The bidding paddles snapped up the instant the auctioneer hissed, "Lot Forty-Seven: Omega female, unmarked." Torch smoke choked the underground hall, thick with the perfume of money and the sting of panic. Cages ringed the circular dais; inside them, Omegas shivered, rattling chains for sympathy bids. Dahlia Moon refused to beg. Shackled to the central post, collar digging into her throat, she stared through the bars and dared every predator in the room to look away first. "Opening at ten thousand credits," the warlock auctioneer purred, ledger-ink tattoos glowing faint gold across his bald scalp. A paddle flipped: fifty. Another: seventy-five. Two hundred. Four hundred. Numbers climbed like fever. Dahlia's pulse stayed flat; Omegas fetched more when they trembled, and she would not gift these patrons her fear. Lights dimmed as bids leapt past half a million, but no shadow could hide the hunger sharpening their faces, the thrill of ownership. Velvet curtains parted. Silence fell.
Damon Thorne Valemont stepped into the torchlight—tall, black-suited, a crescent scar silvering the skin beneath his left eye. Rumor said he crushed rival packs with a smile and bought silence with clean money soaked in blood. He raised an obsidian bidder's card between two fingers. One million. Gasps fluttered; paddles lowered. No one challenged the Alpha Tyrant. "Sold," the auctioneer crooned, voice thick with greed. Guards unlocked Dahlia's chain. Her knees threatened to buckle—until a hand steadied her: Valemont's, warm and unyielding. He draped his cashmere coat across her shoulders, branding her with scent and claim. Rule one, little moon, he murmured, voice like frost kissed by embers, never lower your eyes from me again.
Rain hammered cobblestones outside. A stretch limousine idled beside the loading dock, its flank bearing the Valemont crest: a wolf entwined with a thorn dripping ruby drops. Damon ushered her in. Leather interior exhaled cedar and threat. The collar's sigils burned hotter; pain lanced her spine. She clenched her fists until nails cut skin. Damon watched—predator intrigued, not moved. Then he pressed two fingers to the rune. The pain vanished, replaced by a buzzing cold. What did you— Disarmed the obedience circuit, he said. Necessary if you're to survive the ride home. Silver smoke spiraled from the collar. Glyphs flared, metal groaned, and with a harsh snap the iron band split, clattering to the carpet. Energy prickled under her skin—soft silver threads weaving through bone and blood. Damon's pupils widened, wolf rising beneath his calm. "What are you?" he whispered—half wonder, half threat. She met the molten-silver stare, voice level. "Your worst investment."
Lightning fractured the sky. The limo's moonroof exploded, glass raining like iced stars. Tires shrieked; the driver cursed, wrestling the wheel. A figure hovered beyond the shattered roof—cloak of living shadows, feet not touching earth. You weren't supposed to take her, the specter intoned, voice like iron dragged over stone. "She belongs to the Hollow Order." Damon's suit shredded as he vaulted through the opening. Bones cracked, muscles knitted, fur erupted. A wolf the size of a small horse hit the pavement, claws sparking. He barreled into the cloaked stranger; silver fangs met black flame, thunder rolling as magic collided. Dahlia crawled across torn leather, heart hammering. Heat blossomed in her palms—soft, lunar luminescence that echoed the collar's departed glow. The stranger reeled beneath Damon's assault but conjured a blade of night, slashing a gash across the Alpha's flank. Damon roared, jaws crunching down on shadow-forged steel until it shattered. Black sparks scattered. The figure shrieked and flung a bolt of void-fire toward the limo. Dahlia's marks flared; a lattice of moonlit energy stitched itself between her and doom, deflecting the blast into the storm.
For a breath the world froze—rain suspended, lightning silent. The stranger's hollow eyes locked on her glowing hands. "Moonblood," it hissed, fear curdling through contempt. Damon seized the distraction, driving his massive form into the enemy and slamming it hard to the asphalt. A flash of silver fangs—shadow dissolved like mist. Time snapped back. Rain fell in sheets. Damon shifted mid-stride, returning to human form, blood streaking his side. He opened the limo door, face carved with exhaustion and awe. Are you hurt? She shook her head though her pulse thundered; silver light faded on her skin. He studied that glow—equal parts wariness and fascination. "The Hollow Order branded you," he said That makes you valuable—and cursed. Why buy a curse? Because I dreamed your name, he replied, voice quiet beneath the storm. Every night for a year.
Sirens wailed in distant streets. Valemont signaled the driver; the limo rolled forward, tires spitting water. They climbed winding roads toward a crest where black spires pierced low clouds. Electric wards shimmered violet over battlements of polished obsidian. Valemont Estate. Inside, chandeliers of ghost-glass floated in vaulted corridors, flames steady and cold. Portraits tracked them with silver eyes. Damon guided her through echoing halls to a marble foyer dominated by a mural: a woman bound to an altar, silver blood flowing while a wolf loomed above. Something inside Dahlia twisted. I've seen this, she murmured. In dreams? Damon asked. In nightmares, she whispered. He led her up a grand staircase, past doors carved with lupine heraldry, to a chamber draped in midnight silk lit by candles burning blue. Rest. No chains here. Prison by any other name, she muttered. A flicker of regret touched his mouth.
Tomorrow we discuss the Order and the light under your skin. Door closed; footsteps faded.
Alone, Dahlia tested the walls with silent spells. Wards shrugged them off. She approached a tall mirror framed in tarnished silver. Her reflection wavered—eyes wider, shadows deeper. You're not the first, the mirror whispered, lips unmoving. But you could be the last. She stumbled back. When she looked again, it was only glass. A black velvet box now rested on the bed, tied with silver ribbon. Inside lay a collar—not iron, but polished moonsteel etched with a lunar crest. A note beneath it read: You are not a prisoner. You are the storm. Signed simply: D. Dahlia's hands trembled. She let the collar fall and retreated to the window. Thunder rolled across Valemont Hill. She pressed her palm to the glass; faint silver light answered from her skin. Somewhere beyond the city, the Hollow Order whispered her name backward, promising they would reclaim their lost prize. She whispered back—no words, just a silent vow—and the storm outside roared as if it heard.