I slowly opened my eyes, the world swimming into focus from the depths of a heavy, clinging sleep. For a long moment, I just lay there, sinking into the softness of my mattress, wrapped in the warm cocoon of my blankets. Peace. It was a fragile, fleeting thing.
Then, it invaded. Unbidden and unwelcome, the image clawed its way back into the forefront of my mind. Not a face—never a clear face—but the imposing, broad silhouette of him, the line of his shoulders against a gloom, and the absolute stillness of his stance. It was burnt into the back of my eyelids, a permanent stain on my dreams. A low groan escaped me as I pressed the heels of my hands against my closed eyes, as if I could physically push the memory out. It was no use. The chill of the nightmare had seeped into my bones, leaving a residue no warmth could touch.
*A hot shower*, I told myself, the thought a desperate lifeline to normality. *That will clear my head.*
The floor was a shock of ice under my bare feet, a familiar jolt that did little to dispel the deeper cold within. I peeled off my sleep-softened clothes, letting them fall into a careless heap in the laundry basket, a small rebellion against the lingering disorder in my mind. Stepping into the stream of water was like crossing a threshold. For a few blissful seconds, the heat was a scalding baptism, washing over my skin and fogging the glass, enclosing me in a white, roaring world of nothing but sensation. I could almost believe it. Almost.
But he was relentless.
He returned not as a sudden fright, but as a slow, suffocating presence. The shadow in my dream didn't just linger; it pressed itself against the inside of my skull, a weight I couldn't shake. The nightmare had shifted last night. He was no longer a distant pursuer in a dark hall. This time, he had been in my home. He had stood amidst a silence so profound it felt violent, and at his feet… I squeezed my eyes shut tighter, the water beating down on my neck. My parents. The horror was visceral, a raw, open wound.
Yet, threaded through the sheer terror was that maddening, persistent thread of… recognition. Not of a person I knew, but of an essence. Like a scent on a breeze you can't quite identify, but one that tugs at a deep, forgotten memory. It was hauntingly familiar.
And his *aura*… it was a tangible force, even in the dream. Heavy. Oppressive. It was the unmistakable imprint of an alpha, but amplified, refined to a terrifying degree. It wasn't just power; it was authority made manifest, a gravity that seemed to pull at the very core of me, seeping under my skin and planting itself there. In the dream, I could almost smell it—vanilla, smooth and deceptive, laced with something darker, something profoundly wild and ancient. The phantom scent wrapped around my thoughts now, in the steamy shower, and a treacherous, unwanted weakness trembled in my knees.
The most unsettling detail, the one that truly froze my blood, was his form. He had no telltale animal features. No proud ears, no swishing tail, no hint of a beast in his silhouette. Just a human shape, elegant and severe, containing a danger so profound it needed no physical marker. It was a mask of normalcy hiding a predator's soul. A shudder wracked my body, and I pressed my forehead against the cool, slick tiles, seeking an anchor in the real world.
*Why him?* The question was a silent scream in the roaring silence of the shower. *Why is it always him?*
And then, like a crack of lightning in the dark, the thought struck. Terrifying. Inescapable.
*What if it was Knox?*
The smug, taunting alpha from campus, with his violet eyes that saw too much. The one whose mere presence felt like a challenge, who seemed to know exactly how to unravel my composure without even trying. The aura from my dream… that dense, commanding, vanilla-laced pressure… it was *just* like his. The similarity wasn't just close; it was a perfect, chilling match.
My jaw clenched so tight it ached. I reached out blindly, fumbling for the faucet, and twisted it shut with a violent jerk. The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the drip of water from my hair and the frantic hammering of my own heart. I stood there in the steam, trembling.
*No.* The denial was immediate, visceral. It couldn't be him. It *shouldn't* be him. To have my deepest fears, my most private horrors, be tied to that arrogant, infuriating boy…
But as the steam began to clear, revealing the blurred edges of my bathroom, the certainty of my denial wavered. The connection, once considered, refused to be severed. The pieces fit together with a dread-filled click.
Deep down, in a place I was afraid to acknowledge, I was no longer sure of anything at all.
Knox's POV:
"I disagree,"
I say, cold and blunt. The man before me, Sebastian, flinches, his head dipping slightly in the split second between respect and fear. My sleek tail swaying lazily behind me, a silent metronome to my every step.
"But sir, it's important!"
He protests, the politeness in his voice failing to hide the defiance. I glance up from the report, push my glasses to the tip of my nose, and fix him with ultramarine eyes that make the blood drain from his face. I toss the papers at him; they flutter to the floor and scatter, a slow, humiliating rain. I can see the tears threatening to spill.
I draw my pocketknife and drag the tip along my fingertip, slow enough for the point to catch the light. The gesture is intimate, deliberate, and a threat made visible.
"Listen, Sebastian,"
I say softly, tasting each word,
"In this world there is no mercy. Beasts prowl for the scent of weakness. They'll tear you apart and leave nothing."
I step closer until he can smell the danger in my scent.
"Go. Make me a better plan to catch the pill dealer. You have twenty-four hours. Fail me, and I'll throw you to the beasts myself."
He bows, equal parts relief and terror, and flees for the door with a speed I've rarely seen. I watch him go with a small, satisfied curl to my mouth. I know the plan already, but I like watching my men suffer; their panic sharpens the game. It's simple, really: a masquerade, all the mafia heads in one room, and we hunt the betrayer in plain sight.
I like theatre, so I'll give them a stage:
An old-money ballroom draped in velvet and vanilla, chandeliers fracturing light across lacquered floors, Venetian masks and gilded beasts set among dark wood and spiced air; I'll invite every notable alpha, the middlemen who think they hide in plain sight, a diplomat for legitimacy, and a few expendables tied to the pill trade, all on heavy embossed cards that read like a dare.
The card is heavy stock, the edges crisp, and the sigil embossed. Not a request. A summons disguised as a courtesy.
Masks on. Pride off. Join me at Marlowe, midnight.—Nightwroth
Courteous enough to be accepted. Vague enough to stir the fatal itch of curiosity. It is both an invitation and a dare.
The plan is a play in three acts.
**First, the stage.** My men will already be there, embedded as waiters circulating with champagne, as musicians tuning their strings. They'll seed the first whispers: that someone is skimming product, that a silent partner is displeased. And in the centre of the main hall, displayed like a piece of modern art, a single crate of "rare" pills. Bait, gilded and obvious. Let them cluster around it. Let the whispers begin in the corners I've designed for whispering. Let the peacocks preen at the high table I've placed for preening. They will arrange themselves exactly where I want them, believing it their own choice.
**Second, the performance.** When the laughter is at its peak, when the masks have grown comfortable, I pull the strings. The music cuts to silence. The lights dip, and a projection—perhaps a ledger, perhaps a grainy, damning photograph, perhaps the intercepted confession of a terrified lieutenant—flashes across the main wall. Not an accusation shouted, but a truth displayed. I won't need to force a reaction. I'll simply watch. The alpha who pales beneath his mask. The dealer whose hand instinctively closes over the packet in his pocket. The frozen smile of the socialite who funded it all. Their true faces, revealed not to me, but to each other.
**Third, the fracture.** I don't want neat arrests. I want splinters. I want the fragile alliances of this room to crack under the weight of sudden, mutual suspicion. Let trust become the most perilous commodity of all. Let my name—*Nightwroth*—burn through the underworld not as a hunter who strikes from the shadows, but as a force that turns their own world against them. The exits are watched, but chaos is my curtain. If it gets messy, I'll let it burn.
Then, I step down from the balcony overlook. Glass in hand. I'll remove my own mask for a single, unguarded heartbeat and meet the eyes of the man whose empire I've just rearranged. I want to savour that precise, fleeting moment—the instant he understands that his life is no longer his own.
The game is set. Let them come dressed to hide. I will be there to unveil.