The rain in Amaranth didn't so much fall as it seeped from the perpetually bruised-purple sky,
slicking the asphalt streets until they mirrored the city's predatory neon glow. From the armored
window of the cab, I watched the spires of the financial district pierce the low-hanging clouds,
ancient gothic architecture choked by holographic advertisements. They called this city the
Eternal Bloom, a place where beauty and power never faded. I had been here for seventy-two
hours, and I had already learned that its thorns were hidden beneath every perfect petal.
My destination was the city's most coveted hothouse: The Velvet Veil.
The air inside was a calculated pollutant, a thick, intoxicating cocktail of rare floral perfumes,
expensive liquor, and the electric hum of bodies pressed close. It clung to the deep crimson
velvet ropes and slicked the polished black marble floors. The sound was a symphony of
indulgence—the clinking of crystal, the low thrum of a dark, ambient beat, and the murmur of
the world's most dangerous people making deals that would never see the light of day. To the
humans here, wealthy moths drawn to an impossibly expensive flame, this was the scent of
success. To me, it was the smell of a trap.
I surrendered my coat, allowing my cover identity, "Elise Bell," to settle over me like a second
skin. She was nervous, her dark eyes wide with a carefully practiced awe. She was nobody,
which made her the perfect vessel for a ghost. My dress was a simple slip of black silk, a whisper
against my skin, elegant enough to pass muster but designed to be forgotten. My mission tonight
wasn't to be seen; it was to see.
My target was not the roaring beast holding court on a raised, throne-like dais in the center of the
VIP lounge. That was Vincent DeLauro, Alpha of the city's most powerful Lycan pack, a
creature of raw, overt power whose arrogance was a physical force. He was a king, but he was
not the one who pulled the strings of the city's deepest shadows. He was merely the gatekeeper.
My true objective was the man Vincent both hated and envied. The man whose vast, silent
empire I suspected was intrinsically linked to the night my parents were murdered.
Marcus Thorne.
And then I saw him.
He was not on a throne. He was a specter of quiet authority, leaning against a shadowed marble
pillar far from the fawning crowds, a glass of whiskey in his hand. The ice-grey of his eyes was a
stark, chilling contrast to the club's lurid, pulsing heat. He was a glacier in the middle of a
volcano, his power contained in his absolute stillness, his control personified. He wore a simple,
flawlessly tailored black suit, no tie, the top button of his white shirt undone. He wasn't watching the half-naked dancers writhing on the stage or the sycophants vying for Vincent's attention. He
was watching the entire room, his gaze moving with a slow, analytical sweep. A CEO assessing
the market, calculating the value of every soul present.
My training, honed over a decade of survival, took over. My heart rate, which had begun to
flutter with a nervous energy that was not entirely an act, slowed to a steady, rhythmic beat. My
breathing evened. I became the ghost. My purpose was clear. My control was absolute.
I took a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, the bubbles a pointless affectation, and began
my subtle approach. It was a classic espionage pattern: a slow, seemingly aimless orbit around
the room's periphery that would, over the course of ten minutes, naturally bring me into his
sphere of influence without appearing deliberate.
I was halfway through my first rotation, my eyes pretending to admire a grotesque, glittering
sculpture, when he lifted his head. His gaze cut through the haze of smoke and bodies, through
the psychic noise of a hundred lesser predators, and locked directly onto mine.
It wasn't a glance. It was an acquisition.
The air left my lungs in a sharp, painful hiss. The carefully constructed artifice of "Elise Bell"
shattered into a million pieces. For a split second, I was just Angelique Bellafonte, a twenty
eight-year-old orphan, a ghost caught in the headlights. A jolt, so violent and primal it felt like
electrocution, shot from the base of my spine to the crown of my head. The ancient, dormant part
of me, the supernatural core my parents had died to hide, roared to life with the force of a
supernova.
A single, possessive word echoed in the sudden, deafening silence of my mind. It was not my
thought. It was a feral, instinctual growl that originated from a place deeper than my own soul.
Mine.
My control fractured. The world tilted, the ambient noise of the club rushing back in, distorted
and warped. My vampire senses, usually a fine-tuned instrument, flared into a painful,
overwhelming cacophony. I could suddenly smell the faint, clean scent of ozone and cold steel
emanating from him—the unmistakable scent of a Lycan. An Alpha. But it was his secondary
scent that made my blood run cold: the crisp, sterile, and utterly soulless aroma of unimaginable
wealth. It was the scent of a contract. Of a transaction. Of ownership.
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced through the psychic shock. My mission was catastrophically,
irredeemably compromised. I had come to investigate a monster, and my very soul had just
screamed that he was its fated mate.
With a monumental effort of will, I tore my gaze away from his. My hand, trembling
betrayingly, found the cool, solid metal of the bar for support. I needed to leave. Now. To abort the mission, retreat to my anonymous apartment, and burn my Elise Bell identity to the ground.
This was a complication my training had never prepared me for.
I turned, trying to blend into the press of bodies, to become invisible once more.
But as I did, a second, shocking impact struck me. From his throne on the dais, Vincent
DeLauro's piercing blue eyes had fixed on me. He had felt the psychic explosion of the bond
activating between me and his rival. He looked at me, and with a jolt of pure, savage power that
nearly buckled my knees, the same impossible, terrifying word echoed in my mind from a
different, far more bestial source.
Mine.
Two of them.
Both Alphas. Both Lycans.
One, my target, a creature of cold, corporate control who saw a priceless asset to be acquired.
The other, his rival, a beast of raw, untamed power who saw a prize to be taken.
My meticulously planned infiltration had just become an auction. And my soul was the lot on the
block.