The underground base was a fortress of shadows and steel, carved deep within the Moonstone cave system. Here, far from the eyes of the world, Cassius Vane's war against the monsters that killed his family had taken root. The air was heavy with the scent of damp stone and oil, the flickering fluorescent lights casting cold, jagged shadows against the rough walls. This wasn't just a hideout, it was a staging ground for a reckoning long overdue.
John Grove stood near a cluttered metal table, the weight of the mission pressing down on him like the cave walls themselves. Tall and broad-shouldered, his thinning hair betrayed the sleepless nights, while a small beard framed a face drawn tight with anxiety and resolve. His dark eyes, deep-set and tired, flicked over the contents of a small black bag, inside, the earring from the bungled bungalow murder, the only tangible lead in a case that had already stolen too much.
John worked for Cassius Vane, a man who'd carved out a ruthless reputation as a werewolf hunter. Cassius wasn't just chasing monsters, he was fueled by a personal vendetta. A few days ago, a savage attack had taken his brother, his family, everything dear to him. This base was their headquarters for a revenge strike Cassius vowed would end the terror. But first, they had to find the culprit.
That was John's burden, the impossible task of tracking down DNA to identify the beasts responsible. But every avenue had come up cold. His contacts across various underground networks and forensic databases had no match. The three major werewolf families maintained their own secret archives, and no one outside could access them. The only hope was the Moonstone Federal Forensics, a place with resources vast enough to catch the truth.
But John had no connections there. No way inside. Any move toward that office could blow the whole operation wide open, risking everything Cassius had built. The pressure was mounting, the clock ticking.
John sat back, rubbing his weary eyes. The frustration was a chokehold. Every lead seemed to slip through his fingers like smoke.
Then, the glow of his phone screen flickered, pulling him from the spiral. A viral news clip played automatically, a familiar face on the screen.
Joe Hawkings.
Joe, once his closest friend and rival, now standing confidently at the podium beside District Attorney Lucia Sutton. The crowd roared behind him, hanging on his every word.
John's pulse quickened. Joe. The boy who'd always had a knack for unraveling mysteries, the one who could see what others couldn't. They'd grown up chasing clues together, dreaming of justice. Joe had been the star, the brilliant mind who earned a scholarship to Harvard, leaving John behind in their small town.
They hadn't spoken in years.
But now, with Joe back and already stirring up the same dark secrets John was chasing, hope sparked.
If anyone could help him navigate the treacherous path to the truth, it was Joe Hawkings. He decided he would put some of his men to stalk him for a while, find out where he would be. One way or another he had to find him.
The base seemed to close in around him, the damp chill of the cave pressing against his skin. He leaned forward, the tiny earring gleaming faintly under the harsh light, a token of a brutal crime that no one wanted to face.
He recalled late nights with Joe back in high school. The endless hours spent piecing together puzzles, the thrill of chasing down a lead that no one else noticed. Joe's sharp eyes, his unshakable confidence, the way he could read a room and find secrets hidden in plain sight.
Back then, they had been inseparable, two sides of the same coin, bound by a shared passion. But ambition pulled them apart, and when Joe left for Harvard, their friendship frayed and finally snapped.
John sighed, anger flickering beneath his calm exterior. Cassius expected results, and John had nothing yet. But this unexpected glimpse of Joe, a reminder of who he used to be, gave him something else: a plan.
If Joe was already investigating the werewolf cover-up, maybe, just maybe, they could join forces. Or at the very least help him jump ahead in his own investigation.
He dialed the number, hands steady but heart pounding.
"Mark," he said when the call connected, "I have a name for you. someone i need intel on."
A pause. Then Mark's voice, cautious answered.
"What's the name?"
"Joseph Hawkings, a detective working for the MSPD. i need you to keep an eye on him. keep me updated on his location... And anything interesting."
"Alright boss," Mark said before hanging up.
For the first time in a long while, John let himself hope.
Outside, the last light of the blood-red sun dipped behind the jagged peaks surrounding Moonstone.
Meanwhile, Las Vegas glittered like a jewel under the desert night, the city pulsing with life, temptation, and illusion. Beneath the golden glow of a luxury hotel entrance, a sleek black limousine purred at the curb. Out through the revolving doors stepped a man whose presence turned heads before his name was even spoken.
Lance Gryphon.
Late thirties, skin kissed with just enough sun, perfectly sculpted jawline shadowed by a manicured beard, and a head of thick, dark-blonde hair swept back with precision. He was dressed in a tailored white blazer with no shirt underneath, showing off a chest that hadn't missed a workout in over a decade. Confidence oozed from every step, each click of his leather shoes on marble a quiet declaration: I own this.
Trailing behind him, two stunning women, one a redhead in a silk mini dress, the other a curvy brunette with a diamond anklet and a knowing smirk, clung to his arms with practiced ease. Their eyes shimmered with mischief, but their touch was more reverent than lustful.
"Alpha, darling." the redhead whispered in his ear, her voice teasing.
"Mmm," Lance grinned, enjoying the title. "Don't make me turn this night into a religious experience."
They all laughed, sliding into the open limo. Behind them, two more high-end black cars lined up, carrying his luggage and a couple of loyal staff. The convoy was heading back to Moonstone, Lance had business to handle. A few weeks of play were enough. It was time to return to the throne.
But just as his foot hovered near the car's step, a voice called out from behind him.
"Lance! Wait up!"
Lance turned, sighing dramatically. "Damn, didn't know I was that irresistible."
The man running up to him was in a blazer, no tie, sunglasses despite the night. Sleek, high-end energy. He was rich, one could tell by the casual arrogance of his pace. This was Cliff Mercer, Lance's best friend since their days in private school. Equally powerful. Equally indulgent.
"Don't flatter yourself," Cliff replied, panting as he reached him. "I wouldn't chase you across a lobby unless it was important."
Lance raised an eyebrow. "Then spit it out. Or I'm gonna go sin."
Cliff's face turned serious. "It's about Mara. She saw something."
Lance's grin faltered for a split-second. "Saw?"
Mara was no ordinary woman, she was a mage, discreet and elusive, whose rare gift of foresight made her a secret weapon in the world of power and profit. She worked exclusively for Cliff, bound not by contract but by a quiet, ironclad deal: in exchange for her invaluable visions, Cliff provided her with complete protection, luxury, and anonymity. He kept her hidden from the world like a dragon hoards treasure, quietly, fiercely, obsessively.
It was Mara who had built the foundation of his empire. While Cliff sat at the head of boardrooms and signed multi-million-dollar deals, it was her whispered premonitions that guided every move. She could predict market crashes days before headlines hit, sense the fallout of partnerships before contracts were even drafted, and nudge Cliff toward the right risk at exactly the right time. Stocks, real estate, rare commodities, Mara's insight turned them into guaranteed wins.
To Cliff, she wasn't just an asset, she was the reason for his status, his money, his near-infallible reputation. She was his cheat code in a game everyone else played blindfolded. And he never doubted her, not for a second. In all their years together, she had never once been wrong.
"A vision," Cliff clarified, lowering his voice. "Said your future felt… dangerous. Like a storm she couldn't see the end of. No details. But she told me its best you stay here for a while."
Lance gave a long, slow exhale. The redhead peeked from the limo, pouting.
"She didn't say I'd die or anything, right?" he asked.
"She never does. Just says what she feels."
"She also said your last girlfriend was cheating on you," Lance said, trying to lighten the mood. "She's not exactly a ray of sunshine."
Cliff didn't laugh.
Lance clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Look, I appreciate it. Really. But you know me. I don't run from shadows. I am the damn storm. I'm an alpha with a pack to rule."
"You're right," Cliff admitted, reluctantly sensing the futility of this conversation.
"Damn right." Lance turned and stepped into the limo, calling over his shoulder. "I'll call you when I get there. Promise."
Cliff watched as the limo pulled away, the redhead giggling again as she closed the door behind him. But his jaw was tight. Mara's visions… they'd never been wrong.
Inside the rolling cocoon of luxury, the limo's interior was soaked in low amber lighting. Smooth jazz purred from hidden speakers, blending with the hum of tires kissing the Vegas asphalt. Lance sprawled across the leather seat like a lion in his den, his blazer discarded and his shirt halfway unbuttoned. The scent of his cologne lingered, rich, spicy, commanding.
The brunette was already straddling his lap, her thigh-high slit dress falling away like silk water. Her lips traced the edge of his jaw, her breath hot against his skin. He leaned back, letting her explore, watching with half-lidded eyes as the redhead slid down beside him, undoing the buckle of his belt with slow, deliberate fingers.
"Don't rip anything expensive," Lance said with a lazy grin, voice thick like honey.
"No promises," the redhead whispered, dragging his belt off in one fluid motion, holding it for a teasing second before dropping it to the floor.
The brunette had already pulled down the top of her dress, revealing smooth skin and lace. Her fingers curled around his neck, pulling him into a kiss—deep, slow, commanding. Lance responded in kind, one hand cupping her waist, the other sliding under her dress, up her thigh, gripping like he owned her.
The redhead was now on her knees before him, unbuttoning his slacks, eyes locked onto his with mischief and hunger. He looked down at her, then to the brunette, then chuckled low.
"Vegas knows how to treat a king."
"Correction," the brunette whispered, lips brushing his ear, "Alpha."
The limo bumped gently along the road, the motion only intensifying the rhythm inside. The redhead tugged his pants down just enough to make him hiss between his teeth, while the brunette began to grind against him, slow and deliberate. Heat built like a pressure chamber, their gasps and moans muted by the city outside.
Clothes disappeared in layers, lace, cotton, silk all tangled around their limbs. Skin met skin, the redhead's mouth moving lower, the brunette's breath hitching as Lance growled against her shoulder. Hands slid over hips, thighs, backs—hungry, practiced, desperate in their own polished way.
It was raw. Powerful. Carnal.
A controlled chaos of limbs and need inside the privacy of tinted glass and black leather.
And for a moment, just one. Lance closed his eyes and thought of the vision. The warning. The shadow.
But then the redhead climbed into his lap too, kissing him hard, and his mind blanked with sensation. He surrendered to it, completely.
Outside, Las Vegas blurred by, neon lights streaking across the window like comets falling into the night.
Inside, they reached their own climax, a breathless symphony of motion, sweat, and low cries, as the limo slipped deeper into the dark road headed east.
Lance didn't care about omens.
He had tasted the gods, and right now, they were moaning his name.
***
The school was nearly silent, shadows stretching long across empty halls as Adam wandered through the dim corridors of Moonstone Academy. It was Sunday night, around ten o'clock, most students had gone home for the weekend, leaving the building to the occasional late study session or a soul caught up in their own restless thoughts. But here was Adam, alone, moving with a slow, contemplative pace.
He glanced at the classrooms, all dark, lifeless, empty shells of chatter and laughter now gone. He half-expected to find Abigail somewhere, maybe holed up in one of the study rooms, nose buried in her endless stacks of books. But no sign of her. Even a girl like Abigail, studious and relentless, had to take a break sometimes, he supposed.
His footsteps echoed softly as he made his way toward the auditorium. It loomed ahead, grand, vast, and somehow both inviting and intimidating. The heavy wooden doors groaned faintly as he pushed them open. Inside, the scent of aged wood mixed with a faint musk of dust and polished floors. The space was enormous, a cavern of emptiness waiting to be filled.
Rows upon rows of seats stretched upward in a steep incline, their deep burgundy cushions glinting dimly in the soft golden stage lights that flickered on at his touch. The overhead auditorium lights hummed awake, bathing the space in a warm, intimate glow that seemed to soften the cavernous scale. It was a place made for gatherings, assemblies, performances, a stage for voices, music, dreams.
Adam hesitated at the edge of the stage, feeling the vastness pressing around him. It wasn't something he was used to. Back in London, his life had been smaller, tighter, but here, this auditorium swallowed him up like a shadow. His heart fluttered with a strange stage fright, that feeling of exposure beneath unseen eyes.
Near the side of the stage, a set of instruments rested, left by the music club, silent now. His gaze landed on a guitar propped against the stand, a familiar shape that brought a quiet smile. Without thinking, he picked it up, feeling the smooth wood under his fingers, the cool steel of the strings.
He sat on the stage ledge, the guitar resting comfortably on his lap, and began to play. The first notes of "Hills and Valleys" by Tauren Wells drifted softly into the stillness, filling the room with a gentle melody. The music was a balm to his restless mind, a tether to a life that sometimes felt like a distant memory. He remembered taking lessons years ago, back in London, when music had been the one thing that made sense amidst the chaos.
As the final chords faded, Adam set the guitar down gently. The silence returned, thick and comforting, until a voice broke through.
"I didn't take you for the religious type."
Adam turned, startled.
She was sitting in one of the chairs offstage, leaning back casually with one leg crossed over the other. The same chair he'd glanced at earlier and dismissed. Empty then. Not now.
"Abigail?" he said, blinking. "How long have you been there?"
"Long enough." She stood, the soft shuffle of her shoes brushing against the wooden floor. "Don't feel bad. I'm stealthier than I look."
Adam smiled nervously and set the guitar down. "I'm Christian… I guess. Haven't gone to church in a while though, but... yeah. God gives me peace."
She walked closer, her oversized soccer jersey brushing against her thighs, barely covering the tight black shorts beneath. The gold light kissed the hem of her jersey and the soft curve of her bare legs.
"Do you believe He's real?" she asked.
Adam tilted his head, playful. "Well, werewolves exist. Why not God?"
That made her chuckle, low and smooth.
She moved to sit beside him, just barely keeping space between them. The scent of lavender drifted in, subtle but unforgettable. His body registered it before his brain did. Heart beat just a bit faster. Shoulders tensed. He shifted.
She noticed.
"So…" she said, glancing at the darkened auditorium, "How's the first week been? Adjusting?"
He scratched the back of his head. "Weird. Busy. You know, the usual transfer student stuff."
"I'm sorry for not talking to you sooner," she said, voice gentle. "Things have been… hectic. But I promise you'll see more of me now. I'll be around. Every day, actually."
Adam blinked. "That's… cool. I mean, thanks."
She leaned back on her hands, letting her posture curve ever so slightly. "You and Luna sit together in class, right? My sources tell me your into her... But you've fumbled"
He was a bit shocked that this news was just out there roaming free. reluctantly he nodded. "Yeah. I, uh… I like her. I did, at least. But she's… I don't know. Cold."
There was a flicker in Abigail's expression. Quick. A flash of something behind her hazel eyes.
"Maybe you just don't know how to talk to someone like her," she offered.
"Someone like her?"
Abigail smirked, shrugging one shoulder. "Quiet. Observant. Mysterious."
He chuckled under his breath. "Yeah. Maybe."
There was a beat of silence. Just enough for the air to change again.
"What if," she began, "I was in trouble? Like, serious trouble. Would you save me?"
Adam turned to her, caught off guard by the sudden question. "Of course." he answered but couldn't help wondering 'where did this come from?'
She raised an eyebrow. "Why?"
He laughed softly. "Because I feel like you'd do the same."
She didn't answer. Just blushed, glancing away ever so slightly. Then she leaned in a little, as if that answer meant more than he realized.
He shifted again. Her presence, her scent, was too close, too warm. He looked at her without meaning to. Noticed her full lips. The way the golden light shimmered in her eyes. His heart did that thing again.
He tried not to let it show.
"You okay?" she asked, barely above a whisper.
"Yeah. Just… this is a bit surreal."
Abigail tilted her head. "Good surreal?"
Adam opened his mouth to respond but—
The back door creaked open. A voice boomed from the far end.
"You're not supposed to be in here!"
Adam stood up, eyes widening at the figure of the security guard entering from the shadows.
"Sorry," he called back. "I'll head to the dorm now."
He turned forward to look at Abigail, only to find her gone.
Vanished. Like smoke.
He blinked. The chair was empty. The air, still.
Adam smirked to himself as he made his way off the stage.
As he left the auditorium, he thought about the strange little conversation, her laugh, her lavender perfume.
He was glad to have a friend like her.