Bella's POV:
I slowly opened my eyes, sinking deeper into the comfort of my bed. For a moment, I just lay there, cocooned in warmth, but his image clawed its way back into my mind—the broad back of that man, a silhouette burned into my dreams. I groaned softly, trying to shake it off. A hot shower. That would snap me out of it.
The floor was freezing under my feet as always. I stripped my clothes, tossing them carelessly into the basket, and stepped into the shower. Hot water cascaded over my skin, a sharp contrast to the chill of the tiles. For a few blissful seconds, I could almost pretend everything was normal.
Then he returned. The image. The presence. His shadow pressed against the inside of my skull. Last time, he had been chasing me. This time, in my nightmare, he had killed my parents. Yet even through the horror, there was something about him—something familiar. Like a scent you can't place but know you've breathed before.
That aura… it wasn't just power. He was definitely an alpha. Heavy. Unmistakable. The kind of presence that seeps under your skin and stays there. His scent—vanilla laced with something darker—wrapped around my thoughts and made my knees weak. The most terrifying part? He had no tail, no ears, no animal features at all, just a human form hiding something far more dangerous beneath. I shuddered, pressing my forehead to the cold tiles.
Why him? Why always him?
And then a terrifying thought crossed my mind—what if it was Knox? That smug, taunting beast who seemed to know how to unravel me without trying. The aura in my dream… it was just like his.
I clenched my jaw, shutting off the water as if drowning out the thought. No. It couldn't be him. It shouldn't be him.
But deep down, I wasn't sure anymore.
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—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 theater 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.
Masks on. Pride off. Join me at Marlowe midnight.
The invitation delivered on heavy paper, stamped with a sigil. Courteous enough to be accepted, vague enough to stir curiosity. The tone is an invitation and a dare.
I'll plant my men as waiters and musicians, seed rumors that someone's skimming product, and display a crate of "rare" pills as bait; let them cluster where I choose corners for whispers, a high table for preening—then, when laughter peaks, pull the strings: the music drops, a projection or intercepted confession cuts through the room, and the true faces show.
An alpha who pales, a dealer who palms a packet—reactions I don't need to force. I won't aim for neat arrests; I want fractures: alliances splintered, trust made perilous, a name burning through the underworld. Exits are watched but chaos is my curtain—if it gets messy I let it burn, then step down from the balcony, glass in hand, unmasked for a heartbeat to savor the moment a man realizes his life has been rearranged.