On the list of things Amara expected to do after accidentally storyboarding a werewolf war, "walk a red carpet as damage control" had not even made the top one thousand.
"Try not to look like you're being held hostage," Zara said, fussing with the drape of Amara's dress. "Even if you are. Emotionally."
"I am absolutely being held hostage emotionally," Amara said, staring at herself in the mirror.
The wolf-proof tailor—yes, that was a real job, apparently—had done terrifyingly good work.
The dress was dark charcoal with a soft, metallic sheen, like graphite catching light. It hugged her torso, then fell in a clean, heavy line to the floor, slit high enough on one side that her thigh could breathe but not high enough to cause a PR incident. The neckline was simple, almost modest, showing collarbones and a hint of skin. No glitter, no sequins. Just sleek, quiet danger.
Her hair, usually in a messy bun or ponytail, was now half-up, half-down, glossy waves pinned back with understated silver clips. Zara had done something witchy to her eyeliner that made her eyes look bigger, sharper.
She looked like… someone.
Not BlackSun_92 hunched over a tablet in a hoodie at 3 a.m.
An executive's date.
A headline.
"My hands are sweating," she muttered, flexing her fingers.
"That just means you're alive," Zara said. "Preferred state for this sort of thing."
"Remind me again why I'm doing this?" Amara asked. "In small words. With pictures."
Zara dropped to perch on the edge of the vanity, swinging her legs.
"Because humans are nosey," she said. "And because when a major corporation's HQ has three power surges, one mysterious 'gas leak' evacuation, and a catering truck that never comes back, people get suspicious."
"They think my comic crashed the stock market?" Amara said.
"Not yet," Zara said. "But they definitely think Gray Holdings is hiding something. This gala was already on the calendar. The perfect opportunity to reassure investors, charm reporters, and quietly reset the narrative."
"And how does dragging me into a dress help?" Amara asked.
Zara's grin turned sly.
"Because you, my dear, are the narrative," she said. "Half the city's entertainment sites ran that 'rogue artist sues ruthless CEO' story. When you moved in here, the gossip feeds went feral for forty-eight hours."
Amara groaned. "Please tell me you're exaggerating."
Zara pulled out her phone, swiped, and held up a headline:
FROM COURTROOM TO PENTHOUSE: HAS THE GRAY CEO MADE PEACE WITH HIS "WOLF OF INK" CRITIC?
"Oh my god," Amara said. "They did not call me that."
"Oh yes, they did," Zara said. "Another one called you 'the artist who drew him to filth and then moved in.'"
Amara put her face in her hands. "I hate this planet."
"Anyway," Zara went on, patting her shoulder, "if you show up on his arm tonight, it hits a bunch of human buttons: reconciliation, romance, quirky crossover between art and business. It makes you a scandal instead of a mystery. Humans love scandal. They hate mysteries."
"And while they're busy speculating about our 'relationship,' they stop obsessing over building incidents and stock dips," Amara said slowly. "They repost our photos instead of digging into permit records."
"Exactly," Zara said. "Congratulations. You're now both a weapon and a distraction."
"Love that for me," Amara said weakly.
A knock came at the suite door.
"Five minutes," Lucian's voice came through, muffled but unmistakable. "Car's ready."
Her pulse spiked.
Zara hopped off the vanity.
"Okay," she said briskly. "Last check. Dress perfect. Makeup lethal. Jewelry minimal but expensive-looking."
She clipped simple silver hoops into Amara's ears and fastened a slender bracelet around her wrist—thin chain, small moon charm. Of course.
"Shoes?" Zara asked.
Amara scowled down at the heels. "Torture devices?"
"Torture devices that make your legs look amazing," Zara said. "Worth it."
"You say that as someone who can heal sprained ankles by lunch," Amara muttered.
Zara's expression softened.
"Hey," she said quietly. "If it gets overwhelming? You signal. Freak out? You signal. You need to bail? You signal."
"What's the signal?" Amara asked.
"Say 'I need to pee,'" Zara said.
"That's not a signal, that's a sentence," Amara said.
"Exactly," Zara said. "No one questions it. I'll pull the fire alarm."
Amara snorted, nerves easing slightly.
"Thank you," she said.
"Always," Zara said. She squeezed her hands once. "Now go stun some humans."
Lucian was waiting in the hallway outside the suite, and of course he looked like sin in a suit.
Black tux, perfectly tailored. Crisp white shirt. No tie yet, the open collar showing a sliver of throat. Cufflinks glinting silver—wolf heads, subtle enough that humans would think brand, not pack.
His hair was neatly styled, but there was still a roughness at the edges that no amount of grooming could fully hide. The wolf just under the skin, the hours in the training gym. His eyes, tonight, were a controlled gray. Gold banked.
He looked her over once.
Not a slow, lingering male-gaze sweep. An assessment: fit, comfort, threat.
Then, belatedly, he seemed to remember he was supposed to be a normal man reacting to a date in a dress.
His throat moved.
"You look…" he started, then stopped, as if surprised to find himself short on words.
"Like someone else entirely?" she offered.
"Like they'll forget why they came," he said.
Heat climbed up her neck.
"That's manipulative," she muttered.
"Yes," he said. "That's the point."
He offered his arm.
"Ready?" he asked.
"No," she said. "Let's go."
His lips quirked.
As she took his arm, the bond kicked, a warm pulse under her skin. Closer now, more insistent, like her nerves were tuning themselves to his frequency.
She felt the thrum of his heart, steady and strong. The faint coil of tension low in his body. The way his wolf prowled just behind his ribs, alert.
He smelled like clean soap, expensive cologne, and something warm and wild underneath.
You are acting, she told herself. This is theatre. This is strategy.
Your heart does not get a vote.
The gala was in one of those old hotels that had seen a century of deals and scandals and never once considered retiring.
Crystal chandeliers dripped from the high ceilings, casting warm light over marble floors and enormous floral arrangements. Waiters moved through the crowd like schools of fish, balancing trays of champagne and tiny, incomprehensible appetizers. A string quartet played something tasteful in the background.
If a bomb went off here, Amara thought, it would take out half the city's smug.
"Smile a little," Lucian murmured as they stepped into the main lobby. "Otherwise the gossip columns will write thinkpieces about your secret misery."
"Secret?" she said through her teeth. "I thought it was obvious."
He huffed a quiet laugh.
They hadn't even reached the main hall before the first camera flash went off.
"GRAY! GRAY! OVER HERE!"
"MR. GRAY, IS THIS YOUR FIRST PUBLIC APPEARANCE WITH THE ARTIST?"
"AMARA, HOW DOES IT FEEL TO BE BACK ON HIS ARM AFTER SUING HIS COMPANY?"
Microphones were suddenly in their path like spears. Paparazzi lined the velvet ropes, lenses gleaming, eyes hungry. The air filled with the rapid-fire staccato of shutters.
Lucian's expression shifted into his public face: charming, impenetrable. He adjusted his arm so Amara's hand rested more clearly on it, drawing her a half-step closer.
It looked possessive.
It felt… not entirely fake.
"This is exactly how I imagined my life," she muttered. "Blinded by flashing lights next to the man my readers draw explicit fanart of."
"You're doing great," he murmured back. "Don't answer anything I don't nod at."
One reporter, a woman with sharp cheekbones and a sharper bob, leaned over the barrier, voice cutting through the noise.
"Mr. Gray! There were rumors of bad blood between you and Miss Reyes after the lawsuit," she called. "Have you finally resolved your differences? Or is tonight… a continuation of your negotiations?"
Her tone made negotiations sound like something that would get them demonetized.
Lucian smiled with just enough teeth.
"Miss Reyes and I have always been aligned on the importance of independent voices in media," he said smoothly. "Sometimes, those voices are loud. That doesn't mean they're on opposite sides."
The woman turned to Amara, eyes bright. "Miss Reyes, did you expect to find yourself on his arm after drawing him as a villain so many times?" she asked.
Amara's brain stuttered.
Lucian gave the faintest nod: yes, you can answer.
She forced a smile.
"I draw complicated men," she said. "It would be a shame if the real ones were less interesting."
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
"Is that an admission of romance?" someone shouted.
"Are you two officially back together?"
"We were never together," Amara blurted.
A sea of phones leaned closer.
Lucian's fingers tensed on her arm.
She inhaled.
"Not in the way your readers imagine, anyway," she added quickly, letting her mouth curve. "If I drew my real life exactly on the page, you'd all say it wasn't believable."
That got another round of chuckles.
Lucian leaned down, his lips close to her ear.
"Nice recovery," he murmured. "I almost had a heart attack."
"Dramatic," she said. "You're fine."
They moved on, freed by the crush behind them. The hotel staff parted the flow of bodies with practiced ease, directing them toward the ballroom.
Inside, the glitter increased.
Crystal. Gold accents. Tables with place cards in perfect handwriting. A huge banner over the stage:
THE LUNAR HOPE FOUNDATION – ANNUAL CHARITY GALA
The Foundation was one of Gray Holdings' pet causes: ostensibly funding nocturnal workers' health and housing. In reality, Amara knew now, it was also a convenient way to funnel resources to certain packs without raising eyebrows.
Human philanthropy as cover for wolf survival.
Subtle.
"Remember," Lucian murmured as they walked in, "you're here as my date, not as a sacrificial lamb. If anyone makes you uncomfortable, get my attention."
"How?" she asked.
"Stab them with your fork," he said. "I'll handle the rest."
She snorted despite herself.
Wolves moved through the crowd in human skin: she could see it now, the tells she'd been blind to before. A stiffness in some bodyguards that wasn't just training. A pack-like clustering of certain executives around a tall man with forest eyes. A waitress whose nostrils flared almost imperceptibly when she passed Lucian, as if checking his scent.
Not all werewolves worked for him.
Some were allies.
Some weren't.
Humans circulated among them, blissfully unaware that half their small talk was being filtered through a second, invisible set of meanings.
"…heard the Q2 projections were shaky, but this is extreme…"
"…PR nightmare if the gas leak story doesn't hold…"
"…did you see Episode 39? I swear that wolf is based on him…"
Amara caught that last snippet and almost tripped.
"Breathe," Lucian murmured.
"I am breathing," she said. "Unfortunately."
They hadn't made it to their table before a familiar voice cut through the hum.
"Lucian."
A man in his fifties stepped forward from a cluster of investors. Silver hair perfectly combed, suit worth more than most cars, smile razor-edged.
"Erikson," Lucian said, with the kind of polite warmth reserved for people he'd happily throw out a window.
"You've been hard to pin down," Erikson said. His gaze flicked to Amara, taking her in with a practised, appraising sweep that made her skin crawl in a different way from cameras. "And this must be the infamous Miss Reyes."
Infamous.
Lovely.
Amara extended a hand because some masochistic corner of her brain remembered etiquette.
He took it, grip firm, eyes sharp.
"I've read your work," he said.
"I hope not in court filings," she said before she could stop herself.
His smile widened a fraction. "Not only," he said. "Your… graphic commentary is quite popular in certain circles."
"I've noticed," she said dryly.
Erikson turned back to Lucian.
"Bold move, bringing her here," he said. "The market's jittery enough without you parading the woman who tried to sue you."
"Transparency is good for markets," Lucian said. "So is showing we can disagree and still collaborate."
"Collaborate," Erikson repeated, lingering on the word.
"Yes," Lucian said. "Miss Reyes and I are working closely on a new initiative."
Amara elbowed him lightly.
"Not everything has to sound ominous," she murmured.
"They'll make it ominous no matter what I say," he murmured back. "Might as well enjoy it."
A bell-like ding announced that dinner would be served soon. The host called people toward their tables.
Erikson gave a little bow.
"I'll leave you to your… collaboration," he said. "Don't let the room bite you, Miss Reyes."
"I bite back," she said sweetly.
Erikson's eyes gleamed.
"I'm sure you do," he said, and melted back into the crowd.
Lucian's hand tightened on her waist.
"I don't like him," she said.
"Good instinct," he said. "He owns fifteen percent of the company and would sell me to our rivals for the right price."
"Charming," she said.
"Welcome to human politics," he said. "They're worse than wolves sometimes."
They found their table near the front. Place cards: Lucian Gray, Amara Reyes, Erikson, Councilwoman Han, Dr. Elise Varma, others she vaguely recognized from news blurbs.
"Smile," Zara's voice came from over her shoulder.
Amara turned.
Zara stood behind them, tablet in hand, dressed in a sleek tux with a silver vest, hair in a braided updo. She looked simultaneously like someone who might run AV and someone who might run an underground revolution.
"You look ridiculously good, both of you," Zara said. "The cameras are eating it up."
"How many angles of my face are online right now?" Amara asked.
"Yes," Zara said.
Lucian shot her a look.
"Everything secure?" he asked, low.
Zara's playfulness vanished for a second, replaced by sharp professionalism.
"Security sweep came back clean," she said. "We've got wolves at every exit, human security on rotation, and Eira's monitoring external feeds. No unusual chatter from enemy channels. If anyone tries anything, we'll know."
"And unsynced?" Amara asked, before she could stop herself.
Zara's eyes flicked to her, then away.
"Nothing obvious," she said. "Which doesn't mean he's not here. Just that he's good."
Comforting.
"So," Zara added brightly, slipping back into social mode, "go sit, eat fancy food, pretend to like everyone. I'll be in the tech booth if you need me. Remember, bathroom escape plan is still valid."
She winked and disappeared into the crowd.
Amara and Lucian took their seats.
As the courses began to arrive—tiny salads, soup in shot glasses, main course artfully arranged like minimalist sculpture—speeches started on stage. The host talked about "bridging the night economy," about "supporting essential workers." A video played, showing nurses, cab drivers, warehouse staff.
No wolves.
Of course.
Amara tried to focus on the human words and ignore the wolf-coded ones.
Territory marked as "service areas."
Pack-run shelters framed as "city-funded housing."
Gray Holdings' "community outreach" that she now knew included safehouses with reinforced doors and soundproofed basements.
As coffee was served, the host introduced Lucian.
He rose, the room's attention snapping to him like iron filings to a magnet.
Amara watched him cross to the stage, adjusting his jacket, his public shell sliding fully into place. He moved like he owned the air.
He gave a speech.
It was good. She hated how good it was.
He hit every note: gratitude for donors, commitment to the city, personal anecdotes about his father working nights when he was a kid. No lies—just careful omissions. Humans heard a CEO with a conscience. Wolves in the room heard an Alpha reminding them he could move resources with a sentence.
He didn't mention her.
He didn't have to.
When he returned to the table, several people stopped him to clap his shoulder, to murmur praise, to slip in veiled questions about the "recent incidents." He dodged with practised ease, giving nothing of substance.
All the while, Amara felt eyes on her.
Not just cameras.
Something else.
Halfway through dessert—a fragile construction of chocolate and spun sugar she was afraid to touch—a chill walked down her spine.
Her head turned, almost on its own.
Across the room, near one of the massive floral arrangements by the far wall, someone stood just inside the spill of light.
Dark suit. Dark hair. Capless, this time. Nothing special about him at first glance. Just another well-dressed man at an event full of them.
But his posture…
Still, but not stiff. Relaxed without being sloppy. Like he could step in any direction at a moment's notice.
He held a glass in one hand, untouched.
He was looking straight at her.
Their eyes met.
It felt like stepping into a cold pool.
Not like the bond—no heat, no pull toward. This was absence. A curious gap in the noise. Like the world dimmed a fraction around him.
Her fingers tightened on her fork.
The ambient sounds of the room—clinking cutlery, murmured conversation, the string quartet—went muffled for a heartbeat.
The man lifted his glass in a small, almost polite salute.
He smiled.
Not wide. Not showy.
Just enough to say: I see you.
Then, a server passed in front of him with a tray.
When they cleared, he was gone.
Amara's heart was pounding.
"Lucian," she said, low.
He was mid-conversation with Councilwoman Han about zoning permits. Without looking away from the politician, his hand found hers under the table.
His thumb brushed her knuckles once. Signal received.
"What happened?" he murmured, lips barely moving.
She swallowed.
"I think I just saw unsynced," she said. "Or someone who… feels like him."
Lucian's grip tightened.
"Where?" he asked.
She flicked her eyes toward the corner, trying not to be obvious.
"By the east wall," she said. "Black suit. No cap. He was just—watching. Then he disappeared."
Lucian's face didn't change.
"Zara," he said softly. The name barely left his lips, but Amara knew Zara would hear it through whatever tiny mic he had hidden.
A second later, Zara's voice whispered into Amara's earpiece—she'd almost forgotten it was there.
"Yeah?" Zara said.
"East wall," Lucian murmured. "Near the peonies. Black suit, dark hair, no cap. Check the last twenty seconds of feeds."
"On it," Zara said. Her tone shifted, sharpening. "Amara, what did you feel?"
Amara forced herself to breathe.
"Like… a hole," she said. "Everything else is noise. He was quiet. Wrong-quiet."
"Stay seated," Lucian said. "Don't look again."
"I want to look," she said.
"I know," he said. "Don't."
He squeezed her hand once, then withdrew, face turning back toward Councilwoman Han.
"…of course we'll cooperate fully with any city audit," he was saying smoothly. "Transparency is key."
Amara sat there, smiling at nothing, tasting sugar she couldn't taste.
On stage, someone started an auction for a painting.
In her ear, Zara cursed softly.
"Got him for three frames," she said. "Angle's bad. No face. Just a shoulder, part of his profile. You're right, though. He's wrong. He doesn't register like the others."
"Human?" Lucian asked quietly.
"Maybe," Zara said. "Maybe not. If he is, he's carrying something that scrambles our reads. I'll run enhancement. Eira's already scraping exit cams."
"And if he's not on any?" Amara asked.
"Then we have our answer," Zara said grimly. "He's very, very good."
The auctioneer rattled off numbers. Applause followed as someone "won" a sculpture.
Amara's heart refused to slow.
She became acutely aware of every gaze that passed over their table. Investors sizing her up. Socialites assessing her dress. A pair of young reporters whispering and sneaking photos.
In the wolves' eyes, she saw something different.
Respect.
Curiosity.
A hint of fear.
In some, a flash of gratitude.
In others, resentment.
To all of them, she was Moon-Scribe now, whether she wanted it or not.
To humans, she was a scandalous footnote: the artist who'd drawn the CEO as a monster and then shown up on his arm.
To whoever had just watched her from the shadows, she was something else.
A variable.
A piece on a board they didn't own yet.
Lucian's hand returned to hers under the table.
"You're doing well," he murmured. "Keep breathing."
"You keep saying that like it's optional," she said.
"For you, I'm starting to wonder," he said.
She let out a shaky laugh.
"Lucian?" she said.
"Yes?"
"If this is the acting part," she said quietly, "you should know I don't know where the line is anymore."
He turned his head just enough that she could see the tiny softening near his eyes.
"What line?" he asked.
"Between pretending to be your reluctant girlfriend," she said, "and just… being reluctant and also having a crush on my war-crime of a life."
His thumb brushed a slow circle against her wrist where their hands touched.
"You're not my cover," he said. "You're my ally."
"That doesn't answer the question," she said.
"No," he said. "It doesn't."
On stage, the host announced a slow song.
Couples rose for a dance.
Lucian stood, offering his hand.
"Come on," he said.
She raised a brow.
"Is this strategic?" she asked.
"Everything tonight is strategic," he said. "This is also… for me."
Something in his tone made her chest ache.
She put her hand in his.
He led her to the dance floor, one hand sliding to her waist, the other folding around hers.
The music was soft, strings and piano wrapping around them.
They moved.
He was a better dancer than she expected. Of course he was. His body knew balance, knew how to place weight. Nothing showy. Just solid, steady, a quiet guide.
Her heart thumped unhelpfully against her ribs.
Cameras flashed at the edge of the circle.
Wolves watched from the shadows.
Somewhere in the room, a man in a black suit might be smiling into his untouched drink.
Amara stepped closer than the acting required.
"So," she said under her breath. "Still think this is a good idea?"
"Absolutely not," he murmured. "But I'd rather the humans write fanfiction about us than about the holes in our security. And if Unsynced wanted to see what you look like in a target, now he has a very clear picture."
"Comforting," she said.
His hand tightened slightly at her waist.
"I won't let them take you," he said.
"Big words," she said. "For someone dancing through a minefield."
He huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh, might have been despair.
"We'll redraw the map," he said quietly. "Like we always do."
She rested her forehead briefly against his shoulder, just long enough to make the cameras go wild and her nerves settle a fraction.
"Promise?" she asked.
His jaw flexed against her hair.
"Yes," he said.
She didn't know if fate would let him keep it.
But as they turned under the glittering lights, playing their parts for the watching world—CEO and artist, Alpha and Moon-Scribe, monster and girl who drew him—Amara understood that the story had just taken itself public.
Their war wasn't in the shadows anymore.
It was on the front page, in rumors and stock prices and glossy magazine spreads.
And somewhere, beyond the chandeliers' glow, the unsynced watcher raised his invisible glass again, toasting the moment the story stepped onto a bigger stage.
Lights, cameras, action.
The next chapter had already started writing itself.