Seliora turned slightly, tossing him a sidelong glance over her shoulder. "Awkward questions," she said, smoothing a gloved hand over her hip with practiced elegance. "Questions about whether I’ve been replaced."
Damien chuckled softly, but the laughter didn’t quite reach his eyes. "I’ll see you at home... sometime," she added.
"Seliora?" he called after her, and she paused, mid-step.
"Uhn?" She turned back to him, brows arched in question, playing the perfect image of calm detachment.
"I know this hurts you," Damien said. There was no condescension in his tone, just quiet honesty. "You shouldn’t pretend."
There was a heartbeat of silence between them. Her eyes shimmered slightly under the lights of the grand hall. "I am a big girl," she said finally, the edge in her voice returning. "As long as my place is still defined, your highness, I have no problems."
And then, Seliora leaned in, rising to her toes and pressing her lips to his. She lingered just long enough to make a point, a silent declaration inked in lipstick and history. Damien didn’t pull back. Instead, he smiled warmly at her, a kind smile laced with regret and too much understanding.
"See you around," he said gently.
"Goodnight, your highness," she replied with a slight curtsey. As she turned to leave, her smirk returned in full bloom.
Just behind Damien, Seliora had spotted Luna standing just at the entrance of the patio, watching. Her green eyes narrowed, jaw set.
Seliora’s smirk grew positively feline. "Yeah, bitch," she muttered under her breath with triumphant venom. "You may have his heart... I have his body." And with a toss of her glossy black curls, she strutted gloriously out of the hall.
Luna didn’t know why it bothered her so much.
She scoffed to herself. Goddess, she was getting soft.
But still, it gnawed at her. Watching Seliora lean into Damien like that—watching Damien not pull away. She crossed her arms and looked away, cursing herself for even caring.
She still didn’t know what the future held for them. For her and Damien.
Was she going to cave and allow the bond to deepen between them, knowing full well how complicated everything already was? Or would she someday choose to return to her people—if that was even possible anymore? With his mark on her neck, the latter seemed more and more like a fantasy.
She let out a low growl and turned back toward the patio, needing space again. Space from him, from Seliora, from her own feelings that were getting harder and harder to ignore.
She had no idea if she was angry because he kissed Seliora... or because it made her realize just how much of him she wanted to keep for herself.
A few minutes later, she sensed someone approach. She wasn’t sure if it was the slight change in air pressure or just centuries of werewolf instinct, but she straightened up, slipping on her well-worn diplomatic smile. Turning, she saw a man. He looked a bit older than the rest of the crowd—distinguished, silver at his temples, and expensive disdain wrapped around his aura. In his hand, he held a champagne flute that glowed faintly crimson in the moonlight.
"Hi..." she offered pleasantly, keeping her voice neutral.
"So you are the werewolf princess... uhn?" he said without preamble, not even glancing at her directly. His gaze was fixed out over the gardens as if even looking at her directly might cause him to break out in hives.
"That I am," Luna replied smoothly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, her smile staying in place though her eyes had sharpened.
"And the prince’s mate," he added.
"That news is also correct," she acknowledged. So far, he hadn’t said anything that required throat-slashing. Yet.
"I guess we should be expecting hybrids to rule us in the near future," he continued, swirling the drink in his glass lazily, "We are done for."
Luna blinked. "Excuse me?"
He finally turned to look her straight in the eye. "You heard me," he said, his lips barely moving. "I would suggest you keep your legs closed, princess. There is no place for a hybrid heir in Blood City."
It happened so fast she didn’t even get to punch him—which was deeply disappointing. Instead, a roar thundered from the entrance.
Damien stood tall, framed dramatically in the archway.
"Is that disrespect towards my mate that I sense?"
Lord Mason turned, and his drink wobbled slightly in his hand. "Your Highness!" he gasped, bowing swiftly, but not before Luna noticed the slight tremor in his wrist.
Damien approached. Luna, meanwhile, stood off to the side, arms crossed, trying very hard not to look too pleased. She could fight her own battles—but seeing Damien march in like her personal hellfire knight was... well, satisfying.
"I must’ve misheard you," Damien growled, eyes glowing faintly. "Because I know no one in this city would be stupid enough to insult my mate." f.r(e)e\webn.ovel.co\m
"I—I was merely voicing concern over the future," Lord Mason stammered, attempting to salvage his pride. "It’s a... delicate topic, your highness. There are traditions, bloodlines—"
"What right have you? How dare you?!" Damien boomed. Glasses clinked in the sudden silence, heads turned, conversations died mid-sentence.
"Your highness, I was just speaking all our minds," Lord Mason ventured, eyes darting nervously toward the growing crowd. fr.e ewe.bno.vel .com
Damien took one slow, menacing step forward, shadows curling behind him. "Save your mind speaking for the town hall," he said, each word slicing through the tension. "If you ever... disrespect my woman again... I will make a public example of you with your head severed from body. Is that understood?!"
Mason looked like he was mentally checking if his will was up to date. "Yes, Your Highness," he muttered, bowing so fast his vertebrae nearly popped.
"And that goes for every single one of you!" Damien turned slowly, deliberately, sweeping his gaze across the blood-drunk aristocrats who suddenly found the floor or their wine glasses very interesting. "She may not be queen yet, but you will show her respect."