Draven's voice, when he spoke, was quiet yet firm. "You should watch where you're going, Princess."
Azrael lifted her chin, regaining some of her composure. "You were in my way."
Draven smirked, as if amused by her defiance. "Funny. I was about to say the same thing about you."
Azrael exhaled sharply through her nose, irritation flickering in her eyes. "Enjoying yourself, are you?"
Draven tilted his head slightly. "Not quite."
She frowned. "Then why are you here?"
His eyes darkened. "You know why."
Her breath caught. A cold knot of dread—and something else—curled in her stomach. She didn’t want to acknowledge what he meant. She couldn't. So instead, she took a step back, breaking the tension.
"I'm leaving," she said.
But before she could turn, his fingers caught her wrist.
Azrael tensed, eyes snapping to his hand gripping her like a tether. A hushed gasp rippled through the room at the sight of it. The murmurs grew louder. The court was watching.
Draven leaned in, his voice lower now, more intimate. "Dance with me."
The room stilled.
The air shifted, thick with stunned silence.
Azrael's eyes widened, her mind stuttering over what he had just said. The weight of every gaze in the ballroom settled on her, burning into her skin. The court, her suitors, the Lycans—everyone was watching this moment unfold with bated breath.
She turned her head slightly, searching the room. Her father sat at the head of the chamber, his expression unreadable, but his crimson eyes were narrowed. That alone sent a shiver down her spine.
She turned back to Draven, whose gaze had not left her for a second. He stood there, still holding her wrist, waiting for her answer.
Azrael swallowed.
Then, slowly—before she could think better of it—she placed her hand in his.
Draven’s fingers curled around hers. Firm. Steady.
And the world around them erupted in murmurs as the Lycan Alpha and the Vampire Princess stepped onto the dance floor.
Azrael stiffened beneath his touch. He could feel it in the way her body resisted the rhythm of the dance, how her fingers barely rested in his as if she might flee at any moment. Yet she didn’t. Instead, she lifted her chin, golden eyes sharp as a blade against his own.
Whispers rippled through the ballroom, a hushed storm of disbelief. The Lycans had already disrupted the celebration just by arriving. But this—this was unthinkable. A vampire princess, twirling in the arms of a Lycan Alpha. It was a provocation, a statement, a scandal.
From the corner of his eye, Draven saw the ripple of tension in the room. The vampires, all poised elegance and veiled contempt, looked on with unreadable expressions. Some watched in fascination, others with thinly veiled disgust. His own men sat at their designated table, stone-faced, unreadable, but every muscle in their bodies coiled in preparation.
Azrael, however, did not look at them. She was too busy analyzing him. Her gaze flitted over his face, wary, searching for something.
"Why do you keep looking at me like that?" she finally asked, her voice low.
Draven’s lips curled slightly. "Like what?"
Azrael narrowed her eyes. "As if I'm your long-lost relative or something."
Draven chuckled, the sound deep and rich. "That’s definitely one way to put it."
"Well, stop it." She turned her head, but he caught the way her pulse ticked at her throat, faster than before. "I find it weird and unsettling."
Draven did not stop. He couldn’t. The mate bond was clawing at him now, a brutal and primal force barely restrained. Every inch of him screamed to pull her closer, to claim her, to mark her as his and silence the distance between them. But he didn't.
He couldn't. Not with the amount of tension in the room, especially with all the vampires and his people watching.
At the Lycans’ table, Raphael moved. He strode toward them with unhurried grace, slipping into the seat Draven had vacated. Cyrus, already on edge, turned his head slightly, gaze flicking to the vampire prince.
Raphael sat beside him as if he belonged there, one leg crossed over the other, an air of casual arrogance radiating off him. His gaze flickered over Cyrus, looking him up and down, then he spoke.
"Quite daring of your Alpha to walk in here like he owns the place," Raphael mused. "And then have the audacity to ask my sister to dance."
Cyrus, unbothered, arched a brow. "Do I have to remind you that he’s a guest? He was invited by your father, after all. He has the right to do as he pleases."
Raphael’s jaw ticked. "I despise your kind."
"Likewise," Cyrus shot back smoothly.
A muscle in Raphael’s jaw jumped. "You Lycan dogs have no place in this court," he bit out.
Cyrus smirked. "I don’t want to continue this conversation anymore. It’s your celebration. Why don’t you go enjoy it instead of finding someone to pester?" With that, Cyrus stood, stretching as if bored.
Raphael stilled. His eyes darkened.
Then, without attracting attention, he followed.
Cyrus barely made it past the edge of the ballroom before he was yanked back, his spine hitting cold stone. Raphael was in front of him, one hand braced against the wall beside his head, the other gripping the front of his tunic.
"I don’t know who you think you are—"
"Cyrus," the Lycan interrupted, smirking. "Beta of the Lycans."
Raphael scoffed, nostrils flaring. "I’m a literal prince. Raphael Valerion. Soon to be king. You do not want to mess with me."
Cyrus tilted his head, unimpressed. "I don’t really care who you are."
Raphael blinked. Once. Twice. As if he couldn’t believe the sheer audacity.
"You don’t get to walk into my home and disrespect me like this," Raphael hissed.
Cyrus simply folded his arms. "Oh yeah? And what exactly are you going to do about it?"
Raphael’s chest rose and fell sharply, breathing heavy. The silence between them thickened, humming with something almost electric.
Then, Raphael’s eyes flicked downward. For the briefest second—just a second—his gaze landed on Cyrus’ lips.
Cyrus’s smirk faltered.
A slow, dangerous realization crept between them. The air shifted, tension morphing into something else, something that neither of them could define but both of them felt.
Then Cyrus cleared his throat, breaking the moment.
Raphael jerked back as if burned.
"I’m going back to the celebration now," Cyrus said, voice carefully even.
Without another word, he walked away.
As he did, he could still feel Raphael’s gaze burning into his back. And judging by the way Raphael remained rooted to the spot, watching him go—he was thinking the same damn thing.
What the hell just happened?