pressure. He was beautiful in that brutal, savage way, the kind of man carved from war and grief, not born.

And I hated him for it.

He finally let my leg go. I shoved him hard enough to make him stumble a step back. Just one. My fingers registering strong stable muscles. But it was enough for me to straighten my spine and draw myself to full height. Shaking off the goosebumps marring my skin.

“Your kind always arrives late,” I said coldly. “Do you enjoy sniffing corpses you didn’t kill?”

“Your kind always leaves a mess,” he said calmly. “And they usually flee before the cleanup.”

I tilted my head, letting my hair fall like a curtain of shadow around my face.

“How flattering. You’ve been paying attention.”

His eyes raked down my body, not lecherously, but like a soldier surveying a threat. White skin. Bloodred lips. Midnight hair. He hated every inch of me. I could see it. Feel it.

But gods, he looked at me like I mattered. 

“Who are you?” he asked finally, his voice quiet and coiled like a whip waiting to strike.

“Lydia,” I said, and watched the name sink into him like poison.

“And you must be the soldier dog. The one who ran.”

Something flickered in his eyes, pain, anger, shame. Maybe all three, but it was gone before I could blink.

“We have something in common then Lydia..”

The way he said my name registered like wildfire in my mind. I said nothing. I also didn’t fail to notice that he knew about my run away situation.

“Leonidas” He said after a moment of hesitation.

The name didn’t suit him. It sounded regal and civilized.

He was anything but.

We stood there for a moment longer, two predators in the aftermath of someone else’s kill. And then I brushed past him, my shoulder grazing his chest just enough to make a point.

“Stay out of my way, wolf.”

His silence followed me out like a snare tightening around my throat.

And the worst part?

Even as I left…

I could still feel his heat.