Amara’s POV
Killian appeared at my door.
His emerald eyes swept over my form with deliberate slowness.
Each lingering glance burned through the crimson silk gown he had commanded be delivered to me.
My pulse hammered against my throat so violently I feared he could hear it.
I wanted to shield myself from his predatory stare.
I wanted to bare my teeth and hiss at his arrogance.
I did neither.
“You’re staring,” I said.
His jaw clenched tight.
“We depart for the Blood Moon Gala,” he commanded with icy authority.
He pivoted sharply and strode from my chambers.
I released the breath trapped in my lungs, snatched the beaded clutch from my bed, and followed in his wake.
The obsidian limousine waiting in the courtyard gleamed like polished onyx.
Its windows were tinted so dark they reflected nothing but shadows.
The driver stood motionless beside the rear door, eyes fixed ahead, feigning blindness to our exchange.
I had barely taken steps toward the vehicle when she materialized from the darkness.
“You bastard.”
Lydia.
She emerged like a wrathful specter from the shadows.
Her designer gown hung in tatters, the expensive fabric dragging through the dirt.
One sleeve had torn completely free, exposing her pale shoulder.
Mascara streaked down her cheeks in twin rivers of black.
Her usually pristine hair spilled loose from its elaborate pins.
“You bastard,” she repeated, her voice fracturing.
“Why her.
Why do you escort that worthless half-breed when I stand before you.”
Killian ceased walking.
“Lydia,” he said.
His body went rigid beneath his tailored black jacket.
A low growl rumbled from his chest.
“I owe you no explanations.
When I return, you will have composed yourself.”
Her crimson lips trembled.
Duke Nigel emerged from the shadows, his hands closing firmly around Lydia’s shoulders to restrain her.
She writhed against his grip, but his hold remained unbreakable.
“My Lord,” Nigel murmured quietly.
“Proceed.”
Killian did not spare her another glance.
He guided me into the vehicle and slid in beside me.
The door sealed shut with finality.
Through the darkened glass, I glimpsed Lydia’s face contorting under the moonlight before we pulled away.
The limousine glided into motion.
I pressed my knees together and fixed my gaze straight ahead.
“Where are we bound.”
“A considerable journey north.”
“A clan gathering.”
“The Blood Moon Gala,” he explained coldly.
“Within Shadowmere territory.
Lords and their consorts are both invited.
Since the blood moon saw fit to bind you as my mate, you will accompany me, ensuring no Lord at that table questions my clan’s strength.”
“So I am ornamental decoration to preserve your reputation.”
“Name it as you wish.”
I nearly laughed.
“A trophy.
I am your trophy.”
“Amara.”
“An expensive trophy.
With a slit revealing my thigh.”
“Tonight I require alliances.
I need blood pacts signed before dawn breaks.
Do you comprehend the significance.”
“I comprehend that you need the assembly to believe you are a stable ruler with an unshakeable clan.
So you paraded me before Lydia, who will likely set our manor ablaze while we are absent—”
“Enough regarding clan politics.”
His voice sliced through mine like a silver blade.
I sealed my lips.
He returned his attention to the window.
I turned mine to the opposite glass.
We traveled in silence.
Eventually, I realized the aching in my ankle had completely vanished.
“You no longer favor your injury,” he observed.
“No.”
“The pain.”
“Nearly gone.”
He nodded once.
He offered no further comment.
I rested my forehead gently against the cool tinted glass.
Ancient forests slid past, dense and mysterious.
Then estates I had never seen, with wrought iron gates and gothic architecture.
A blood bank, illuminated like a beacon in the night.
A figure walking a hound beneath a streetlamp.
A tavern with a neon sign too distant to decipher.
I had not ventured beyond clan territory since childhood.
My throat constricted.
Despite my terror of Killian’s ruthless reputation and the unknown retribution awaiting me at home, another emotion stirred.
It concerned a blood bank sign.
A stranger walking their companion.
A world I had forgotten existed.
I concealed my expression from him.
Through the shadowed windows, I silently savored the wonder of glimpsing the outside realm.
I observed, and I observed, and I permitted myself, for these precious moments, to be a maiden in an exquisite gown being transported somewhere magnificent.
The vehicle decelerated.
Iron gates parted.
Gravel crunched beneath our wheels.
I gazed upward.
The stone and timber manor rose from the ancient woods like something from a Gothic tale, windows glowing amber from within.
Elegant vehicles lined the curved drive.
Ladies in flowing gowns descended onto the path on the arms of gentlemen in formal attire.
My stomach twisted.
“Killian.”
“Speak only when addressed.
Accept nothing I do not offer you directly.
Smile when I speak your name.”
“Any other commands, my Lord.”
His jaw twitched.
The driver opened my door.
I stepped into the crisp night air that carried the scent of pine and woodsmoke and someone’s costly perfume.
Killian circled the vehicle and extended his arm.
Then I placed my hand through the crook of his elbow.
His skin radiated heat even through his jacket’s fabric.
We ascended the stone steps together.
The grand doors stood open.
Golden light spilled forth.
Music, haunting and orchestral, drifted down to greet us.
At the entrance stood our hosts, Lord Rylan and Lady Gemma.
The Lord stood tall, nearly matching Killian’s imposing height, with obsidian hair and an engaging smile.
His Lady stood beside him in pale emerald silk, her hand nestled in his elbow as though it belonged nowhere else in existence.
“Killian.” The Lord’s voice carried authority.
“You honored us with your presence.”
“Rylan.”
“And this enchanting companion?”
A pause.
A heartbeat.
Two.
Killian’s hand tightened slightly over mine where it rested on his arm.
“This is Amara.” His voice rang clear and public.
“My blood mate.”
Lady Gemma’s eyes warmed.
She inclined her head to me, neither condescending nor deferential, but as an equal.
As though I mattered.
Lord Rylan chuckled.
A genuine sound, not mere politeness.
“Well.
Well indeed.” He appraised me with curiosity rather than Killian’s earlier hunger.
“I am pleased to finally meet the woman who succeeded in claiming the notorious Lord Killian.
I had begun to suspect no such being existed.”
I felt Killian grow still beside me.
I sensed Lady Gemma observing me with courteous attention that masked keen intelligence.
I smiled.
I smiled as a Lady smiles.
Soft at the edges.
Slightly demure.
Slightly secretive, as though the jest belonged to my mate and me alone.
“He is not as fearsome as reputation suggests,” I said.
Rylan threw back his head and laughed again.
“Enter.
Please, both of you.
Gemma has been eager to make your acquaintance.”
Gemma offered her hand.
I accepted it.
Her fingers were surprisingly warm.
“Amara,” she said.
“What an exquisite gown.”
“Thank you, Lady Gemma.”
“Simply Gemma.
Please.”
“Come, Amara.
We have guests to greet.” Killian’s hand found my spine, his touch scorching through the silk as he guided me deeper into the ballroom.
The spectacle before me stole my breath.
Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across polished marble floors.
An elaborate feast lined one wall, and silk-draped tables encircled the space.
At the chamber’s heart, the dance floor gleamed under soft illumination, already filled with couples moving to the symphony’s melody.