"You're out in ten minutes, or I call the cops. Your choice."
Elara Dune didn't move. She stood still in the center of her one-bedroom apartment, watching the landlord's flabby jowls bounce with each word, the red slip still fluttering between his sausage fingers. Her fingers tightened around the strap of her art bag. The room spun, but she didn't let it show.
"I paid half last week," she said quietly, her voice laced with exhaustion. "You said I had until—"
"Plans changed," he snapped. "Your sob stories don't pay the mortgage. Maybe you should sell one of those weird paintings." He motioned toward the stack of canvases leaning against the wall like broken wings. "Ten minutes."
The door slammed shut behind him, leaving silence and the distant hum of the city outside. Elara exhaled slowly.
It wasn't just the rent. It was the power bill, the cold creeping in through the cracked windows, the visions that had returned last night.
And the way the full moon had shimmered gold instead of silver in her dream.
That wasn't normal. Nothing about her life was normal lately.
She'd survived foster care, abusive jobs, and a cursed lineage she never asked for. But eviction? That might actually break her.
She dropped her art bag on the worn couch and looked at the only thing left worth saving—a silver locket, glinting on her nightstand. The last thing her mother gave her before vanishing under that blood moon twenty years ago. She slipped it into her pocket, barely noticing how warm it felt.
Bzzzt.
Her phone vibrated with a notification.
VALCORP RECRUITING – URGENT INTERVIEW SLOT AVAILABLE
Creative Position – 50k signing bonus. No experience required.
She stared. Was this spam?
Then a second message arrived:
You've been personally selected. Your portfolio caught our attention. Come now. One hour. 88 Crescent Tower. Floor 47.
Elara blinked. Valcorp. That was… absurd.
Everyone in Crescent City had heard of Dominic Vale. The Alpha of Alphas. A billionaire, head of Valcorp—a supernatural tech conglomerate whispered about in both business circles and occult forums. He rarely appeared in public, but when he did, his silver eyes were impossible to forget.
They said he built his empire on secrets and blood.
And she had just been summoned to his tower.
88 Crescent Tower – 1 Hour Later
Her boots clicked across the pristine marble floors of the 47th floor. Security hadn't even checked her ID—just nodded and waved her up. She clutched her worn satchel tighter, her portfolio tucked inside like a lifeline.
When the elevator doors opened, the temperature dropped.
A single man stood at the end of the hallway. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed him like a portrait: tall, sharply dressed in obsidian black, with short raven hair and a posture that screamed danger and precision. The air crackled around him.
Dominic Vale.
His silver eyes met hers instantly. Not metaphorically. Literally.
They glowed faintly.
"Elara Dune," he said smoothly, his voice a dark velvet drawl. "You're late."
Her heart stumbled. "Traffic."
He smirked, not moving. "You walked."
She paused. "Are you psychic?"
"No," he said. "Just observant."
Something in his voice stirred the hairs on her arms. She'd never been the kind of girl to blush at a man in a suit—but Dominic Vale wasn't just a man. He was too still, too composed. Like a wolf in a ballroom.
Or a king on a battlefield.
He gestured to a chair opposite a sleek black desk. "Sit."
She did. His gaze didn't soften.
"I reviewed your work. Untrained, raw, chaotic. But there's something… instinctual in your lines. Especially the one you titled 'Luna's Curse'."
Elara stiffened.
That wasn't online. That painting had never been exhibited. It was still in her closet. Covered. Hidden.
"How did you see that?" she whispered.
He didn't answer. Instead, he leaned forward, folding his hands together.
"I need a wife."
Silence.
She stared. "I—I'm sorry, what?"
"Legally. Immediately. Publicly." His tone was businesslike. "A marriage. Six months. Signed contract. You'll be paid handsomely and disappear afterward. No strings."
Her throat went dry.
"What kind of billionaire offers a marriage contract to a broke artist with a barely working phone?" she asked.
"One who's dying," he replied flatly.
The room froze. Not metaphorically. Literally. The lights flickered. Her breath misted.
Dominic's eyes glowed again—brighter this time—and for a split second, his shadow moved without him.
Elara didn't blink. She knew magic. She'd been born under it. And the curse in her blood hummed to life in his presence.
"You're not human," she whispered.
"No," he agreed.
"And you think I am?"
His lips twitched. "Are you?"
A pulse throbbed beneath her skin. Her locket burned hot against her chest, and for the briefest second, she saw something impossible—a silver mark glowing across her collarbone in the reflection of the glass wall behind him.
Mating mark.
No.
"I don't want to be anyone's Luna," she said, rising.
But he rose too—slowly, like a predator indulging a prey's illusion of escape.
"You already are," he said quietly. "You just don't remember yet."
The air thickened.
"I'm not agreeing to anything," she snapped. "You can't just—"
"I can." He moved toward her, and the floor seemed to vibrate with each step. "Because if I don't find a mate—if I don't project power—my pack will devour me alive. And if I choose someone else, your name will still be the one cursed by the bond that's already forming."
"I don't believe in fated mates."
"Then you've never seen a real one."
His hand reached out—not to touch her, but to pull back her sleeve. She didn't stop him. On her forearm, just above her wrist, a faint silver crescent shimmered into view.
Her mark.
His name whispered in her head like a memory.
Dominic.
She gasped, jerking back. "What did you do to me?!"
He looked almost… shocked.
"I didn't do anything," he said slowly, voice suddenly softer. "I thought I was faking this. But the mark... it appeared on both of us."
She staggered backward.
"No."
"Yes," he said.
"I didn't agree to this."
"Neither did I."
They stared at each other, both caught in something neither could explain or undo.
Then his phone buzzed. He checked it and swore under his breath.
"They know. The Council." He turned to her, face set like iron. "You walk out now, you die."
"And if I stay?" she asked, breathless.
He walked toward her, slowly this time.
"I protect you. And in return, you pretend to love me."
Their eyes locked.
The mating mark burned brighter.
Then the office windows shattered—
—and a black shadow lunged through with a growl.