By 4:22 PM, Serena was back in her cramped apartment, a tuna sandwich in one hand and a half-dead laptop on her thighs. Her inbox was a battlefield of rejection letters and urgent deadlines, but one email caught her eye.
Subject: Exclusive Press Access – D'Aragon Estate Event
From: events@daragoncorp.com
Body:
> Ms. Serena Alessi,
Your presence has been approved for tomorrow's executive induction at the D'Aragon Estate.
Formal attire required. Transportation provided. NDA attached.
– The House of D'Aragon
"...Excuse me?"
Her sandwich hit the plate with a thud.
This wasn't just an assignment. This was an invitation. Handpicked. Direct. No hoops. No begging for credentials.
That never happens.
She blinked. Checked the email again. Checked her own name.
No mistake.
Her heartbeat tripped over itself. The D'Aragons didn't do press. They were barely people in the public eye-more like legends in velvet suits. Yet somehow, her little rundown publishing firm got the scoop?
Or... she did.
"Why me?" she whispered, staring at the screen. "What the hell did I do?"
No time to overthink. Tomorrow, she'd be walking into the lion's den.
....
The D'Aragon Manor stood like a palace carved from nightmares and old money.
Black iron gates, ten feet high, slowly creaked open as Serena's cab pulled up the winding driveway. The estate sat on a cliffside, marble and obsidian polished to perfection, gothic statues lining the pathway like sentinels. It oozed power-and danger.
She stepped out, heels clicking, camera bag slung over one shoulder. She wore her best (read: only) black dress and a blazer that still smelled faintly like printer ink.
Guards in tailored suits eyed her like she might explode.
Inside, the estate was even worse.
Gold-trimmed chandeliers. Velvet carpets. Walls covered in oil paintings of men who looked like they conquered nations and drank blood for breakfast.
She was ushered into the grand hall-a cathedral of power.
And then she saw him.
At the far end of the table, seated like a monarch on a throne of shadow and leather, was Ciro D'Aragon.
The man from the photos.
Tall. Bronze-skinned. Dark hair slicked back. A sharp jawline that could cut stone. And eyes-those eyes-a molten, piercing gold... no, wait. Grey?
Her breath caught.
He wore a suit that looked like sin wrapped in silk, a ring on his right hand that gleamed under the lights.
The room was filled with executives and powerful elites, but when his eyes flicked to her-just for a second-it was like the world muted.
Then he turned away.
She exhaled like she'd been underwater.
> Play it cool, Alessi, she told herself.
He's just a CEO.
A terrifyingly hot CEO who may or may not rip throats out with his teeth, but still. A CEO.
She took her seat near the back and pulled out her recorder.
Little did she know...
Ciro already knew exactly who she was.
Ciro sat at the head of the long obsidian table, fingers lazily swirling the aged whiskey in his glass. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, dusk devoured the skyline. Storm clouds crawled across the heavens like beasts waiting to be unleashed.
His suit was black, perfectly cut, lined with silk and silence. His ring-Aurelian's ring-glinted like a promise of violence.
The room was full of noise-executives groveling, board members plotting, leeches with money dripping from their tongues. They talked numbers. Mergers. Stocks. Threats. He barely listened.
He didn't need to.
Because the moment she walked in, the room went quiet in his head.
Serena Alessi.
He didn't need to be told her name. The moment the scent hit him-honeysuckle, old paper, and adrenaline-he knew.
Not Bloodbound. Not a Valenti. Not affiliated with any of the old families.
And yet... familiar.
> "She smells like thunder before a war," Donata had muttered earlier that morning, her voice unusually hushed.
"You sure you want her inside the manor?"
But Ciro had waved her off.
> "If she's fire," he'd said, eyes glinting gold, "then let's see what she burns."
Now, watching Serena fumble with her recorder near the back, her pulse fluttering at her throat like a frightened bird, Ciro tilted his head slightly.
She was nervous. Out of place. But not afraid.
Not yet.
His wolf stirred in the pit of his chest-an ancient, agitated thing. The beast had been oddly quiet since the Rite of the Hill. Since Salvatore's bones broke beneath his claws. Since the Bloodhounds bowed to him.
But now?
The wolf was pacing.
Growling.
Watching her.
And Ciro didn't know if it wanted to protect her... or destroy her.
> Let her do her job, he told himself, but the hunger coiled behind his ribcage wouldn't still.
He sipped his whiskey.
Then he rose.
As he walked across the room, every conversation stuttered to a stop. Silence rolled in like a fog as he approached the press section.
He stopped behind her.
She stiffened.
"...Ms. Alessi," he said, voice deep, smooth, laced with that inhuman calm. "I believe you're looking for a story."
Her breath caught.
He leaned down, mouth near her ear.
"Well then..." His lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Let me show you what a king looks like."
Serena adjusted the strap of her blouse, heart thudding like a ticking bomb under her ribs as she stepped into the private lounge adjacent to the boardroom. It was sleek-black marble floors, moody lights, and a panoramic view of Monte Valenti glowing like a city built on secrets. Everything screamed money and menace.
And there, in the center of it all, sat Ciro D'Aragon.
He didn't stand.
Didn't greet her.
Just looked up from his drink, eyes dark... unreadable. Golden rings of light from the overhead chandelier glinted in his whiskey and those dangerously calm eyes.
"Miss Alessi," he said, like her name tasted strange on his tongue. "Sit."
She obeyed before she realized it.
He didn't need to raise his voice. He didn't need to charm her. His presence alone was gravity.
She clicked on her recorder and set it on the table between them, trying to hide the tremor in her fingers.
"I appreciate you giving me your time, Mr. D'Aragon."
He tilted his glass. "Time is the one thing I control now. Let's make this quick. Ask your questions."
Serena blinked. That was... blunt.
She shuffled her notes. "You recently assumed the position of Chairman at D'Aragon Conglomerate following the passing of your father, Aurelian D'Aragon. There were... rumors of instability. Internal conflict. Some called your leadership 'aggressive.' How do you respond to that?"
Ciro didn't flinch.
"I don't respond to rats squeaking in the dark."
Serena's pen paused mid-scribble.
He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other with that infuriating elegance. "This family was built on legacy. Power. Fear. I inherited all three. I didn't come here to make the board comfortable. I came to make them obedient."
"You don't think that's... dangerous?"
"I think comfort is the death of empires." His gaze locked with hers. "And I didn't kill an empire just to build a sandbox."
Serena swallowed. His words weren't aggressive-they were surgical. Precise. Like every sentence was a dagger dipped in silk.
She cleared her throat. "What about the rumors connecting your family to underground dealings? The Valenti conflict? People are saying-"
"I don't care what people are saying," he said sharply, eyes narrowing ever so slightly.
Then, to her surprise, he stood. Slowly. Like a storm rising behind a glass wall.
He stepped to the window.
She thought the interview was over-until he spoke again.
"Do you know what it feels like to inherit a kingdom of wolves in a world that doesn't believe in monsters, Miss Alessi?"
She froze. "What?"
He turned his head, just enough to catch her reflection in the glass.
"Exactly."
A smirk touched the corner of his mouth-too subtle, too dangerous-and then it was gone.
"Tell your readers whatever you want," he said calmly. "But be careful what truths you chase. Some of them bite."
Click.
She ended the recording, heart racing, unsure if she had just interviewed a businessman, a tyrant... or something far, far older.
She left with hurried steps-heels clicking like a countdown on polished floors, recorder clutched like it might explode in her hand.
Ciro watched her go, one hand still in his pocket, the other swirling the last of his whiskey. No tremor. No emotion.
But there was a smile. Crooked. Dangerous.
She didn't know what just happened.
She thought it was just an interview.
That was the problem with humans. They always thought they were the ones asking the questions.
Ciro turned back toward the window, the Monte Valenti skyline stretching out beneath him like prey.
She had been... interesting. Not in the usual perfume-and-eyeliner way his conquests came wrapped. No, Serena Alessi had a sharp tongue hidden behind corporate desperation. And she was smart. Not smart enough to see what he really was-not yet-but enough to walk straight into his den and survive. That counted.
He downed the rest of the drink.
"Loyal, quiet... and bold," he muttered to himself. "A rare mix."
His contact lenses itched.
He slid them out and blinked, golden eyes catching the moonlight's shimmer through the glass. The ring on his finger-the one he tore off a dying Valenti corpse-glowed faintly as if it, too, could feel the tension crackling in the night air.
The ring didn't just represent power.
It was a beacon.
A curse.
A vow made in blood and broken bones.
Two bloodlines warred in his veins-Valenti rage and D'Aragon cunning-and he was the last of both. The heir to empires built on fur, fangs, and fire. The last of the Bloodbound with the right to rule.
"Chairman."
He sneered. What a small, corporate word for what he truly was.
He wasn't their chairman.
He was their Alpha.
And Serena... well. She'd just wandered into his story.
He walked away from the window and opened the encrypted tablet on his desk. Reports were coming in-Valenti defectors executed, docks reclaimed, cargo rerouted. The city was bowing, slowly. Quietly. One howl at a time.
His phone buzzed.
Donata.
> "She's not just a reporter. Digging into her background now."
Of course she wasn't. Ciro wasn't stup
id enough to believe fate sent him a pretty journalist with doe eyes and a voice like smoke just for PR.
He closed the tablet. Picked up his jacket.
He wasn't finished with Serena Alessi.
Not even close.
"Let her dig," he texted back. "Let her find teeth."