Chapter 209
Author’s pov
Sebastian sat at the dining table, pushing aside the remnants of his dinner–half a steak gone cold, a glass of untouched cabernet.
The call with Cassian had been dragging on for nearly twenty minutes, but his mind was elsewhere.
“Sebastian? Are you even listening to me?” Cassian’s voice crackled through the speaker, sharp with irritation.
“Sebastian!” Cassian snapped again, more insistent this time.
“I’m here,” he replied, rubbing his temple.
But he wasn’t. Not really.
Something was off.
A memory nagged at him.
The name “Dahlia” had triggered something–a connection he couldn’t quite place.
Then it hit him.
A few days ago, while reviewing intelligence reports on the Moonveil Ascendancy, he’d seen her name buried in a footnote.
At the time, he’d been preoccupied with another crisis and hadn’t flagged it.
Mrs.Dahlia. Socialite. Political fixer. Occult affiliations flagged but unconfirmed.
And tonight, she was hosting a masquerade at a location off his radar. A masquerade Cecilia had been invited to.
“Cassian, something’s come up. I need to go,” he said abruptly, already reaching for his phone.
“What? We haven’t even p>
Sebastian ended the call without ceremony and rose from his chair.
The legs of the chair scraped against the marble with a sharp screech, echoing in the quiet apartment.
Inside him, Soren stirred–restless, razor-edged, sniffing danger like a bloodhound.
He dialed Cecilia’s number as he strode toward the elevator, his movements fluid and precise.
No answer. Straight to voicemail.
He tried again. Still nothing.
His thumb hovered over the screen for a heartbeat too long.
Then he tried Tang.
“Yes, Alpha?” Tang answered instantly.
“Go into the ballroom. Look for anything out of place,” Sebastian said, his voice dropping into the low, clipped register he reserved for Pack command.
“I can’t reach Cecilia p>
Tang, who’d been half-asleep in the car scrolling through memes, sat up like he’d been electrocuted.
The phone nearly slipped from his hand.
“On it. Going in now p>
“Send me the address p>
“Right away p>
As the elevator descended, Sebastian studied the pin Tang had just dropped.
With a few swipes, he pulled up a dossier on the venue–a historic mansion turned private club, normally used for political fundraisers and old-money galas.
His wolf paced inside him.*Mate. Danger. Find her p>
Sebastian clenched his jaw.
His fingers twitched at his sides, knuckles whitening, but his voice remained steady.
“I know,” he murmured to Soren. “We will p>
The elevator pinged. The doors slid open.
He stepped out into the parking garage, the scent of motor oil and concrete hitting him like a wall.
His car–a matte black Jaguar F-PACE–unlocked before he even reached for the handle. He slid into the seat, engine roaring to life beneath his palm.
Then he requested the guest list and security staff roster.
His wolf snarled at the last one.
Sebastian didn’t blink. No time for fear. No room for doubt.
He shifted the car into gear.
“Hold on, Cece,” he muttered. “I’m coming p>
Inside the ballroom, the sudden darkness gave way to a single dramatic spotlight.
Guests who weren’t in the loop whispered eagerly, assuming it was all part of the night’s entertainment.
“Oh, this should be fun!” a woman nearby squealed, clutching her champagne flute like it was front-row access to the Met Gala.
But the woman in the black mask wasn’t here to entertain.
She was here to make her move–and someone in this room was her target.
Luna Regina sat frozen in her seat, her fingers trembling as they tapped frantically at her phone.
No signal.
She turned to the woman beside her, desperation flickering even through the ornate mask.
“May I borrow your phone? Mine seems to be p>
“Of course, dear,” the woman said, handing it over without looking up.
Luna Regina’s shoulders sagged as she stared at the screen. Same message: No Service.
Her throat tightened. Her pulse roared in her ears like static.
She tried toggling airplane mode, rebooting, anything–but the screen remained stubbornly blank, the signal icon a taunting zero.
She wasn’t just cut off. She was trapped.
“How strange,” she murmured. “Does this happen often here p>
The woman shrugged, completely unfazed.
“Probably just this old place. These walls weren’t built for Wi-Fi p>
Luna Regina forced a laugh, brittle as spun sugar. Her fingers clutched the edge of her clutch like it might anchor her to the room.
But everything around her felt like it was shifting–like the floor beneath her heels had tilted ever so slightly.
Before Luna Regina could respond, Mrs. Dahlia materialized beside them, her smile too wide, her silver mask catching the light like a blade.
“Ladies, won’t you join us at the front? I’ve arranged for a very special tarot reading–the kind your therapist would warn you about. Quite legendary, I assure you p>
The other guests murmured with interest, already drifting forward like well-dressed moths.
Luna Regina stayed seated, one hand pressed at her temple.
“I’ve got a terrible headache,” she said softly. “Perhaps I’ll sit this one out p>
Mrs. Dahlia’s gloved hand closed around her wrist–gentle in appearance, unyielding in pressure.
“Nonsense,” she said cheerfully. “The night is still young, and we’ve barely begun p>
Luna Regina rose, her limbs reluctant, her breath shallow.
She knew better than to resist too publicly–this wasn’t the kind of party where you made a scene and walked out.
As she followed Mrs. Dahlia toward the front, her eyes scanned the dim room, searching–frantically, hopelessly–for a flash of mint green.
But the sea of masks and jewel-toned gowns blurred together under the low lighting.
Everyone was a stranger now.
“Lovely evening, isn’t it?” Luna Dora appeared at her side, moving like a shadow that had just decided to take shape.
“Yes, lovely,” Luna Regina replied, her voice stretched thin, almost brittle.