Seliora wasn’t about to let so spoiled, over-pampered werewolf princess chase her into the shadows. No way, Jose! She was still royalty, damn it, and the mother of the future heir to the throne. That title alone gave her a royal license to swagger.
With a purposeful flick of her black-gloved hand, she’d arranged for her own transport out of the Blood Castle. No need to make a grand entrance beside the prince—fuck that noise. If she had to steal the spotlight on her own terms, then so be it. This wasn’t just about appearances anymore; it was about making her presence known, louder and prouder than ever. She intended to make sure everyone knew she was still a major player in this chaotic royal drama.
As her car rolled up to Lord Bishop’s sprawling estate, she could already hear the thumping beats of music floating in the evening air. The place was a glittering magnet for Blood City’s crè de la crè, the movers and shakers whose whispered alliances could shift kingdoms.
Seliora stepped out, regal and unflappable, her every movent a calculated brushstroke in the portrait she painted for the world. Her na was announced with the usual fanfare, a chorus of hushed murmurs and admiring glances following her path to the hall. She felt the weight of eyes but she wore their attention like armor.
Her lips curled into a knowing smile. If Luna wanted a war, Seliora was ready. But this was her domain, and she wasn’t about to lose her crown without a fight.
Seliora found her group of friends clustered near the crystal sculpture in the east wing of Lord Bishop’s ballroom. They welcod her with polite smiles. She pasted on her best smile, straightened her hat, and sipped at her blood-wine.
Then ca the questions.
"Did you co alone?" "Where’s the prince?"
Seliora laughed. "Oh, Damien’s still on his way," she said with a wave that sohow both dismissed and invited more questions. "You know how he is... work, royal affairs, urgent matters. I just wanted to get an early start, mingle a bit. Spend ti with my friends."
It was a decent lie. Convincing even—except no one looked convinced.
They knew. Oh, they all knew. The looks they shared were quiet confirmations of what had been whispered in the darker corners of the royal court: Seliora was becoming the prince’s past tense. She could feel it.
Still, she threw back another glass, then another. Drink after drink after drink. Each one dulled the razor edge of humiliation only slightly. She smiled too brightly, nodded too much, and let the burning blood-wine do what centuries of etiquette couldn’t: numb her to the storm gathering in her chest.
The herald, projected through the speakers.
"Prince Damien Dragos... arriving with Princess Luna Sinclair."
All around her, bodies turned toward the grand staircase. Conversations died. Ti slowed.
Damien stood tall and devastating at the top of the stairs, holding Luna’s hand. His posture was proud and his eyes were locked on Luna.
"She’s gorgeous, Seliora," Bethany whispered, leaning in. Of course, they were all vampires—everyone heard it.
Seliora didn’t look at Bethany. She couldn’t. Her eyes were glued to Luna. She was radiant. Alive. Warm in all the ways Seliora, with her perfect lines and curated elegance, could never be.
"Yeah..." she murmured, barely above a breath. "Yeah..."
She couldn’t deny it. Even if she wanted to. Even if the jealousy was clawing its way up her throat. It was obvious to everyone.
Damien introduced her to everyone who mattered. Lords, ladies, vampire generals, society matrons. And every single one of them bent slightly toward Luna.
The herald’s voice bood again. "Lord Archibald Bishop, his daughter Lady Mirabelle Bishop, and family."
There was an elegant hush. The ballroom parted. Lord Bishop looked as though he’d just drunk a gallon of pride. Lady Mirabelle was glowing. And then the real star—wrapped in white silk and gold lace—was presented: the newborn, barely a few weeks old, cooing softly as the priest murmured the ancient blessing.
The christening was brief but grand.
Seliora’s eyes misted as she watched.
When would it be her turn?
She had done everything right. She was supposed to be the one presenting a baby to this city, carrying the heir.
*****
anwhile, Luna stood in the middle of the ballroom. She smiled politely and let Damien guide her through the crush of nobles. She didn’t mind.
She knew everyone was wary of her. But Luna had seen that look before—mirrored in her own people every ti Damien was around them. If he could handle the glares, the whispers, the veiled curiosity, so could she.
She was Luna Sinclair, damn it. Born of Alpha blood. Made to rule.
At least the dress was working overti.
She was glad she wore it. The slit was high enough. The neckline plunged just enough. And Damien’s necklace glittered. It had been ant to hide the scar. The very mark that tethered her to Damien.
But judging from the way so won were eyeing it, that plan was backfiring spectacularly.
One particularly bold noblewoman stared so hard, Luna instinctively touched the necklace to make sure it was still there. Another one actually leaned forward like she might snatch it off Luna’s neck.
"Smile... Moonlight. Just smile," Damien whispered under his breath. He stood at her side, tall and commanding, the very image of vampire royalty in a room full of highborns. But his eyes never left her. "You don’t have to worry about anyone else but ."
"I am not worried," Luna replied, her chin tilted upward in grace.
Damien smiled. "That’s my girl."
They both turned back to watch the christening. The hall had gone solemn again, Lord Bishop presenting the child. Luna kept her posture poised, a gentle smile painted across her lips as she observed. But then—
Seliora from across the ballroom. Her glare was fixed on Luna.
Luna’s eyes t hers calmly. She knew she should behave. She knew she should be the bigger person. But unfortunately, Luna had zero interest in being mature this evening.
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