Bloody waltz
The Castle does not ask. The Castle calls.
A month before the Blood Moon, when the silver disc rose slowly above the trees of the Borderlands, black carriages fanned out across the lands between the Parish and the Forest. Each carried the same thing: parchment slick with seals, smelling of amber and compulsion.
“In the Year of Our Lord 1672.
To be delivered in person: Miss of the house von Elger, aged eighteen.
On the day of the equinox, she is to report to the Castle of the Blood Hunt to begin her service.”
That was it. No requests. No conditions.
She-wolves were taken to the Castle once a year. Always young. Always unmarried. Always chosen from the lesser bloodlines.
They were to serve, to learn, to dance.
And to be chosen.
So it was with Miss Cecille von Elger.
Her mother packed her without tears, though her hands trembled as she stitched an old protective charm into the hem of her slip.
Her father said nothing. For what was there to say?
That none of the returning girls ever spoke of what truly happened behind the castle walls? That some came back... dimmed? And others—never returned at all?
The carriages gathered the girls one by one, like meat at market, then carried them behind heavy curtains along winding roads to a place found on no map.
At the Castle — the lessons began.
They were taught manners, curtsies, dances.
How to smile without teeth, how to lower their eyes with grace, how to kneel when a hand slipped beneath their skirts.
How to surrender their mouths when a man desired them.
But that wasn’t all.
The nights belonged to whispers. And the whispers said everything.
“I saw Lord Dormé slit a boy’s throat for daring to touch his chosen girl.”
“They say Lady Tessa came back... pregnant. But there was never a child.”
“If you’re not chosen, you can still be... used. By all of them.”
“The worst are the ones from the Western Lands. Their customs are different. There, the female does not say ‘no’. There, she does not speak at all.”
Whispers slithered under bedroom doors. The girls clung to each other like sisterhood could save them.
But all of them knew one thing:
When the first bell of the ball tolls—no one will save you.
Because this is not a ball. It is a hunt.
The lords of the houses—powerful, ancient, cruel—came once a year to hunt. For beauty. For fresh blood. For submission and the defiance they could break.
And when one of them pointed his finger… the real game began.
Not for the girl’s heart. For who would break her first.
Miss Cecille, barely eighteen, placed a crown cold as death upon her brow and stepped into line with the others. She looked into the mirror one last time.
She didn’t see herself. She saw merchandise on display.
And then the great doors opened.
There was no music. Not yet. Only the Castle’s breath. As if it was pleased. As if it was hungry once more—for blood, and the innocent souls of virgins.
When the Males Descend
They arrived one by one.
From the mountains and valleys. From palaces hidden in forests and fortresses perched on cliffs.
Accompanied by loyal men or alone— as if an entourage wasn’t needed to emphasize their rank.
After all, it wasn’t titles that made them dangerous, but the blood beneath their skin— hot, wolfish, untamed.
The air at the castle gate trembled when the doors opened for the next guest. Carriage wheels splattered mud that dared not stain the boots of lords— immediately cleaned by servants bred for obedience.
“My lord, your chamber awaits.”
“As every year, my lord. Overlooking the southern woods.”
“We saved the wine you like.”
And they merely nodded, not wasting words. Everyone knew their place. And every place remembered their touch. The rooms—unchanged through the years— still bore the scent of old victories, nighttime moans, and morning quarrels.
Upholstery steeped in tobacco and sweat, canopied beds that knew more secrets than any lady-in-waiting.
In the halls, where the lords met after travel, deep, hoarse voices echoed, blending with the clink of goblets on silver trays. There were bows exchanged and venomous remarks. Handshakes that ground old grudges between the knuckles, and others that melted into brotherhood.
“I heard you came alone this time, Garion.”
“I need no one to prove who’s the sharpest fang in the room.”
“Still arrogant, I see.”
“Still right.”
And somewhere among them, there was him. The host. The Alpha of the Castle. The one whose word was law, whose gaze was a verdict.
But even he was just another player—until the ball began. Until the music stirred. Until they entered.
The Grand Ballroom of the Castle of Bloody Hunts
The ballroom stretched like the belly of a beast— vast, warm with candlelight and blazing hearths, bathed in gold that shimmered like it was alive. Chandeliers thick as ox necks hung from the ceiling, tentacle-like blessings frozen in time. Each adorned with dozens of candles, casting not light, but fire upon the room.
The floor, polished to a mirror, reflected the slender legs of tables, the velvet upholstery of chairs, and heavy drops of wine falling from chalices. The walls bore paintings so steeped in eroticism and brutality, it was impossible to tell where ecstasy ended and pain began.
At the center of the left wing— the main table. Long as sin, laid out like an altar. Duck legs in caramel, venison laced with ginger, figs in honey, cakes carved like lace sculptures, and all around it a sea of alcohol: dark wines, chilled champagnes, ancient meads with the kiss of the devil in them.
Surrounding it all—private booths. Draped in black silk canopies, offering shade and secrecy to those who preferred not to be seen while they chose. Or took.
The air hung heavy with the scent of incense, meat, and fear. And in the heart of the ballroom—an open space, like a clearing in the woods, where wolves could dance… or fight.
For though the music hadn’t begun, the tension already sizzled.
As if the very walls of the Castle thrilled at the thought of what was to come. As if they ached to witness girls in white becoming females in red.
Because this ball wasn’t for humans. It was a ball for wolves.
The Girls’ Entrance
A rustle. Soft as the first breath after pleasure, yet heavy with the weight of a verdict.
The heavy doors of the hall creaked open with a prolonged groan, and from the shadows of the corridor, they emerged — the girls. Their dresses, sewn over months by the nimble hands of mothers and tailors, whispered uncertainty with every step of their delicate feet across the polished floor. Their heads were bowed, eyes fixed on the ground, shoulders tense under the weight of corsets — and expectation.
The hall stirred. Conversations died as if pierced by a blade.
The gentlemen — wolves from across the land, dressed in velvet doublets, embroidered cloaks, lace, and gold — turned toward them, like hounds catching the scent of blood.
One of the men — older, with eyes the color of a scar — slowly licked his lips. Another, younger, leaned toward his companion, murmuring something hoarse. Goblets halted mid-air, suspended on the verge of a toast.
The ball was about to begin.
The girls moved toward the center of the hall, settling into carefully rehearsed curtsies.
The air was thick with incense, freshly spilled wine, and… adrenaline.
In a moment, they would be torn apart by gazes. In a moment, their every movement would become a bid.
In a moment, they would become property.
Lady, behold your executioner and your savior.
A silhouette appeared in the doorway, its shadow spilling ahead like a dark prophecy.
Valmont de Vire. A name whispered in chambers and boudoirs, with reverence and dread. His stride was lazy, as though time itself bent around him, as though he had all the hours in the world to ruin every woman and rob every man of pride.
A cloak of black velvet draped his shoulders, with golden embroidery trembling slightly with every step. It was held by a single, loosely fastened button — a mocking nod to decorum.
As he crossed the threshold, voices fell silent. As if everyone knew the king of the night had set foot on the floor.
His gaze was slow, golden eyes sliding over the row of young she-wolves. Their dresses rustled like dry leaves, their hearts beat like wings of trapped birds. Some dropped their eyes, blushing under the weight of his presence. Others straightened their backs with defiance — a defiance he did not intend to respect.
Valmont did not choose the obedient. Valmont broke the proudest.
He bowed low, with a theatrical flourish that was both mockery and promise.
" Ladies..." his voice was velvet, but carried a blade’s edge, sinking into soft flesh. "How exquisite your hopes look before I tear them apart."
He straightened slowly, like a predator before a pounce. His smile was shameless. No promise of anything but desire — and not the merciful kind.
Tonight, Valmont intended to choose his prey. And turn her into more than just a memory. He’d make her a curse.
The girls were led in pairs, evenly, as if arranged like trophies on display. Each in a gown tailored to perfection, made of fabric so costly their families wouldn’t see another coin for years. In their eyes: anxiety. On their lips: artificial smiles, trembling like a candle flame in an open window.
The ball had yet to begin, but the castle was already tasting the air.
And then she appeared.
Miss Cecille von Elger did not look like a girl of lesser birth. Even if she was. She possessed the kind of beauty that imposes itself on the gaze — not loud, not flamboyant, but inevitable. Her skin, pale as moonbone, shimmered with a subtle chill, as though the moon kissed her more often than the sun. Her eyes — grey, flecked with silver — resembled steel that had never known a blade, but was ready to become one. Her hair was braided into a crown, pinned with claw-shaped combs.
She had no doe-like grace. She carried herself like a predator who forgot she was meant to be prey.
Her dress was chosen in the color of wine — dark, as if it might vanish into spilled blood on the floor. The fabric cascaded over her figure, hiding nothing. On the contrary — it celebrated the curve of her waist, the arc of her shoulders. As if saying: “Look. Here is a body. Take it, if you can.”
But her gaze. That was what stole the breath.
She did not look afraid. She looked calculating. Like someone memorizing every face, every weakness, every twitch.
Like someone not planning to survive — but to endure.
And to make others pay before she had to.
His Whim
Cecille drifted across the hall like a dream, blissfully unaware she was about to wake into a nightmare. Smiles, bows, the rustle of silk. The game went on — appearances were sacred… until they stopped being useful.
And then he moved.
Not Valmont. Another. One who thought he could touch.
Too young, too sure of himself, too hungry for sparkle.
He stopped right next to her. He hadn’t touched her yet, but he was close. Too close. His words were ready — no doubt rehearsed in front of a mirror, unaware that what stared back at him there was only his own death.
Then the air thickened. Not with sound — with silence.
Valmont was there. Finally in motion. Not like a man — like an executioner. Like a verdict. There was no warning. Only action. Silent. Swift. Brutal.
Claws gleamed like steel. Blood spurted like wine.
The boy gasped — shocked, as if the world had broken some unspoken deal. He dropped to his knees. Not dead. Not yet.
Valmont stood over him like death in black, eyes locked on Cecille — not on his prey.
And then he said it. A voice low, like gravel grinding in his throat:
“Mine.”
Not a plea. Not an invitation. A declaration. Branded like fire.
No one in the crowd moved. No one offered help. It was Valmont, after all. And she — the new one — was his now.
Though there was no seal, no vow, no bond. There was only desire. And sin. And in his hands — unshakable as fate.
The servants appeared soundlessly, as if they’d been waiting just beyond the doors, sensing the cry of blood before it came. Two faceless shadows in crimson lifted the boy from Valmont’s feet — carefully, but not gently. Blood still leaked from his chest — dark, thick, nearly black. The young wolf was unconscious. But not dead. Not yet.
“Take him to the cellars. His wolf should know how to deal with it,” Valmont said, not even glancing their way.
He wasn’t speaking to them. He was speaking to her.
Cecille.
She stood a few steps away, as if what had just happened was nothing more than a drizzle, not a storm. As the body passed her, she lifted her gown slightly — a gesture full of grace, but more mockery than caution. The hem revealed delicate ankles and a flash of silk stockings, but her face stayed perfectly still.
Only once the blood hadn’t touched her, did she finally raise her eyes to Valmont.
“In your world,” she asked sweetly, “don’t you ask a lady’s permission before getting to know her?” But in the word know, a blade lay waiting.
The silence that followed was the breath before detonation.
Valmont froze — not because he didn’t know what to say, but because no one had ever dared. No one had ever dared to challenge him. Least of all a woman. Least of all in public.
“Permission?” he echoed, voice low and sharp, testing the word like a knife’s edge. He stepped once. Then again. Until only breath and the echo of blood between them remained. “You’re not my possession, Cecille. Not yet,” he murmured, almost intimately. And then… he smiled.
Not like someone amused. Like a predator who sees that his prey has teeth. And wants to see how many bites she has in her before she breaks.
“But be warned,” he whispered even closer, leaning in so she could smell him — clean, sharp, with a trace of something eternally cold. “with that kind of boldness, it’s dangerously easy to fall in love. And even easier to die.”
Then he vanished like a shadow — swift, smooth, soundless — leaving her at the center of a crowd caught between awe and shock. They’d seen the explosion… But not the beginning of the war.
Cecille walked slowly, as if everything her eyes touched deserved consideration. Crystal goblets of wine, silver platters with figs and salted almonds, thick chocolate offered by a trembling maid. Tried to offer — her hand shook when Cecille looked at her a second too long. She felt the stares. From all directions. But not the kind she desired.
Not the ones that used to make men turn, bow, or offer themselves. Not hunters’ glances. These were the gazes of those who had already given up the hunt.
"She is his."
She felt it almost physically — like an echo spoken through dozens of glances, through stiffened shoulders, through eyes turned away too quickly when she paused near a young man and smiled. Flirtatiously. As she always did. As she had been taught.
But now?
“I’m sorry...” one of them stammered, stepping back as if her scent were forbidden. As if her skin burned with the brand of another.
“...I have duties… with… with the elders.”
Another didn’t even speak. Just bowed his head and walked away before she could blink.
She furrowed her brow — not with anger, but with amusement. Curiosity.
Had Valmont not only bled for her… but marked her? So effectively he hadn’t even needed claws?
Ah, so this is what terror looks like… dressed in silk and candlelight.
Cecille raised a goblet and took a sip — with the dignity of a queen and the glint of a devil. If Valmont thought he had frightened her, he clearly didn’t know his prey. He didn’t know Cecille.
She began to glide through the room with even more grace, her gaze bolder than ever, but something within her had already ignited — not the fire of fear.
No. The fire of revenge. And of the game.
If he wants to break her — he better be careful not to shatter himself in the process.
Balcony. Night. Silence before the storm.
Cecille opened the door to the balcony, not hurrying an inch. Her gown gently rustled on the floor, her corset rising and falling with each breath, as if it too had something to say about the matter. The cold air embraced her gently, bringing relief from the thick, testosterone-soaked atmosphere of the ballroom.
She stood by the marble balustrade, her fingers brushing the cool stone. Her gaze fell on the garden - quiet, dreamy, full of shadows.
But she was not alone at all.
She felt it in her bones. In the nape of her neck. In the tension of her back.
Valmont didn't need to speak. His presence was like the darker side of the moon - invisible, but tangible. And disturbing.
A wind blew. A gentle one. And, as if in passing, she slipped her hand under the fold of her dress, into the side seam of the bodice, where the fabric hid a clever pocket. There - her fingers encountered a handle. A short, flat dagger with a curved blade.
Always ready.
“Do you think I should be afraid?” she asked into space. Her voice was quiet, soft but clear. She did not turn around.
Behind her there was a rustling sound - maybe of material, maybe of air cut by the step of a predator. Or maybe just the echo of thoughts that were about to find an outlet.
“No.” came the reply. Low. Hoarse. Clad in threat and desire at the same time. “But you could be more reasonable.”
Now she turned away. Slowly. With grace.
She leaned with her hip against the railing, not letting go of the handle of the hidden dagger.
“Reason is the domain of those who can't take risks.” She smiled. Too sweet to be an expression of cordiality. “And you, Master Valmont.... You don't look reasonable.”
He took a step toward her. Then a second. He was close. Too close. So close that she could smell him - warm, with hints of leather, blood and something wild. Animalistic. He whined quietly, almost imperceptibly.
“And you don't look submissive.”
“Because I'm not.” she hissed, leaning toward him. Their lips were separated by maybe five centimeters.
“Yet.”
And then - a flash. In her eyes. And a flash of metal. Barely a flick of the tip of the blade across his neck - not deep, not hard.
Just a... A reminder.
“I'm not a trophy.” she whispered.
Silence. Interrupted only by the beating of their hearts. And somewhere out there, in the distance - the music of the ball, which now sounded like the laughter of fate.
Then she heard a swish and felt the fire, burning her face as if someone had put kindling silver to it.
Cecille felt her heart pounding in her chest as if it was about to jump out of her chest. Valmont's gaze burned her to the core, and the hand that had brandished her slap was now like a steel clamp around her body. Some unbearable certainty hung over her - she knew that this evening would not change anything. She would not get away with anything.
She retained a remnant of dignity, but there was no longer a trace of what might have seemed brave in her eyes. It was fear, filled with shame, and her hands trembled as she tried to break free from his grasp.
“You won't vilify me like this,” she - she whispered, but her voice sounded as if every word was loud enough to transcend her own fear.
Valmont laughed, but there was nothing funny in that laugh. The hand that had previously held her now tightened around her neck, immobilizing her for a moment. “You don't know what you're saying, Cecille,” - his voice was low muffled, dark, almost trembling from the passion that, under his domination, took on a whole new tone.
Cecille struggled to raise her eyes, squeezing her dress so tightly that her fingers turned white. With each passing moment, his presence in her space seemed more unbearable. He made her unable to breathe, unable to think.
“You acted like an animal,” she - she whispered, struggling to catch her breath, as if those words were all she could get out. “I'm asking about...”
“You're asking?” - Valmont interrupted her, his lips mussing her neck in one brutal movement. “You have nothing to say, Cecille.”
She felt something cool and sharp move along her arm, just above her skin, and for a moment she thought it was his claw, but no. At that moment she felt a chill on her back - as if there was not only strength in his hand, but also something binding her, imprisoning her.
Cecille had nothing left to say. She tried to tighten her lips, tried to be firm, but she could see his body coming closer, his hand finally leaping onto her back, her dress starting to unbutton, and she could no longer do anything to stop him.
And then, for a moment, she brought her dress closer to her legs, lifted it up to avoid being naked in front of those who were watching. She understood one thing - nothing could save her. Valmont would not let her escape.
Her hands, though they tried to push him away, did not have the same strength as his body, did not have the same brutality that he carried within him.
“You will not leave here unharmed, Cecille,” she heard him whisper. And then, his lips met her neck. Again.
So watch, and rejoice your eyes
The music of the ball did not quieten down. On the contrary - it seemed to grow, as if the orchestra was playing especially for him. For them. The waltz of life she did not want to dance.
Cecille did not manage to say anything. Maybe she didn't even want to say anything anymore. She trembled - not from coldness, but from humiliation that was yet to become flesh. Fear danced in her eyes, and Valmont... Valmont drank it in like wine.
He turned her around violently, as if she were just a porcelain doll in his collection. He embraced her at the waist and forced her to rest her hands on the cool balustrade. The gown parted even further, rustling like a dropped mask. In one motion, he tugged the material - until she hissed quietly - not out of anger, but out of pain. And from embarrassment. She felt eyes on her. Dozens of gazes.
Behind her back - a balcony door open wide. Behind the door - guests. Wolves. Or maybe not wolves - hyenas. None of them moved, did not react. Maybe they were terrified of Valmont. Or maybe they just... wanted to watch.
Valmont was at the height of insatiable triumph. He gasped low, right next to her ear, and ran his tongue over her neck. His hand tightened on her hip until he drove his nails into her. He didn't kiss her, didn't caress her - there was no tenderness in him. There was only hunger.
“Don't turn around,” he - he growled when she moved her head as if to defend herself with her gaze. “You have no right to look at me.” The words were accompanied by the rustling sound with which he untied the ribbons of his pants.
And then he entered her - without warning, without question. Like an animal. Brutally, impatiently. He let out a quiet, throaty grunt that was more like a roar than a moan. He wrapped his arm around her chest, holding her neck with his other hand, as if he was afraid she would run away, even though they both knew there was nowhere to go.
Cecille moaned - quietly, out of pain, maybe out of shock. She wasn't ready. Her body tense up, but he wasn't going to slow down. On the contrary - each successive thrust was like a triumph, each of his sighs like an announcement: mine.
The guests inside didn't stop dancing - but some froze. Out of the corner of her eye she saw their shadows in the light of the chandeliers, their silent silhouettes, too frightened or too intrigued to look away. Someone laughed. Someone else dropped a glass.
And Valmont... Valmont was breathing heavily, panting like a wild animal over its prey. And he spoke to her in a whisper that could not be drowned out even by music.
“You see, Cecille... Everyone knows. Everyone can see. You are no longer a lady. You are mine. And only mine.”
Her body shook, her cheeks baked from the heat and humiliation. She felt her own dignity leaking through her fingers, like blood from a wound. But she didn't scream. She didn't beg. Because she knew it wouldn't be heard. Not at this ball.
Not that night.
Bloody waltz
Cecille stood motionless, still feeling the weight of the stares on her, which, like a frigid wind, abraded her skin. Valmont, without taking his eyes off her trembling back, stepped back. His member glistened as if oiled, covered with her blood and his semen. Before tucking it back into his pants, he wiped it with a handkerchief he had taken from his vest pocket, which he dropped at Cecille's feet.
He approached her slowly, his step was not quick, but full of an intangible force that made the atmosphere around them thicker. The sound of his boots on the marble floor was like an impatient heartbeat - steady, steady, full of terror. And when he stood next to her, their bodies were only a few inches apart. She felt his breath, heavy, warm, as if every second brought them closer to an irreversible limit.
“Time to dance,” he said, his voice vibrating low in her chest. And although his tone did not betray emotion, she knew it was not a proposal - it was a command.
Before she had time to react, he grabbed her hand and pulled her to him, naked beyond a pair of shoes and stockings, now stained crimson with the crimson of her virginity, forcing her into full proximity, as if no distance existed. His grip was firm, and her body - despite all attempts to resist - surrendered to his strength.
They began to dance. It was not the gentle waltz that angels would sing. It was a dance of predators, full of tension and fierce, inescapable energy that seemed to permeate every movement. He led - naturally - like a dancer who knows every step, every subtle change, every whiff.
Cecille, with her body still warmed, felt everyone's eyes on her. At them, at her. At her nakedness, her blood, her shame and her humiliation.
Valmont didn't have to touch her skin to make her feel naked in every possible sense, not just her body. Her every move was under his control. She was like a puppet in the hands of a master who knew exactly how to influence her heart, her mind, every pulsating piece of her body.
Suddenly, just as quickly as they started, their bodies stopped, as if a stretched spring had stopped working. Valmont's gaze was like a knife stabbing into her mind.
“Did you think it would stop?” he whispered. “No, Cecille. This is just the beginning.”
