The Melody of Midnight (FALLEN KINGS #1)

Prologue

MICHAEL

Fireworks were supposed to be the show.

But the real explosion happened the moment she ran into me.

The yacht was a furnace of sweat, liquor, and lies. Champagne tower sweating in the heat. Russian money on one side. Cuban cokeheads on the other. And a half dozen hedge fund princes playing poker like their bloodlines weren’t already leveraged to the hilt.

Every bastard there thought he was king.

I was just trying to keep the kingdom from burning down.

It was supposed to be a celebration. Independence Day, ironically.

But this? This wasn’t freedom. It was a pissing contest in designer shoes—mafia heirs, arms dealers, crypto freaks, and one Bulgarian who kept asking me how easy it’d be to smuggle something in the hull. He didn’t say what. He didn’t need to.

Someone brought Krystal. I didn’t.

Someone brought him. I definitely didn’t.

Rochefort. French. Too much cologne. Too much money. Too many stories whispered in back rooms about girls who cried when the ropes came off.

He wasn’t invited. But somehow, he always found a way to slither in.

And I needed a damn break.

So I slipped away from the main deck, dodging cigar smoke and forced smiles.

Down one level, then another. Past the champagne bar and into the crowd near the outer rail where the city lights glittered in the distance, waiting to be impressed by my fireworks.

I strolled along the dock, slipping past security into the crowded waterfront street along the bay.

That’s when I saw her.

Blonde. Pale gold like a full moon. Summer dress clinging to her like it had fallen in love with her curves. She kept looking over her shoulder—nervous, fast, like someone was chasing her. She didn’t belong here. Not in this world. Not with these people.

And then—she turned too fast.

Slammed right into my chest. I caught her by the waist. Warm skin. Wide eyes. Red lips parted, about to say something—but she never got the chance.

Because I looked up…

…and saw who was following her.

Rochefort. Of course. Leering like she was his next chew toy.

I tightened my grip. She didn’t flinch.

“You’re with me,” I told her.

She didn’t argue.

I laced our fingers together—mine cold, hers warm—and walked her straight into my lair. Past security. Past names. Past logic. I led her into the belly of the beast— only I wore my wolf skin better than most.

Black Armani. Tailored sharp enough to cut the truth in half.

She didn’t know what I was. Not yet.

But that night?

She danced with the devil and thanked him for the song.

“My friends,” she said, breath catching. “They’ll be looking for me.”

I raised a brow. “So send them a text.”

She hesitated.

“You’re safe,” I said. “I won’t hurt you… unless you want me to.”

Then I smiled. “Kidding. Mostly.”

That earned a laugh—nervous, sweet, honest. Her lips curved, and for a second I forgot why the hell I was so tired. Why I’d been ready to throw half the people on my yacht overboard.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No names tonight.”

Dangerous answer. But I liked it.

We slipped back into the crowded yacht party like smoke. I poured her a glass of something old and gold from my private stock—French champagne that cost more than most people’s rent. She tasted it like it was magic, eyes fluttering closed.

We talked. Laughed. Danced slow, close. She moved like she didn’t care who was watching. Or maybe she just wanted to forget, too.

I didn’t touch her like a gentleman. I wasn’t one.

But I didn’t touch her like she was cheap, either.

She wasn’t.

Everything about her was silk and fire—her laugh, the tilt of her head, the curve of her collarbone when she leaned in to whisper something I didn’t hear, because I was too busy imagining what her skin would taste like.

By the time I realized I didn’t want anyone else to see her again, it was too late.

They already had.

So I stood.

Tapped my glass.

Told everyone to get the fuck off my yacht.

There was some grumbling. Confusion. A few nasty stares from the ones who didn’t like being told no. But one look from me and the tide shifted.

Minutes later, it was just the two of us.

She stood by the railing, barefoot now, heels in her hand, staring out at the water.

“Change of plans,” I said, coming up behind her. “Private party.”

She turned, eyes wide. “You’re serious?”

I nodded, flicked a switch, and let the engines hum to life.

We sailed into the bay, just the two of us, the wake cutting clean behind us as the rest of the city fell away.

Fireworks lit up the sky behind us, but neither of us saw them.

We were too busy in the shadows.

Her mouth on mine. My hand at her hip. The kind of kiss that makes you forget your own name.

She wasn’t drunk.

She wasn’t reckless.

She just… was.

And I wanted her in every sense of the word.

The way her fingers tangled in my hair.

The way she gasped when I pulled her against me like I already owned her.

The way her perfume clung to my throat like a secret.

I wanted to know everything—where she was from, what she was running from, what made her smile like that. I wanted to taste every answer off her lips.

She didn’t feel like a mistake.

She felt like a fucking miracle.

She kept drinking.

Not sloppy—just loose. Liquid confidence. Champagne blushed her cheeks and made her laugh louder, lean closer. Her leg brushed mine under the table, and neither of us moved away.

If I was entranced, she was under the same spell.

Every look lingered.

Every touch sparked.

We made it to the hot tub eventually. She peeled off her dress like it was nothing—like she didn’t realize I’d never be able to erase the image from my mind.

Black lingerie. Wet skin. Golden hair floating in the steam like silk on water.

I joined her.

She sat across from me at first, knees drawn up, biting her lip like she was trying not to do something we’d both regret.

I wasn’t trying.

I moved closer.

Hands in her hair. Her thighs around my waist. Lips pressed so deep it felt like I was learning a new language.

We didn’t go all the way.

But God—we almost did.

And somehow, that made it worse.

Made it real.

Made it dangerous.

Hours passed. Maybe minutes. I wasn’t keeping track. She fell asleep curled up beside me in a dry robe, her hair damp against my chest. I carried her below deck, tucked her into the softest sheets I owned, and watched her breathe like a lunatic who thought he’d dreamed her.

Then…

Bang.

One shot.

Close.

Too close.

Docked already. Middle of the night. No one was supposed to be here. I had sent the hired security for the party home along with half my crew.

I snapped out of the fog of lust instantly. Grabbed the Glock from the drawer. My blood turned ice.

She stirred as I moved.

I crouched by the bed. “Stay here. Lock the door. Don’t make a sound.”

She blinked at me, dazed. “What’s happening?”

“Nothing you need to worry about, sweetheart. I’ll be back. Just… trust me.”

Three words. Soft. Barely whispered.

I kissed her once. Just once. Then I was gone.

I swept the deck. The engine room. The pier. Nothing but shadows and echoes. Whoever fired that shot didn’t stick around. Maybe a warning. Maybe something worse. I didn’t care.

I just wanted to get back to her.

But when I did—she was gone.

The stateroom door hung open.

The robe was on the floor. So was her champagne glass, half full.

I saved it. Cherished it like Cinderella’s lost slipper. Her lipstick marks still on the glass.

No note. No sign of struggle. No trace.

Vanished.

Like she’d never existed.

I tore through every camera. Every security angle. Nothing. Someone either helped her disappear… or she knew exactly how to do it on her own.

And maybe I should’ve let it go. Chalked it up to too much booze and bad timing.

But I couldn’t.

Because the taste of her was still on my lips.

Because she saw through me in a way no one else ever had.

Because for one night—one fucking night—I believed in something other than power, money, and blood.

So I made myself a promise.

I’d find her.

No matter what it cost. I even had the champagne glass tested for DNA, but she was a ghost—no sign in any database.