The explosion didn't punch through the air—it hammered into Elara's chest, stealing her breath.
One heartbeat, she was drowning in the stormy gray of Damien's eyes, her lips still warm from his phantom touch. The next, reality fractured into a symphony of destruction—glass singing as it shattered, wood groaning as it splintered, flames roaring as they consumed.
The century-old oak doors of the ballroom disintegrated inward, reduced to deadly splinters in an instant.
Elara's scream died in her throat.
Damien moved with supernatural speed. Before the shockwave could claim her, he spun her against his chest, his body becoming her fortress. His arms caged her head and waist, muscles tensing as he braced for impact.
BOOM.
Debris pummeled Damien's back. Crystal shards from the chandeliers rained down, slicing through the air like transparent daggers. The force sent them skidding across polished marble, the cold stone scraping against Elara's exposed skin.
Damien's body shuddered against hers. A harsh grunt escaped his throat, hot against her ear, but his grip remained unbreakable.
The orchestra's final note hung suspended before silence crashed down, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the high-pitched ringing in Elara's ears and the rising chorus of human screams.
"Stay down," Damien growled, his voice vibrating through her bones.
He pushed himself up, hovering over her like a predator protecting its mate. His tuxedo jacket hung in tatters, revealing tanned skin beneath. Tendrils of smoke curled from his shoulders, carrying the acrid scent of burned fabric and something else—something primal.
He wasn't injured. He was incandescent with rage.
Elara looked up and her breath caught. Damien's eyes had transformed into bottomless pits of darkness, no trace of white remaining. His canines had lengthened, pressing against his lower lip as a low, terrifying vibration rumbled from his chest—a growl that traveled through the marble and into her body.
"Damien?" His name escaped as a whisper.
His gaze dropped to her face. For a fleeting moment, humanity flickered through the darkness, concern breaking through his fury.
"Don't move," he commanded, voice rough as gravel. "Alfred!"
The butler materialized from the smoke, his pristine suit now gray with dust. He clutched a silver tray before him like a shield, his composure remarkably intact despite the chaos.
"Get her to the safe room," Damien ordered, rising to his full height. He tore away the remains of his jacket, muscles rippling beneath his shredded shirt. "Seal the vault. If anyone tries to enter, kill them."
"Damien, wait!" Elara seized his wrist, his skin burning beneath her fingertips. "There are too many!"
The scent hit her then—cutting through smoke and cordite with nauseating clarity.
Rotting meat. Rust. Madness.
Rogues. Not the desperate, starving kind, but something worse. These reeked of synthetic chemicals and dark magic—mercenaries. At least thirty poured through the breach, their movements coordinated and purposeful.
"Go!" Damien roared.
He turned toward the shattered entrance, neck cracking as he rolled his shoulders. The sound echoed like breaking branches in winter.
The first attackers surged forward. Black tactical gear covered their bodies, faces hidden behind masks. Their weapons gleamed in the emergency lights—not just assault rifles, but silver blades that caught the red glow with hungry anticipation.
"Find the target!" one shouted through a voice distorter. "The White One! Find the White One!"
Ice flooded Elara's veins.
They knew. This wasn't about money or Damien. They had come for her.
Alfred's fingers closed around her arm, his grip surprisingly strong. "Ms. Elara, we must move. Now."
He pulled her toward the servant's entrance behind the orchestra pit. Elara stumbled after him, neck craning to look back.
Damien met the first wave like death personified. He remained in human form—he didn't need the wolf.
He moved with liquid violence. A machete whistled through the air; he ducked beneath it, seized the attacker's arm and twisted. The crack of breaking bone cut through the chaos like a gunshot. He swung the man like a battering ram, bodies collapsing like dominoes.
Brutal. Efficient. A king defending his territory.
Then the second wave entered.
And with them came the Screamers.
Three figures emerged from the smoke, each carrying metallic rods that vibrated with unnatural energy. They slammed them into the marble floor in perfect unison.
SCREEEEEEECH.
A high-pitched frequency tore through the room, scraping against Elara's eardrums.
To humans, it was merely irritating. To the wolves, it was devastation.
Every shifter—including Damien—collapsed, clutching their heads. Blood trickled from ears and noses as the sound scrambled their inner ears, severing the connection to their wolves.
"Damien!" The scream tore from Elara's throat.
She wrenched free of Alfred's grip. "Ms. Elara, no!" the butler shouted, desperation breaking his composure.
But Elara stood unaffected. The White Wolf bloodline ran deeper than modern anti-shifter technology could reach. The noise was merely a dull throb behind her eyes, not the paralyzing agony the others experienced.
She watched Damien fall to one knee, a roar of pain escaping him. Crimson droplets splashed onto the white marble beneath him.
A mercenary—a mountain of muscle with a silver-plated axe—approached Damien with predatory confidence. "Target alpha incapacitated," he laughed, the sound like stones grinding together. "Taking his head."
The axe rose, moonlight glinting off its lethal edge.
Elara's hand closed around a heavy silver candelabra on a nearby table. The metal was cold and substantial against her palm.
'Do not shift,' Lumina's voice cautioned in her mind. 'Use the environment.'
Elara sprinted across the dance floor, her silver dress streaming behind her like quicksilver. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, drowning out the screaming.
As the axe began its downward arc, Elara threw the candelabra.
Not a normal throw—she pushed a pulse of energy behind it, an invisible extension of her will.
The silver object became a missile, striking the mercenary's temple with a sickening crack that reverberated through the room. He crumpled, the axe clattering harmlessly inches from Damien's leg.
Damien's head snapped up. Through pain-glazed eyes, he saw her.
She stood ten feet away, chest heaving, silver dress spattered with dust and blood. Not cowering in safety, but standing defiant in the heart of battle.
"Elara!" Her name tore from his throat, terror and fury tangled in each syllable. "Get back!"
The sonic rods whined louder, the pitch climbing until it seemed to slice through the air itself.
Damien snarled, eyes fixed on the nearest rod. The vertigo prevented him from standing, so he crawled—fingers digging into marble, leaving bloody streaks behind.
He lunged at the operator's leg, sinking elongated teeth into flesh. The man's scream pierced the cacophony as he dropped the device.
Damien seized the rod and snapped it in two, the metal shrieking in protest. The frequency dropped by a third—enough to matter.
Enough to fight.
He rose to his feet, swaying slightly. Blood painted his lower face like war paint as he surveyed the remaining attackers.
Then his gaze found Elara.
"Close your eyes," he commanded.
"What?"
"Close your eyes!"
He wanted to shield her from what came next.
Elara didn't obey. She watched.
Damien threw his head back and released a sound that shattered the remaining windows—not a human scream but something ancient and terrible. His bones cracked like gunshots, skin rippling as though something fought to escape from beneath.
Most shifts were gradual, agonizing transformations. Damien's happened mid-leap, between one heartbeat and the next.
One moment: a man in torn trousers. The next: a monster.
Ares.
He landed among the mercenaries like midnight given form—fur so black it devoured light, eyes blazing like coals in a forge. Muscles rippled beneath his coat, each movement fluid and precise. His claws scraped against marble, striking sparks with each step.
It wasn't combat. It was slaughter.
Ares tore through tactical armor as if it were silk. A swipe sent a man flying into a pillar with a sickening crunch. Jaws closed around another's shoulder, ending his fight with a spray of crimson.
The pack, freed from the frequency's grip as the remaining rods were destroyed, joined the fray—a coordinated unit with Ares at its center.
Elara pressed herself against a pillar, the cold stone grounding her. The violence should have horrified her, but she noticed something remarkable—how Ares constantly positioned himself between the attackers and her location. Even lost to rage, he tracked her presence like a compass finding north.
A mercenary, recognizing defeat, spotted Elara by the pillar.
"There she is!" he shouted into his comm unit. "The girl in silver! Grab her and retreat!"
Three men broke from the main fight, charging toward her with single-minded purpose.
"Damien!" His name tore from her throat.
Ares heard. He spun, but five attackers had thrown silver nets over him, weighing him down. He thrashed and roared, claws tearing through metal links, but he couldn't reach her in time.
The mercenaries closed in, their boots leaving bloody prints on the marble.
"Come quietly, little wolf," the leader sneered, raising a tranquilizer gun. The acrid smell of chemicals leaked from its barrel. "The Boss wants you alive."
Elara assessed her options in a heartbeat. Surrender and protect her secret, or fight and reveal everything.
'No,' Lumina whispered. 'There is a third way. The subtle way.'
Elara raised her hand. Not to transform, not to conjure flame. She reached out with her mind, feeling the water pipes running inside the wall beside the mercenaries. She sensed the pressure, the flow, the weak points in the ancient plumbing.
Burst.
She clenched her fist.
The wall exploded outward in a geyser of scalding steam and water. The mercenaries were swept sideways, their bodies slamming into the buffet table with bone-jarring force. Crystal glasses shattered beneath them, champagne mixing with blood on the floor.
It appeared accidental—stray gunfire hitting a pipe, perhaps. Misfortune for them, luck for her.
But Damien, having just torn free of the silver nets, witnessed it all.
He saw her raised hand. He saw the wall explode in perfect synchronization with her movement.
The massive wolf froze, his head tilting in a too-human gesture of comprehension.
Then he finished the fight.
He sailed over fallen mercenaries, landing before Elara with ground-shaking force. His roar rattled the chandeliers, a primal warning that promised death to any who approached.
The remaining attackers, seeing their leaders down and the Shadow Alpha standing guard over their target, recognized defeat.
"Retreat!" someone shouted. "Abort!"
Smoke grenades hissed across the floor, filling the room with choking white clouds as they dragged their wounded away.
Damien held his position. His sides heaved with exertion, muscles trembling beneath blood-matted fur. His eyes swept the room methodically, hunting for remaining threats.
Only when certain of safety did he turn to Elara.
He towered over her, a creature from nightmare—all blood, fur, and primal power. The copper scent of violence clung to him, mingling with something deeper—pine and earth and night.
Any normal person would have collapsed in terror. Elara didn't flinch.
She reached out.
Her pale hand trembled slightly as it connected with the blood-stiffened fur of his muzzle.
"You're hurt," she whispered, fingers hovering over a silver-edged gash across his shoulder, the wound sizzling faintly.
Ares exhaled, his warm breath caressing her skin, stirring wisps of hair around her face. He pressed into her palm, amber eyes gleaming with intelligence in the hazy light. A whimper escaped him—low, plaintive, incongruous with his massive frame—his concern palpable in the air between them.
"I'm fine," she whispered, her fingers sinking into his thick fur, finding comfort in its coarse texture. "I'm safe."
The acrid scent of pulverized concrete hung in the air as debris settled around them with soft patters against the ground. Survivors of the pack stood motionless, their ragged breathing the only sound breaking the eerie silence.
Their wide eyes weren't fixed on the destruction.
They gaped at the human girl whose gentle hands stroked the Shadow King as though he were nothing more dangerous than a family pet—the same terrifying creature whose growl could freeze blood, whose name was whispered in fear.
And they stared at the wall—now nothing but jagged fragments and dust—that had exploded outward at the precise moment of her need, leaving behind the unmistakable scent of ancient magic and the metallic tang of power that still crackled in the air.