Chapter 1
RUBY
Tonight, I'm gonna kick some serious ass.
Or maybe a few asses, depending on how many decide to cross me before the clock strikes midnight.
This week? It’s been an explosive mess, like chaos poured into a blender. Plans crumbled, doubts slithered in, and sleepless nights clung to me like an unwanted shadow. There’s a storm brewing in my chest, a tension winding tighter with each tick of the clock. It feels like a wire about to snap, and when it does, it’ll either drag me down or send everything around me crashing.
But I’ve come too far to let it all unravel now.
Three months. That's how long I've been stuck on this glittering hellhole they call an island. Three months of meticulously crafting my master plan. I’ve dissected every detail like a surgeon, weighing the pros and cons until everything fit perfectly together. Until I reminded myself of why I embarked on this journey in the first place.
And now, I’m done worrying about the fallout. Let it all burn. Let it shatter. I’m here to claim what I came for, and I won’t leave empty-handed.
So, here I am, standing thirty feet from the gates of hell, balancing precariously in a pair of killer heels.
I’m dressed to kill in a black velvet mini skirt that hugs my curves like a lover in a passionate embrace. A sheer lace halter top adds a hint of danger, teasing the line between allure and risk. Gold YSL hoops swing like promises made to be broken, and layered pendants rest against my collarbone, whispering secrets too dangerous to share. My black Prada bag drapes over my shoulder, shimmering in the moonlight, speaking of wealth without advertising me as a target.
But that chill in the air? It doesn’t care how good I look. The wind bites at my skin, almost resentful of my exposed beauty. Goosebumps ripple over my thighs, my shoulders tense, but I won’t flinch. Growing up in my world teaches you one vital lesson: either the night consumes you, or you harness it for yourself.
I square my shoulders and take that final step, locking eyes with two sentinels in matte-black suits. Their faces—bone-white and expressionless—are a haunting reminder of death’s grace. Behind them lies a steel arch draped with twinkling lights, a gateway into the depths of darkness.
The Blackcove Centennial Gala—a by-invitation-only spectacle so exclusive it feels summoned rather than announced. No press, no hashtags, no prying cameras unless you’re told where to look. A century of blood-stained legacy weaved into wine-stained carpets and hushed inheritance whispers. Only the most powerful are aware of the night unfolding.
And after three long months of waiting, here I am—the golden apple. But this apple didn’t just fall into my hands; I snatched it.
I extend my wrist to the scanner, my pulse quickening as the light flickers red, then shifts to green. Clear. Verified. Access granted.
As I stride inside, the guard’s hand brushes my lower back, suggesting I might need guidance in these treacherous waters. He doesn’t say much—just tilts his head slightly in a silent gesture of respect.
“Lady Elira Vonn,” he murmurs, bowing, “Welcome back to Blackcove.”
A shiver runs through me at that name. It doesn’t belong to me—it belongs to the girl I left face-down in her duvet just hours ago, teetering on the edge of dreams after I slipped a couple of blue-numb drops into her tea. She’ll awaken, baffled and nursing a headache, entirely unaware of the important gala she missed, her invitation and stunning dress gone without a trace.
I tell myself it was necessary—a clinical move. She’ll be fine, I reason, reminding myself that no one escapes this world unscathed.
But even as I glide past the guards, spine erect and eyes locked ahead, that lie claws at my throat like shattered glass.
Here’s the hard truth: I despise what I did to her. But I despise the people inside that room even more. And someone has to make them bleed.
I adjust my silver-dusted feathered mask, just enough to maintain the illusion that I belong in this place. That I’m not a loaded gun wrapped in satin, merely dressed up as someone else.
With confidence, I stride forward, my hips swaying, chin held high as I follow the guard through a glass atrium lit by floating torches—each flickering flame a warning, like stars held captive.
And then—
The ballroom engulfs me.
Holy hell.
I’d seen glimpses before—photos, whispers exchanged in dark chat threads—but nothing could prepare me for the reality unfolding before my eyes.
A cathedral of opulence sprawls out—a realm of electric twilight casting spells over chrome beams and mirrored walls. Beneath my heels, the floor pulses with an ocean-blue glow, illuminating pristine white tables arranged with meticulous symmetry. Crystal centerpieces shimmer at their cores, as if alive, breathing in the atmosphere of excess.
Holograms floated above us like ghosts from history, projecting visions of Warrington’s original founders—stiff-collared and clutching cigarettes—alongside the tumultuous student uprisings of Ironcrest and the very birth of Loxenhurst. A century's worth of rebellion and opulence swirled above my head, weaving a rich tapestry of folklore designed for a select few.
But this wasn’t just a glitzy party; it was a legacy wrapped in diamonds and shrouded in deceit.
“This way, Lady Vonn,” murmured my guide, gently nudging me deeper into the chaos. I nodded and moved through a sea of party-goers, each with sparkling champagne flutes in hand. The laughter around me rang hollow, a sickly sweet perfume that wafted through the air—light and rehearsed, utterly fake.
These were the goldenborns, raised on polished thrones and groomed for a life of high diplomacy. They dined with silver forks, constructing their empires over the forgotten’s bones, gliding through life as though money for rent was an alien notion—like they’d never known what it was to count every penny or scrape a plate clean.
And God, I loathed how beautiful it all was.
My desire was to rip it all down.
“Your stand, ma’am,” he announced, bringing me to a halt in front of the towering Loxenhurst structure. It stood like a shrine—curved white pillars arcing gracefully, decorated with shimmering banners emblazoned with the crescent flame. A centerpiece dripping with jewels likely worth more than every apartment I’d ever called home caught my eye.
Around it surged real students, their voices murmuring softly behind jewel-toned masks. They tossed back champagne as if it were nothing.
The man bowed and disappeared, leaving me alone to scan the crowd. My fingers tightened around my clutch, where a silver-tipped syringe filled with truth serum lay hidden. I'd traded half my soul for it down in the labyrinthine alleys—no choice if I wanted answers.
All I needed was one of the Wolves.
Just one.
Get him alone. A little teasing, jab the needle. I had to ask the question that had been stifling me since everything went dark: What happened to my brother? I needed to record the confession.
His suicide came out of nowhere.
There had been no logical reason for it. Not when he’d texted me after that last game, all grins and excitement about being scouted by an NHL coach—his dream come to life. The dream he’d chased since we were kids, sneaking out to catch late-night reruns of Stanley Cup games. He bled for that dream on frozen ponds, breaking bones and splitting lips, refusing to back down.
And then, just like that, he chose to end it?
Bullshit.
That’s why I was here tonight—to uncover the truth.
If I couldn’t wrest answers from them directly, the serum tucked in my clutch would work wonders—no visible bruises, no messy fallout—just cold, hard truths.
I snatched a glass of champagne from a passing tray and found a corner to blend in. I didn’t truly belong here, but tonight, I cast aside my identity as Ruby from the East Side, with cracked knuckles and grief stitched into my very being. Tonight, I was whoever I needed to be to get closer to the truth.
Everyone around me looked like they were born with silver in their veins—gorgeous gowns and perfectly tailored suits, glittering diamond masks that made them resemble walking performance pieces. They exuded status and power, identities wrapped in a masquerade of elite monsters, grinning behind layers of velvet and gold. I swept my gaze over them; none were who I was seeking.
Then, I spotted them.
The Wolves.
My breath caught mid-sip; I couldn’t look away.
All five of them.
Sitting in the far-right corner like gods cast down into silk and sin. Clad in black tuxedos that must have cost more than everything I owned, their Venetian masks—dark, elegantly carved with silver accents—made them both anonymous and dangerously intriguing. Each mask unique, yet all radiated an air of lethal elegance.
They didn’t need to speak. In fact, they hardly moved. But their presence? It was undeniable.
They belonged to another time—solid, statuesque, and dangerously powerful. If someone told me they were crafted by a drunken Grecian artist drunk on power and seduction, I’d believe it without question.
They didn’t look like students; they looked like executioners in disguise.
Around me, the gala faded—the music, laughter, the sparkling swirl of masks and empty smiles blurred into white noise.
All I could focus on were them. I swirled the champagne in my glass, pretending to be nonchalant while plotting my next move. I couldn’t just stroll over; their area was heavily guarded. No one approached the Wolves unless they were invited or wanted trouble.
Then, as if the universe had set up the perfect moment, one of them stood.
He slipped away from the group, gliding through the hall like smoke—smooth and untouchable. He passed table after table, never looking back.
He was heading for the stairs.
Bingo.
Setting my untouched glass down, I maneuvered through the throng, trailing behind him like a shadow, weaving between tables gracefully. Casual. Invisible. My heels barely kissed the marble floor.
No one had their eyes on me.
Good.
I spotted him up ahead, moving past a striking sculpture on the landing—an iron tree adorned with sapphire leaves—before disappearing into the left wing.
That was my cue.
I accelerated my pace, swift enough to keep him in sight, but cautious not to draw attention.
I quickened my pace, intent on keeping him in my sights, but I remained quiet, careful not to draw attention. I couldn’t let my cover slip.
As soon as I turned into the hallway, the air shifted. It grew heavier, thick with an oppressive presence that felt completely out of place—not in a school, not at a gala, not in any civilized setting.
This was power, radiating from him like a storm, hanging in the air like an uninvited guest.
The hallway was empty. Just me. Just him.
I didn’t need solid proof. The atmosphere screamed the truth. It felt as if the air itself was wrapping around him, bending beneath the weight of whatever darkness he carried—a warning for all to steer clear.
Too bad I didn’t care.
I followed him, cautiously.
The vibrant noise of the ballroom faded into a distant heartbeat before silence enveloped me.
Suddenly, a voice crackled through the speakers: “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen… Welcome to the Centennial Gala…”
But I tuned it out, my focus sharp. My grip tightened around my purse, where a syringe lay hidden inside, my heart pounding as if it were trying to sound a desperate alarm my brain was ignoring.
The hallway became a surreal landscape, drenched in shades of violet and ice-blue. LED lights pulsed along the walls, giving the space an almost living heartbeat, vibrating secrets underfoot.
I locked my gaze on him.
He stopped.
So did I.
I pressed myself against the wall, merging with the shadows. The darkness combined with the sleek cut of my dress, making me nearly invisible. He turned his head, scanning the area.
But he didn’t see me.
He didn’t need to.
Just keep moving, you idiot.
And he did.
Once he rounded the corner, I peeled away from the wall, tailing him with caution. But when I reached the T in the hallway, he had vanished.
Crap.
I scanned both directions. Left. Right.
Which way to go? Think.
Before I could voice the question, a chill crept up my spine, the hairs on my neck prickling in warning.
Then came the shove.
It slammed into me like a brick wall. My back hit the wall hard, pain jolting through my spine. Instinct took over. I raised my hand, ready to strike back at this jerk like a kid facing a bully.
But then our eyes locked—his dark hazel meeting mine.
Rhys Blackthorn.
“Give me one reason why I shouldn't snap your neck right now—because I’m seriously debating whether you’re a threat… or just another pathetic shadow begging to be erased.”
Oh, boy! Welcome to Hell!
Author Note:
Hey everyone! Wow, we made it to the end of this chapter! Thank you so much for sticking around. I’m really excited to dive into the next part with you all!
I’m just starting out as a writer, so I’d love to hear your thoughts. What did you think about Ruby and the Wolves' world? Any feedback, criticism, or even just some encouragement would mean the world to me.
Feel free to share your thoughts! I can’t wait to see what you all think and I hope to catch you in the next chapter. Let’s keep this adventure going! 🌟
