1 - A Stranger in the Shadows
Talia
A therapy dog whines.
Its leash goes taut in the hand of some wealthy donor, the animal digging its paws into the marble and straining toward one of the darker corners of the museum.
Weird.
But my feet are throbbing, my back is tight, and the tray balanced above my head feels heavier by the second, so I don’t waste energy wondering why a dog suddenly looks like it senses death.
I weave between gowns that sparkle like chandeliers and men who smell like cologne and old money.
A woman in diamonds lifts her empty glass. Beside her, a silver-bearded man gives me the kind of look people reserve for gum stuck to the bottom of their shoe.
“Water,” the woman says, smiling the way rich women do when they are used to being obeyed. “And quickly, dear.”
I force a polite smile and pull my laminated card from my apron.
It reads, “Yes, I’ll bring it right away.”
The woman’s eyes soften with pity the second she reads it.
The man beside her does not soften at all. His gaze drags over me — my cheap black service uniform, my tied-back hair, my face — like he is searching for what exactly went wrong in the world that placed me in his line of sight.
“Hm,” he murmurs to the woman, loud enough for me to hear. “If this place has enough money for galas, you’d think it could hire competent help.”
Heat crawls up my neck.
I smile anyway, because that is what girls like me do when people like them remind us where we stand.
Then I turn and head toward the service corridor before the sting behind my eyes becomes obvious.
He isn’t the real problem.
I am.
My dark skin has never been the problem here. Tonight, it’s the bruise under my concealer, the lack of cash, the secrets, the shame.
I push through the final edge of the crowd. Then something changes.
The tiny hairs along the back of my neck rise.
Heat flashes over my skin — sudden, invasive, intimate.
I stop.
It feels like someone is watching me. Like eyes have fixed on me with purpose.
I glance over my shoulder.
Nothing but laughter, candlelight, crystal glasses, and polished wealth. Still, the sensation doesn’t fade.
It grows.
I move faster and slip into the service corridor. The door swings shut behind me with a click, swallowing the music into a distant, muffled hum.
At last, quiet.
I exhale once and lower my tray.
Then I hear... footsteps.
I turn.
A man stands at the far end of the corridor, half-shadowed, dressed in black so severe and elegant he looks less like a guest and more like a threat someone forgot to keep outside.
He has his hands in his pockets. His posture is loose. Certain.
And his eyes are on me.
My whole body goes still.
He should not be back here. Guests aren’t allowed in the service hall.
I set the tray down carefully and fumble for my ring of cards, searching for the blue one. The one for Lost? Need help? Wrong area? Anything that might get him away from me before my pulse breaks through my ribs.
He starts walking.
Slowly.
Unhurried.
And every step toward me feels wrong and right in a way I cannot quite explain.
He comes into the light.
Dark hair, shorter at the sides, longer at the top, the front falling over his brow just enough to make him look dangerous on purpose. Ink coils beneath the faded sides of his hairline, disappears behind one ear, trails beneath his jaw, and vanishes beneath the collar of his immaculate black suit. His features are too sharp to be gentle — strong cheekbones, hard mouth, a face built for command rather than kindness.
But it’s his eyes that hit me hardest.
Gold. Gold and amber, lit from within like something is burning behind them.
They pin me in place.
He is beautiful in the way lightning is beautiful from a distance.
He stops a few strides back, gaze flicking once to the blue card in my hand.
He ignores it. Instead, he studies me.
With suspicion.
Like he does not yet trust what he sees.
His voice, when it comes, is low and smooth and edged with something ancient.
“Turn around.”
My fingers tighten on the blue card.
He takes one more step. “I said, turn around.”
Fear prickles down my spine, and not because he raised his voice. Because he didn’t.
I don’t move.
His gaze narrows, and there — finally — I see it. A predatory patience.
“Are you prey,” he murmurs, “or merely pretending?”
My breath catches.
He comes closer, close enough that I smell rain, smoke, and some darker spice that doesn’t belong in a museum corridor. Close enough that every nerve in my body starts firing at once.
I back up.
My shoulders hit the wall.
He lowers his head just slightly, studying my face like he’s trying to compare me to a memory. Or a prophecy. Or a lie he has told himself for too long.
Then his gaze drifts to my throat.
Slowly.
My pulse starts pounding there.
“Interesting,” he says.
I lift the blue card between us.
He catches my wrist before I can fully raise it.
The contact is electric. A real jolt races through my arm so sharp I gasp.
His expression changes.
Hungry but controlled.
“What are you?” he asks.
The question is quiet and dangerous.
I yank against his hold, but he doesn’t let go. He glances down at my card, then at my mouth, then back to my eyes.
“Mute,” he says.
I cringe subtly.
His thumb shifts against the inside of my wrist, and I hate that the touch sends heat all the way to my stomach.
He leans closer and inhales near my neck.
The reaction in him is immediate.
His jaw flexes.
His eyes darken.
His grip almost tightens.
“Gods,” he mutters. “Could it be?”
My body betrays me at once. Heat curls low and fast, liquid and humiliating. I don’t understand it. I’m not wearing perfume. I haven’t done anything. Yet standing here with him feels like stepping too close to fire and somehow wanting to be burned.
His gaze drops lower. He looks me over with brutal slowness, not like a man admiring a woman, but like a warrior assessing whether something is worth killing for... or keeping.
Then my phone buzzes.
Loud.
Sharp.
Terrible.
Maximus.
The sound slices through the vast corridor.
Before I can grab it, the stranger slips his hand into my apron pocket and pulls it free.
Just like that.
Like everything on me belongs to him if he decides it does.
Cold panic floods me.
The screen lights his face, sharpening his edges.
Facetime.
My stomach drops.
If Maximus sees—
The stranger answers it.
I lunge for the phone, but he lifts it just out of reach. His expression shifts, becoming colder. Sharper.
A beat passes.
“What the fuck?” growls Maximus.
Another bruise is sure to come from this debacle. I don’t know how much Maximus sees.
Only darkness.
My shoulder.
A flash of a black suit.
A gold eye leaning too close.
A man.
Then I leap and wrench the phone from his hand, ending the call so fast I nearly drop it.
My breathing turns ragged.
The stranger is looking at me.
No — smelling me.
His nostrils flare once. His head tilts.
And then a slow, dangerous smile touches his mouth.
“Lycan,” he says.
I freeze.
Every muscle locks.
His gaze carries a cruel satisfaction, like a suspicion he barely dared entertain has just been proven correct.
“Well,” he murmurs. “There are worse things, I suppose.”
I shake my head, trying to push past him, but he plants one hand on the wall beside me.
“Was that your bonded male?” he says. “Hopefully, he saw enough to know another man is about to claim you.”
I swallow hard, gawking in horror.
He leans in and says, almost to himself, “Good. I want to spill blood tonight.”
My body trembles.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “Do you fear me?”
The way he asks it makes the answer feel dangerous.
Because yes.
But not enough.
That’s what terrifies me. I should want distance. I should want help. I should want him gone. Instead, my skin aches with awareness. My blood hums like it recognizes him before my mind does. The air between us is charged, too intimate, too alive.
He reaches up.
This time, when his hand closes around my throat, it is not gentle. Just enough pressure to make me still. To make me feel how much stronger he is. To remind me that if he wants control, he can take it.
Every nerve inside me ignites.
He watches my reaction with predatory attention.
“Speak,” he says.
I blink at him, startled and frightened and suddenly furious.
His thumb presses lightly beneath my jaw.
“Go on,” he murmurs, eyes burning. “If you are the one, speak. Unless you cannot hear, either.”
I don’t know what he means, but something tears open inside me anyway.
And words come.
“I’m not deaf, you maniac. I’m mute.”
My own voice hits me like a blow.
I gasp and clap both hands over my mouth.
He lets go at once.
The corridor spins.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, hearing myself as never before. “That’s me. That’s my voice.”
The man stares at me, and for the first time, something cracks in his composure.
His hand lifts as though he wants to touch my face, but he stops himself.
“What did you do?” I ask, voice shaking.
His eyes lock on mine.
“Gave you words.” He steps closer, crowding me.
I press myself flatter against the wall. “Stop. I have a bonded male.”
His expression hardens at once. It is not jealousy exactly. Something older and more possessive.
“Then he has stolen what was never his.”
My pulse jumps.
He takes a slow step nearer, heat pouring off him. “Tell me,” he says, voice low and edged, “when he touches you, does your body awaken for him like this?”
My face burns.
He sees the answer there.
His mouth curves with dark approval. “No. Hm. Indeed, mine is, too.” Then, he whispers to himself. “It’s impossible. Yet, she must be yours. She must. I feel it in my bones.”
“What are you talking about? I told you, I’m taken.”
His eyes darken. “I promise you. He doesn’t know your body. He doesn’t know who you are.”
He is close enough now that every inhale feels shared.
“Who are you?” I whisper.
He studies me in silence for a moment. The gold in his eyes burns brighter. Then he says, “A man deciding if fate finally brought us together, or if I’ve befallen a trap.”
Before I can answer, Isa’s voice cuts through the corridor.
“Get away from her!”
She comes storming around the corner, small and furious, wand already in hand.
“A sorceress,” he murmurs.
Isa lifts the wand. “Back away.”
He doesn’t move.
She fires.
Light blasts down the corridor in a violent burst.
He shuts his eyes and a shield erupts around us — translucent, immense, spiderwebbing with blue fire where her magic strikes it. The air surges hot. My hair whips around my face.
When he opens his eyes again, they blaze.
He looks at Isa.
Then back at me.
He lifts one hand and touches my chin, gentler now. Almost reverent.
“What is your name?”
My voice is weak with shock, but it comes.
“Talia.”
The orb crackles, but persists. His expression transforms, suddenly impatient.
“Beautiful,” he says. “Talia. You are beautiful, Talia. Quite beautiful. I wish we had more time.”
Then black smoke begins to unspool from his shoulders.
I recoil.
He doesn’t.
He remains perfectly calm as his body starts dissolving into shadow, like this is simply another form he wears when the mood suits him.
“Do you wish to keep your voice, little starlight?” he asks.
I nod before I can stop myself.
Then, he hesitates before his lips lower to mine.
And that is somehow the most dangerous thing he has done yet. Because it is both curious and claiming.
His lips linger just long enough to brand the moment into me. Heat floods my body. His scent fills my lungs. For one dizzy heartbeat, I understand exactly how a woman loses a war before it begins.
When he pulls back, his golden gaze holds mine.
“If this is a trap...” he murmurs. He winces, like the thought is too much to bear.
Isa shouts again. Light flares.
The corridor trembles.
And he is gone.
One moment he is there.
The next, nothing but smoke and shadow unraveling into the dark.
I stand frozen, breathing hard, staring at the empty corridor.
Then I try to speak.
Nothing.
He vanished into the dark.
And he took my voice with him.
