Semua Bab White Wolf: Blood Moon Rising” : Bab 11 - Bab 20

The morning after the warehouse raid, the Vale Estate felt empty in a way that gnawed at Celeste’s bones. It wasn’t the hush of peace—more the silence before a scream. Every corridor seemed too still, every shadow stretched long and watchful, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Celeste sprawled in her battered armchair, limbs loose in a posture that mimicked relaxation, but the violet fire burning beneath her skin refused to dim. The taste of last night’s chaos lingered bitter and electric on her tongue. Her wolf prowled inside her, untamed, relentless, prowling the edges of her consciousness, claws scraping for another fight.Kael lounged in the doorway, filling it with his presence, arms folded over his chest, eyes fierce and golden. They missed nothing, those eyes—especially not her restlessness. “You actually sleep?” His voice was a lazy drawl, teasing, but it carried an undercurrent of steel. Something in its edge traced a shiver down her spine, though pride alo

The Vale Estate brooded under a heavy silence, the kind that presses in on the bones and promises calamity. Something about the night felt wound tight, each breath electric, as if the marble and velvet halls themselves trembled on the verge of violence. The world outside seemed to hold itself in check, bracing for the scream that would inevitably shatter the quiet. Celeste prowled those corridors, every footfall deliberate, every movement a challenge. Violet energy shimmered around her skin, a living warning, while inside, her wolf prowled restlessly—an untamed presence, teeth bared at threats only she could sense.Kael was there at her side, never quite in step but always perfectly attuned. He moved with the predatory calm of a storm about to break, his golden aura flickering in the wake of her violent light. Together, they were more than just partners—they were a force, a legend whispered about in both reverence and fear. Where Celeste was a dare, Kael was the answer, and the two of

Celeste hated charity events. Too many fake smiles. Too many vultures circling, hungry for her money or a drop of her blood. The glittering invitations always promised goodwill, but the air always reeked of avarice, desperation poorly disguised as genteel laughter.But tonight, she had to play the part. Untouchable. Alive. The one everyone watched. Her presence was currency, her absence a scandal—so she walked into the lion’s den with her chin high, spine steel, every movement deliberate.The ballroom was a fever dream of gold and crystal. Chandeliers hung heavy, dripping light like icicles about to break. Every surface shimmered, every face carefully arranged, but the beauty was brittle—one wrong move and the pretense would shatter. High society glittered on the surface, but under the silk and etiquette prowled wolves and mafia dons. They laughed too loud, stared too long, bowed just a bit too slow. Every greeting was a dance of veiled threats and subtle power plays, masks hiding hun

The eastern tunnels reeked of old blood and wet stone, the scent thick as a shroud. Each breath tasted of violence and memory, and Nyxara loathed every inch. The weight of the past pressed in from all sides—these were the city’s buried veins, carved out by desperate hands long before she ever wore a crown. Down here, the air was colder, heavier, and every echo of her footsteps felt like a trespass.This was the underbelly, a labyrinth where secrets and sins seeped into the stone. Once, smugglers and runners had claimed these shadows, slipping through the dark with stolen goods and whispered rumors. Now, Cassian owned these corridors more than she ever had, his influence spreading like rot. Knowing he commanded these depths, that he watched her from somewhere unseen, made her skin itch beneath her armor.Torches flickered and spat along the walls, their flames weak against the darkness. Her wolves fanned out, silent and lethal—living shadows in a place that had forgotten sunlight. Kael

Nyxara felt the hit in her bones before it even landed—a warning, cold and precise, threading through her nerves. It wasn’t instinct. Instinct was for the untrained, for the ones who still flinched at the unknown. This was something else entirely: the deep-rooted certainty that came from too many years surviving on the edge, from a life spent reading the world’s violence before it arrived.Below her, the city blazed and howled, a living beast of neon and chrome, its fury indifferent to the quiet war being waged in its shadows. The open-air garage was half-finished, all exposed beams and wind-swept cement, a monument to ambition left incomplete. She moved through it with careful speed, jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder, heels tapping out a staccato rhythm that echoed off the concrete. Each step made her more visible, and she hated it—hated the vulnerability, the feeling of being a silhouette in someone else’s crosshairs. This wasn’t just a bad position; it was a dare, and she k