Chapter 9 #2
“The effects are temporary,” he said, his voice warming with amusement, “though I must say, your enhanced perception suits you. Most people lose themselves in the sensations, but you’re categorizing and analyzing everything. It’s remarkably…you.”
“At least I’m good for something.” I looked up into his eyes and settled my hands into their appropriate waltz positions, unprepared for the leap of energy that crackled and buzzed everywhere we touched.
And everywhere we didn’t.
As we moved into the waltz, I found myself attuned to Damien in ways that both unsettled and fascinated me.
I could track the minute shifts in his expression—the fractional dip of his eyes toward my lips, the almost imperceptible relaxation of his square jaw when we executed a turn that positioned us farther from Vivienne’s watchful gaze.
“Hey, why did Vivienne seem so shocked to see me wearing your ring? It was more than just shock at our engagement. What didn’t you tell me about the ring’s significance?”
A flicker of discomfort crossed his features before his expression smoothed again. “It’s not relevant to our current objectives.”
“Damien.” I fixed him with a direct look, making it clear I wouldn’t be deflected again. “If I’m wearing some vampire equivalent of the Hope Diamond or an enchanted artifact that’s going to turn me into a bat at midnight, I should probably know about it.”
His attention shifted to something over my shoulder, his body tensing beneath my hands.
“We have a situation,” he murmured, smoothly changing our direction to keep me facing away from whatever he’d spotted. “Wolf pack elder at three o’clock. Northern Territories insignia. He’s noticed you.”
An icy shiver dragged down my spine. The Northern Territories pack—my dad’s domain.
I might be wearing a mask, but certain physical characteristics were distinctive enough for those familiar with the Rookwood bloodline.
The lunar crescent birthmark at my temple, visible with my upswept hair, was particularly damning. All direct Rookwood descendants had it.
“Options?” I asked.
“We confront it directly,” Damien decided, his hand tightening at my waist in silent reassurance. “Avoiding him will only draw more attention. Follow my lead.”
Before I could prepare myself, Damien guided us through the dancers toward an elegantly dressed older man whose silver mask did little to disguise him.
“That’s my uncle Raymond,” I whispered. “Dad’s younger brother. He was at my exile ceremony.”
Damien’s expression remained impassive, but his thumb brushed a small, comforting circle at my waist. The casual intimacy of the gesture steadied me.
“Elder Rookwood,” Damien greeted with formal courtesy as we approached. “What an unexpected pleasure. May I present my fiancée, Luna Rookwood?”
Uncle Raymond—a man who had once taught me to track deer through winter forests and brought me candy when Dad wasn’t looking—stared at me with undisguised shock. “Luna? Is it really you?”
I straightened my spine, channeling the pack princess I’d once been rather than the ruined exile I’d become. “Uncle Raymond. You’re looking good.”
My voice came out steadier than I felt. The last time I’d seen him, he’d stood silently among the circle of pack elders as my dad severed my pack bonds, his face stoic but his eyes—so like mine—filled with regret he wasn’t permitted to express.
“Fiancée? This is unexpected,” he managed, his gaze darting between me and Damien, lingering on our clasped hands and my ring. “The Alpha will be most interested to learn of this…development.”
The mention of my dad sent a familiar pain through my chest, a phantom echo of the spiritual wound left when he’d cut me from the pack magic.
“My personal life is no longer the Alpha’s concern,” I said, my voice chilled. “He made that quite clear during my exile ceremony. Or has he revised the terms of my banishment without telling me?”
Raymond’s expression hardened at my directness. “The terms remain. However, your entanglement with a vampire crosses lines. Need I remind you of the Blood Wars? Of the ancient laws forbidding such unions?”
Damien’s posture shifted, not threatening, but more present somehow. When he spoke, his voice carried undertones of power that hadn’t been there moments before.
“With respect, Elder Rookwood,” he said, each word weighted, “those laws were established after centuries of misunderstanding and mutual prejudice between vampires and shifters. Luna and I represent a new possibility, one where old enemies might find common ground. The Blood Wars cost both our kinds dearly. Perhaps it’s time to heal those ancient wounds. ”
I stared at Damien, momentarily forgetting our cover story. There was conviction in his voice that couldn’t be faked, a vision of something better that felt sincere.
Either that or he was a damn good liar.
My uncle’s brow furrowed as he studied Damien with new intensity. “You’re of Cross lineage, aren’t you? Elliot Cross’s progeny?”
“I am,” Damien said with a slight inclination of his head.
Something shifted in Raymond’s demeanor—a subtle straightening of his shoulders, a new wariness in his eyes. “I see. That is unexpected.”
“Life is full of surprises, Uncle,” I said, forcing a pleasant smile. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’re expected elsewhere.”
“One moment,” Raymond said. “Your daught—“
“No,“ I snapped, so loudly that the sound drew stares. My chest tightened painfully, my eyes scorching. “That subject is no longer pack business.”
Damien’s arm curved around my waist, his body a physical barrier between me and my uncle. The gesture wasn’t part of our practiced routine. It felt instinctive, genuinely protective.
“We’ll be going now,” he said, his voice gentle but leaving no room for argument.
My uncle’s gaze drifted once more to my engagement ring. “Just be careful, Luna. And remember what you surely know about wolves and vampires uniting under any circumstance.”
Raymond executed a formal bow and retreated into the crowd, his form now a blur.
Damien guided me in the other direction, putting more distance between us and my uncle.
He led me from the dance floor toward a quiet alcove partially concealed by ornamental fae-light trees whose branches cast shifting patterns of illumination.
The secluded space offered some privacy.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
I couldn’t answer. His hand moved to my back, tracing small, soothing circles. He didn’t press for words, simply providing quiet support while I fought to calm my ragged breathing and the steady stream of tears.
“I know your history,” he said after a moment. “The clinical details, at least. But I’m beginning to understand that knowing facts isn’t the same as comprehending their weight.”
The simple acknowledgment—that my pain was real, that it mattered—loosened something tight in my chest.
A soft chime echoed through the gala space, audible even over the music and conversation.
“That’s our summons,” Damien said. “Selene is ready to receive us.”
I took a steadying breath, wiped my tears, adjusted my mask, and smoothed the shimmering fabric of my gown. “When I cry, I look like a wet goblin. Tell me how bad I look.”
He chuckled. “If that’s what wet goblins look like, then I have been missing out.” His gaze traveled over me with an intensity that curled heat through my veins. “You look magnificent, Luna. Authentic in a room full of carefully constructed facades.”
I found something so raw and genuine in his expression that I smiled, though it wobbled some.
I reached out instinctively and took his hand. “Then let’s go memorize a skin map without puking, partner.”