Luna
I’ve never liked being the center of attention. There was a day—years ago now, but still burned into my brain—when I fell asleep in class and got called on. I hadn’t heard the question. Didn’t even know what subject we were in. And the second I opened my mouth, I said something so wrong, so off-base, the entire room erupted. Laughter. Not the kind that invites you in. The kind that exiles you. I ran. I didn’t look back.
This is worse.
This is so much worse.
The moment we step through the theater’s gilded entrance, every single eye finds us. Not gradually. Not with the lazy curiosity of a crowd waiting for the show to begin.
No.
This is surgical. Like the room knew we were coming and decided to bare its teeth.
Four men in black.
They’re flawless—of course they are. Ambrose with his blade-cut cheekbones and thousand-yard stare, Riven radiating danger and disdain like it's cologne, Silas in his tailored chaos, and Elias somehow looking both like he crashed the afterparty and owns the building. All dressed in black like they coordinated and didn’t bother telling me.
And then there’s me.
In this stupid dress that suddenly feels far too elegant, like I’m pretending to be someone I’m not. I look down and it fits—too well. Sleek. Powerful. But all I can think is how obvious it is that I don’t belong next to them. I’m not ancient. I’m not regal. I’m not composed.
I’m just visible.
And then, like some unspoken signal goes off—of course—it happens. They fan out. Two on each side. Ambrose and Silas take the front, casual but lethal. Riven and Elias at my other side, a silent wall of power and protection. They don’t touch me. The space they leave is deliberate. Like I’ve been boxed in. Displayed.
I hate it.
Because I know what this looks like. It looks like I’m the centerpiece. Like I’m the reason they’re all here. Like I’m being escorted. Or worse—possessed.
And the room sees.
They know who I am. What I am. Sin binder. Council’s disruption. The one girl all four of them orbit like she's a star that might implode if they get too close. Or worse—if they don’t.
I keep my head down.
My steps careful.
I can feel their power beside me like a current humming against my skin, but none of them say a word. Even Silas doesn’t make a joke. That’s how I know it’s bad. He’s never this quiet unless he’s plotting something or trying not to combust.
And me?
I don’t own this moment.
I survive it.
I walk because I have no other option.
Because all I want to do is disappear.
But instead—I walk straight into the mouth of the storm.
We’re halfway through the aisle—me pretending I’m invisible while flanked by literal embodiments of sin—when he steps into our path.
He doesn’t just appear. He moves, like he’s been waiting, watching, measuring his moment to interrupt us with maximum effect.
Tall. Sharp. His suit is obsidian velvet, tailored within an inch of its life, and it somehow makes everyone else around us look underdressed. His hair is midnight dark, swept back like he knows it’s meant to frame that sculpted, unfairly perfect face. But it’s not his looks that stall my breath.
It’s his presence. He radiates power the way storms radiate pressure. You feel it in your skin first—then in your bones.
When he smiles, it’s devastating. Not because it’s kind.
But because it’s calculated.
He bows—not a lazy nod or half-smirk like so many of the others do. A full bow at the waist, elegant, deliberate, like we’re not standing in a theater full of predators, but at a court where everything means something.
“Forgive me,”
he says, voice dipped in some sort of rich, unplaceable accent. The kind that belongs to old bloodlines and forbidden cities.
“For not introducing myself at the manor. It was... discourteous.”
Manor.
Shit.
This is him.
The cloaked one. The one I couldn’t see clearly. The other Council member who stood next to Keira like her shadow wore flesh. I try to speak, but he steps forward before I can find words.
“My name,”
he continues smoothly.
“is Klaus Valen. And it is both an honor and a regret to finally meet you like this.”
He doesn’t reach for my waist. Doesn’t dare brush skin beyond what’s acceptable.
But he takes my hand.
Slowly.
Like he’s claiming something. And then he kisses it. Not a graze. Not a brush. A deliberate press of lips, reverent and cold all at once, to the back of my hand. My skin goes electric.
Behind me, I feel it.
Silas goes still.
Elias inhales sharply, but whether it’s amusement or danger, I can’t tell.
Ambrose steps forward half a breath.
And Riven—gods, I feel him like a storm behind me. Heat. Fury. Every part of him wound tight.
Klaus lifts his head, gaze locking onto mine like he’s already inside it.
“I look forward,”
he murmurs.
“to seeing what you make of all this.”
Then he’s gone. Melted into the crowd with that same unnatural grace, leaving only the echo of threat wrapped in politeness.
“He’s lucky he walked off,”
Silas mutters beside me, voice low but not soft. There’s too much heat in it for softness.
“Five more seconds and Riven would’ve buried him under the floorboards. Right between orchestra and lighting cues.”
I don’t respond. Not because I don’t agree. But because I can still feel Klaus’s lips on the back of my hand. That deliberate, possessive press. Cold, elegant power disguised as courtesy.
It’s not that it scared me.
It’s that I didn’t flinch.
And maybe that’s worse.
Silas’s fingers brush mine for half a second—like he’s checking I’m still real, still warm, still his in whatever unspoken way that word has begun to mean. I don’t take his hand. But I don’t pull away either.
The aisle narrows as we approach the steps leading to the private box. The lights shift—deepening into crimson and gold like the theater itself knows who’s arrived. Like it’s reconfiguring around us.
The private box juts out over the stage, elevated just enough to look down on the crowd but close enough to make a statement.
We see everything. We are not hidden.
The usher—a woman with eyes like glass and a spine too straight to be human—opens the curtain with a reverent nod.
“The Council thanks you for your attendance.”
Riven doesn’t acknowledge her.
Ambrose gives her a glance so cutting she lowers her gaze without a word.
Silas salutes her with two fingers like he’s the lead in a tragic comedy and she’s an extra who got lucky with a line.
Elias? Elias looks at me. Then immediately looks away like I’ve caught him doing something unspeakable.
“Nice box,”
he says, voice pitching just high enough to be suggestive.
“Private. Velvet. Intimate. You could do a lot in a box like this.”
“Don’t,”
I mutter, stepping past him.
“I’m just saying—if they wanted to keep it professional, maybe skip the silk drapes and mirrored ceiling?”
“There is no mirrored ceiling,”
Silas says, peeking upward.
“Missed opportunity.”
Riven’s already inside. Standing, not sitting. Always ready. Always watching.
I slip into the farthest seat, the one closest to the railing. My palms press against the carved wood edge, and I breathe in slowly. The theater below hums with magic. Power laced into the velvet curtains, into the candlelight that doesn’t flicker with flame but with pulse.
Every seat is full. Every being down there is waiting.
Not for the play.
For me.
For us.
We’re not the audience. We’re the spectacle.
And I feel it—that slow, creeping certainty that whatever this night becomes, it won’t end the way it started.
I look out over the theater.
And the theater looks back.
The door opens behind us with that whispery elegance that only comes with old magic. It doesn’t creak. It doesn’t groan. It sighs—like it knows it’s letting in a storm.
Keira. And beside her, like a shadow cast in gold and frost, is Lorian.
My spine locks.
I keep my eyes on the stage, but every cell in my body shifts into high alert. Like it remembers the way her voice lingered in the room before I’d even met her. Like it knows she’s the kind of beautiful that cuts on purpose.
She moves through the doorway like a queen who never abdicated. Her hair twisted back with thorns made of gold. A deep emerald gown that doesn’t just shimmer—it commands attention. And she walks in heels like they were forged for war.
Every detail on her is meticulous. Effortless. And cold enough to sear. The kind of woman people orbit. The kind men regret long after they’re done pretending they don’t.
And she’s the one who broke Ambrose. Shattered something ancient and intimate inside him and walked away like it was nothing more than a political maneuver.
I don’t know the full story. I don’t need to. Because whatever she did, I felt the aftermath of it. I saw it in the way Ambrose looked after. Like I was a gamble he couldn’t afford to lose. Like he was already mourning what hadn’t even happened yet.
And now she’s here.
And I despise her.
Not just for what she did to him.
But for how beautiful she looks standing beside me.
She’s all power and poise and glacial composure—and next to her, I feel like every flaw I’ve tried to bury is under a microscope. My dress is suddenly too simple. My lipstick too soft. My presence too young.
She hasn’t even spoken yet, and I already want to scream.
Riven’s posture stiffens behind me. I don’t turn, but I know he’s shifted his weight—ready to strike if she so much as breathes wrong.
Silas watches her like he’s counting the number of ways he could curse her shoes without being caught.
I finally glance sideways.
Ambrose hasn’t moved.
But I can see it—something in his jaw, the tension buried so deep it’s calcified. His hands are folded in his lap. Perfectly composed. But his eyes are dead ahead, fixed on the stage like if he just doesn’t blink, she won’t exist.
I look away before I can feel too much.
Keira takes the seat directly across from us, her gown folding like waves. Lorian remains standing, his presence all thunderclouds and judgment, silent but felt.
And I sit there, in the middle of it all, pretending my pulse isn’t a war drum, pretending I don’t care that next to her—I’m forgettable.
I don’t think.
I just move.
Slide forward on instinct, casual enough to pretend it’s a shift in my seat, a flick of curiosity about the box’s edge—but it isn’t. It’s calculated. It’s war dressed in silk.
I plant myself between Ambrose and her.
Keira.
She’s lounging across from us like a coronation is happening in her name. Legs crossed, fingers draped elegantly over the armrest, head tilted just enough to make her look bored and predatory at the same time.
Her presence is a taunt. A wound reopened. Her gown gleams like venom in candlelight and her eyes never stop flicking toward Ambrose—like she’s testing him, pushing to see if he’ll flinch, if he’ll fall.
But I don’t let her have him. Not tonight.
I shift, lean ever so slightly into Ambrose’s space, enough to make her view of him imperfect.
And that’s when I hear it.
A breath.
Low. Soft. Pulled through Ambrose’s nose like it costs him. Like he didn’t realize he was holding it until I blocked her from sight. In that moment—this small, quiet act—he lets me have it. The shield. The claim. The simple, brutal acknowledgement that what she does still hurts, and that I chose to stand in the way of it.
I may not be bound to him.
We may never be.
But Ambrose is one of us. And I will not watch her carve him open for sport.
She knows it too. Keira’s lips twitch into a slow smile—not surprised, not upset. Amused.
Two can play this game, her gaze says.
Then let’s play, mine answers.
Silas leans in, whispering just loud enough for me to hear.
“Remind me to worship your pettiness later. Might be my new religion.”
I flick him a look, then return my attention forward.
Elias coughs—chokes, really—on laughter he tries to hide in his sleeve.
“You just moved her out of frame,”
he murmurs.
“Like a curtain on a bad act.”
“She was the act,”
Silas mutters.
“and not the good kind.”
Ambrose says nothing. But his hand twitches against the armrest. Then stills.
And I sit there, eyes on the stage, pulse steady now. She wanted to make him look. I made sure he didn’t have to.
And the play hasn’t even started yet.
Keira leans forward, her arm draped over the velvet ledge, her profile tilted just enough to catch the light, the perfect angle of attention-seeking elegance. Every movement is subtle, deliberate. Every shift of her shoulder, every lift of her chin designed to draw Ambrose’s gaze back to her.
It’s gross. Not because she’s beautiful. Not even because it’s working—because it isn’t. It’s gross because it’s calculated. Cruel. A performance she crafted just to remind him he’s still bleeding.
And he is.
I see it in the set of his spine, the unnatural stillness of it. Too straight. Too controlled. His fist clenched so tight in his lap I can see the bone straining beneath the skin. His jaw’s locked, gaze fixed somewhere far past the stage. Like if he focuses hard enough, he won’t remember what it was like to love someone who carved him open and walked away smiling.
I want to scream.
Because yeah, he hurt me. Left me in a moment that still echoes too loud when I’m alone. But this… this pain twisting behind his perfect posture isn’t about me.
It’s about her.
He hasn’t moved. Hasn’t looked at her. But every part of him screams that he’s feeling her. And maybe I should let him feel it. Maybe I should sit here, proud and distant, and let him drown in the choice he made.
But I can’t.
Because I know that look. I know what it means to hold yourself that still just to keep from shattering. I know what it means to want someone to save you from your own pride, but not know how to ask.
So I lean closer.
Not enough for the others to hear. Just enough for him to feel me beside him, my voice low and steady, not a demand—an offering.
“The bargain still stands,”
I whisper.
“as long as you need it to.”
His head turns, slowly, like he didn’t expect that. Like he can’t believe I’d give it to him after everything.
And his eyes—Gods, there’s so much wreckage in them. Not the sharp, unreadable gaze he uses like armor. But confusion. Raw, open disbelief.
“Why?” he says.
Just one word. Just that. But the way he says it—it’s like he’s never had someone give without taking.
And I want to lie. Say I’m doing it for strategy, to make the Council think we’re aligned. Say I’m keeping my enemies close, that I’m using him.
But I don’t. Because the truth is simple. Awful. And real.
“Because you’re one of us,”
I say quietly.
“Even when you don’t know how to be.”
His mouth opens. Closes. There’s a war behind his eyes, the kind that never ends in victory—just surrender or silence.
He nods once. Not a thank you. Not acceptance. But something like a promise.
Silas shifts next to me, that signature twitch of energy rippling under his skin like he’s got more thoughts than bones and they’re all fighting to get out first. He leans in, breath brushing my ear like a whisper meant to be misunderstood on purpose.
“Okay, so,”
he says, voice pitched low but not nearly subtle enough for the stakes we’re sitting in.
“Dead center, third row—two seats from the aisle. That’s Moriah Estelle. Illusion magic, bad attitude, sharper heels than morals. She once made her ex think he was a tree for three years.”
I blink. “A tree?”
“Yep. Oak. Full bark. No wood jokes, I promise. Elias already tried.”
“Once,”
Elias mutters behind me.
“and it was brilliant. You just don’t appreciate subtlety.”
“You called him a ‘hardwood tragedy,’”
Silas say’s dryly.
“And I stand by it,”
he says, lifting his chin like the crown of comedy belongs to him and him alone.
Silas taps my arm again, pointing discreetly with his chin this time.
“Left balcony, the guy with the eyes too close together and the too-perfect beard? That’s Caldrin Roque. High enchantment, low charm. Thinks he’s a kingmaker. Tried to have me hexed in second year.”
“Did it work?”
Silas grins like the question offends him.
“Please. He woke up with permanent glitter in his bloodstream. Bled sparkle for weeks.”
Elias shifts forward just slightly, voice closer now, warmer.
“The couple with matching robes and no concept of personal space? Crowsmoor twins. They run a collective in the Hollow’s outer rim. They’re not dangerous unless you insult their aesthetic. Which Silas did.”
“It was beige,”
Silas defends.
“with fringe. They deserved it.”
Behind us, Riven exhales hard, a sharp sound through his nose that could be a sigh or a threat. I don’t turn to look—I can feel him there. Close. Watching.
Ambrose is silent at my other side, his presence like a blade sheathed but not forgotten. But it’s the chaos crew—Silas and Elias—who fill the space with noise, like their banter is armor, like if they’re laughing loud enough, the weight of the Council can’t pin us to the floor.
Elias leans in, and this time he brushes my shoulder, just enough to make my breath stutter. He doesn't seem to notice—or maybe he does and pretends not to. He murmurs.
“So… what’s the over-under on one of these creeps trying to seduce you by intermission?”
I glance at him over my shoulder, deadpan.
“Is that jealousy?”
“Please,”
he says.
“It’s statistical dread. If someone starts quoting poetry at you, I’m throwing Silas off the balcony as a distraction.”
“I volunteer as tribute,”
Silas chirps.
And I laugh.
God help me—I laugh, right here in this nest of watching eyes and sharpened motives. Because for a second, I forget that we’re the ones being hunted. For a second, I’m just the girl pressed between chaos and snark, between too much magic and not enough time, held up by boys who’d burn the world just to keep me smiling.
And I’ll let them.
For now.
The lights dim once more.
And the stage begins to breathe.