The haunting melody of the waltz echoed through the grand ballroom, weaving through the air like a ghostly whisper. The flickering candlelight cast shifting shadows against the dark stone walls, illuminating the swirling figures of elegantly dressed vampires. Yet, despite the grandeur of the celebration, every eye in the room was drawn to a single pair gliding across the floor—Azrael and Draven.
Vampires stole glances as they danced, their whispers hushed yet brimming with intrigue. Some moved mechanically, their attention divided between their own partners and the impossible sight before them. The Lycan Alpha—tall, broad, dangerous—leading the vampire princess in a waltz. It was an unthinkable sight, an offense to tradition, a spectacle that neither side could look away from.
Azrael was keenly aware of the scrutiny, but it was Draven’s unwavering gaze that unsettled her the most. His brown eyes—now nearly golden under the candlelight—held something unreadable, something she refused to acknowledge.
She sighed, cutting through the silence between them. “Will you stop looking at me like that?”
Draven tilted his head slightly. “Like what?”
She opened her mouth, then exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “Never mind.”
A chuckle rumbled from his chest, deep and amused. “You’re terrible at pretending you don’t enjoy this.”
Azrael rolled her eyes. “Oh yes, dancing with you is the highlight of my evening,” she deadpanned.
His smirk widened. “I knew you’d come around.”
Azrael rolled her eyes, but then gave him a slow, assessing look. “I must say, I’m surprised.”
Draven arched a brow. “By?”
“You dance well. I expected a Lycan to be... less refined. I assumed your kind preferred to brawl rather than waltz.”
A smirk tugged at his lips. “You think us all uncivilized?”
She shrugged, unapologetic. “It’s a fair assumption.”
Draven huffed a quiet laugh. “Lycans aren’t savage beasts, despite what you might think. We have knowledge of these things—history, etiquette, art. We just don’t care much for them.”
Azrael hummed. “So waltzing is beneath you, then?”
“Not if it means seeing the absolute horror on your people’s faces,” Draven mused, casting a glance toward the stunned vampires watching them.
Azrael almost—almost—smiled at that. But the moment of amusement faded as she grew serious.
“Why did you even come here?” she asked, voice quieter now.
Draven’s expression hardened slightly, his grip on her waist firm yet still gentle. “After what happened, I wanted to speak with your father. To settle things before it escalates into a full blown war. My people won’t take the ambush and slaughter of our warriors lightly.”
Azrael’s body stiffened. Her golden eyes flashed with anger.
“Ambush and slaughter of your people for no reason?” she echoed, disbelief laced in every syllable.
Draven’s brows knitted. “Yes.”
Her lip curled in a humorless scoff. “Oh, miss me with that bullshit.”
Draven blinked. “What?”
“I don’t understand why you think you have the right to act like a wounded party,” she snapped. “One of your kind crossed the border and slaughtered my people. You broke the truce first! We were simply returning the gesture.”
Draven’s frown deepened, his grip on her waist flexing. “That’s impossible.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“Because no one in my pack would have made such a move without my command.” His voice was firm, resolute.
Azrael scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. “So you’re saying I’m lying?”
Draven’s jaw clenched. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
Draven exhaled sharply, attempting to rein in his frustration. “I mean that if a Lycan did this, I would know.”
Azrael shook her head. “You think you know everything that happens in your ranks? That your people are incapable of acting without your knowledge?”
Draven’s voice dropped an octave, quiet but laced with warning. “Lycans don't betray their Alpha.”
Azrael let out a humorless laugh. “Then you’re a fool.”
A muscle in Draven’s jaw twitched, his patience fraying. “I don’t expect you to trust me, Azrael, but I didn’t come here to play games. I came to prevent bloodshed. If you believe a Lycan was responsible, then I’ll—”
She abruptly stopped dancing and yanked herself free from his grasp.
“I’m done with this conversation,” she bit out, stepping away.
The movement sent a ripple of shock through the room. The music faltered for a split second before resuming, but the atmosphere had already shifted. The tension, once simmering, now burned.
Draven took a step forward. “Azrael—”
She ignored him, weaving through the crowd, her frustration mounting with each step. The last thing she wanted was to hear any more of his feigned ignorance. She needed distance.
But in her haste, she failed to see the servant crossing her path.
The collision happened too fast to stop.
Azrael crashed into the unsuspecting vampire, sending the tray of bloodwine flying. The glasses shattered upon impact, crimson liquid splattering across the polished floor like spilled ink. She barely had time to brace herself for the fall—
And then, suddenly, she wasn’t falling alone.
Draven’s arms shot out, instinctively trying to catch her, but her weight—and her refusal to be caught—sent them both toppling.
They hit the floor with a resounding thud.
Gasps rang through the ballroom. The murmurs swelled into a cacophony of disbelief.
At the head of the hall, Valerion rose slowly from his throne, his expression carved from stone. The Lycans had also shot to their feet, their postures tense.
Raphael, standing beside Eva, folded his arms. “What the hell is happening here?”
Eva didn’t even glance at him. “No idea,” she mumbled, too engrossed in the spectacle unfolding before them.
Draven was on top of Azrael.
His weight pressed against her, his face buried in the crook of her neck. And then—he inhaled.
The scent hit him like a thunderclap.
It was intoxicating. All-consuming. It flooded his senses, drowning him.
His control snapped.
His golden eyes flickered, darkening into something more primal, more feral.
His gaze locked onto hers.
And then, he said it.
One word. A single, damning word that shattered everything.
**“Mate.”**
The ballroom fell into absolute silence.
Azrael froze, her body going rigid beneath him.
She barely had time to process the declaration before she felt it—the sharp, searing pain as his teeth sank into her skin.
A collective gasp rippled through the crowd.
Draven had marked her.
Right there, in front of the entire court.
The tension that had been simmering finally erupted, an explosion of chaos breaking through the stunned stillness. Some vampires hissed, baring their fangs. Others simply gawked, unable to believe what they had just witnessed.
The Lycans, too, reacted—some with shock, others with satisfaction. Cyrus looked equal parts exasperated and amused, while Raphael…
Raphael’s entire body stiffened, his hands curling into fists at his sides.
Valerion, however, was utterly still. His wine-red eyes were unreadable, but the slow clench of his jaw betrayed the storm brewing beneath his composed exterior.
Azrael barely registered any of it.
Her mind reeled, her body still caught between shock and something far more dangerous.
Draven. Marked. Her.
The bastard marked her.
And the worst part?
For a single, fleeting second before reality came crashing down—
She felt it too. The pull. The bond.