The sunset bled crimson over the city skyline, casting long shadows that sliced through the penthouse windows like knives.
Elara stood alone on the balcony, her bare feet cold against the marble tile, eyes closed as the wind tugged at her hair. Something felt... wrong.
It wasn't the usual anxiety she'd grown used to since signing the Luna Clause. It was deeper, older. A cold slither beneath her skin. Her psychic senses, now sharpened since moving into Dominic's den, buzzed with static.
She gripped the balcony rail. "Not now," she whispered.
Behind her, the sliding glass door clicked shut. She turned swiftly, only to find nothing.
"Dominic?"
No answer.
Just the sound of her breath, a sudden gust of wind—and then the balcony's far shadow moved.
Too fast.
Too wrong.
A hulking figure emerged. Ripped clothing, matted hair, and glowing eyes—amber and wild. A rogue.
Her blood froze.
Before she could scream, the thing lunged.
Elara dove to the side, the creature's claws grazing her shoulder. Pain flared hot, but she stayed on her feet. The balcony wasn't wide—she was cornered.
Her mind raced. "The mark," she muttered, yanking the neckline of her dress to expose the glowing mate-mark. Maybe it could summon Dominic, maybe—
The rogue snarled. "That mark doesn't make you strong, little Luna."
Her back hit the railing.
She shoved out her hand on instinct. A pulse—blue and bright—flashed from her palm.
The rogue staggered.
Her power. Her curse. It had responded.
But she was weakening. Blood trickled from her nose again. She fell to her knees.
The rogue recovered, lips peeled into a feral grin. "Almost too easy."
Then—
A blur. A snarl louder than thunder. A form slammed into the rogue from the shadows of the doorway.
Dominic.
Fangs bared, eyes glowing molten silver, his transformation incomplete but terrifying. His claws raked down the rogue's chest. The rogue shrieked, retaliated with a claw to Dominic's side.
Blood splattered the glass.
Elara crawled back, gasping. "Dominic!"
But he was already up, already in full beast-mode.
The air thickened with dominance. It pushed Elara's chest in, made the rogue quiver.
"Mine," Dominic growled. "You touch her again, and you'll die slower."
The rogue spat blood. "The Council will punish you both. She's not pure."
Dominic snapped his neck.
The silence that followed felt louder than the fight.
Thirty minutes later, Elara sat trembling on the penthouse couch, wrapped in a thick blanket. Her nose had stopped bleeding, but her shoulder throbbed. Dominic knelt in front of her, applying a salve with steady hands.
She couldn't stop staring at him.
"You shifted," she whispered.
He didn't answer immediately. His jaw clenched, brow furrowed in a scowl. "Not fully."
"But enough."
He finished the dressing, stood, and paced the room like a caged wolf.
"Who was that?" she asked.
"Rogue. Sent by someone. Maybe the Council. Maybe worse."
"Why would they want me dead?"
His eyes snapped to hers. "Because you're mine."
Her breath caught.
"You're not just a human, Elara. That blast you unleashed… it wasn't mortal magic."
"I didn't know I could do that," she whispered.
He looked like he wanted to say more. Instead, he turned toward the window. The balcony door was shattered.
"I'm increasing security. You're not going anywhere without me from now on."
She hugged her knees. "This was never supposed to be real, Dominic."
"It is now."
Later that night, Elara tried to sleep. She failed.
The pain in her shoulder was manageable.
But the confusion in her chest wasn't.
Dominic had shifted. To protect her.
She'd felt the bond flare like fire. The mate-mark had glowed like a lighthouse.
And she had thrown power—not borrowed magic, but something innate.
Something moon-born.
She rose from the bed, padding to the window. The moon was high, full and bright.
And for a moment, it felt like it was watching her.
She didn't realize her fingers were tracing the mark on her collarbone.
In the other room, Dominic stood on the phone with Ezra, his beta.
"I want names," he barked. "No rogue gets through my wards unless someone powerful lets them."
Ezra's voice crackled on the other end. "We have suspicions. Word is... the Council's spooked. The prophecy's leaking."
Dominic turned to stare at the shattered glass.
"Find out who opened their mouth."
"You okay?"
"Barely."
"And the girl?"
"She's not a girl," Dominic said quietly.
"She's the moon's own fire."
Ezra was silent.
"And if the Council thinks she's weak," Dominic added, "they're about to learn otherwise."
In her dreams, Elara stood on a blood-streaked hill.
The moon hung lower than ever, full and golden.
She heard a voice—deep and feminine and old as dust.
"The mark is true. The bond is sealed. But the price is still unpaid."
She reached for the light.
And woke with blood on her pillow.
At dawn, Dominic entered her room, fingers clenched around a paper scroll.
"A summons," he said grimly.
She sat up. "From?"
"The Council."
She took the scroll. The seal was blue—a color reserved for royal-level proceedings.
"What do they want?"
He didn't answer.
Because the answer was already in her blood, already throbbing in her mark.
They knew.
They all knew.
And now, the game was about to change.