Chapter 13 #3
Her voice continued for two hours. Twelve songs, each a different world. By the final one, her voice carried a barely perceptible weariness—but remained impossibly perfect.
When the last note fell, the venue was silent for about three seconds.
Then thunderous applause.
Everyone stood, cheering, screaming, applause endless. She stood center stage, bowed slightly, then turned toward backstage.
I stood, quickly leaving the box.
Now was the time.
Backstage security was tighter than I'd expected.
Two men in black suits guarded the entrance, arms crossed over their chests, expressionless as they watched me.
"Sorry, sir, no one enters backstage without Miss Vela's permission."
"I'm King Zane of Moonhowl Kingdom. Please inform her."
One guard raised his radio and spoke softly. After a moment, he shook his head. "Miss Vela says she's too tired today. Another time. Your Majesty, please understand."
"Your Majesty" from his mouth carried professional respect but no fawning. His position was clear. Even a king had to follow Miss Vela's rules.
Another time.
I took a deep breath, suppressing surging emotions. "Please tell her I really have something important—"
"She already knows, Your Majesty." The guard's tone remained polite but stance unwavering. "She said if it's about inviting her to perform in Moonhowl Kingdom, she already responded in her letter. She appreciates your sentiment, but she's very busy and has no time."
He paused, adding in a slightly softer tone, "Your Majesty, honestly, Miss Vela's tour schedule is booked through next summer. Invitations pile up in her office—over a dozen from royal houses alone. Her declining you isn't personal—she treats everyone the same."
It sounded like comfort but didn't make me feel better.
He stepped back, making a "please leave" gesture. Respectful motion but firm attitude.
I stood there, staring at that door leading backstage.
My wolf stirred inside, growling, claws scraping my ribs.
It smelled something.
I didn't know what, but it was excited—excited like a beast discovering prey.
I turned and left, pretending to yield.
Then I circled to the theater's side.
There was a window, half-open, probably for ventilation. Not large, but for a werewolf, enough.
I checked my surroundings, confirmed no one was watching, then quickly shifted.
Silver fur, gray-blue eyes, sharp claws.
I slipped through the window.
Inside was a narrow corridor, dim lighting, air thick with perfume, sweat, and cosmetics. I moved quickly down the hallway, nose twitching, catching scent molecules in the air.
Her scent.
I caught her scent.
Faint, like jasmine and rain-soaked earth mixed together. That smell pierced my nostrils, hit some switch deep in my brain, and made my heart leap.
I quickened my pace, following that scent to a door.
Warm yellow light leaked through the crack. I heard faint sounds inside—someone moving, gathering things.
I pushed the door open with my paw.
Dressing room.
Walls lined with mirrors, frames circled by bright bulbs. The table was covered with bottles and jars, brushes, puffs, cosmetics I couldn't name. An open wardrobe in the corner held several performance costumes.
But the room was empty.
I frowned, shifting back to human form. My footsteps were light, nearly silent.
Then I heard something—from the side door.
Like something hitting the floor. Muffled, followed by a suppressed groan.
My heart skipped a beat.
I rushed to that side door, shoved it open—
She was on the floor.
Vela.
The singer who'd been radiant onstage moments ago now lay curled on the floor, face pale as paper. Fine sweat beaded her forehead, lips trembling, one hand clutching her chest, breathing rapid and weak. Her mask had slipped sideways, ties loose, hanging precariously from her ear.
"Hey!" I rushed over, dropped to one knee, and pulled her up. "What's wrong?"
No answer. Her eyes were half-closed, pupils unfocused, consciousness already fading.
Low blood sugar. I recognized it immediately. I'd seen this before—overexertion plus not eating, blood sugar plummeting. If not treated quickly, she'd slip into unconsciousness.
I reached for the water glass on the table, moved too fast, and accidentally knocked her mask.
The mask slipped off.
The silver piece hit the floor with a crisp sound.
I looked down at her.
Without the mask, her whole face was exposed in the light.
A face I knew intimately.
Curved brows, long lashes, delicate nose, full lips—and those eyes that even closed could stop my heart.
Mia.
My brain went blank.
My heart stopped beating, then pounded against my chest at a nearly insane rate. Blood rushed to my head then drained away, leaving dizziness. My ears rang, everything before me shook, like the whole world had shattered then reassembled wrong—nothing fit.
It was her.
Really her.
She wasn't dead.
She was alive.
I'd searched for five years, waited five years, regretted for five years, tortured myself for five years—and here she was, in my arms, living, warm, breathing.
"Mia..." I heard my own voice, rough as if forcibly squeezed from deep in my throat.