Moonlit Vengeance

The Catalyst

“That incendiary rumor ignites something within me, a furious blaze that demands answers and unleashes raw, explicit retribution. My pulse is a war drum in my chest, each beat striking like a hammer as I come face-to-face with a future that refuses to show mercy.”

-

I remain perched on the edge of my bed, phone still clenched in my hand, the harsh glow of the breaking news alert etching itself onto my retinas. Damien’s rumored child. Words that spark a chaos of possibility, each scenario more unsettling than the last. A cold knot tightens in my stomach, warring with a crescendo of rage. If this is true, if he’s hidden another heir, another secret, my entire plan might tilt on its axis.

But as soon as shock floods my senses, a tidal wave of anger surges up, crashing over all other thoughts. No matter how thoroughly I believed I understood him, it seems Damien always has more venom hidden beneath the surface. First, he took my heart and shattered it; now, if he’s truly fathered another child in the shadows, the implications could destroy what little stability remains in our violent world.

I stand too quickly, my vision momentarily swimming. The apartment I’m using as a makeshift base is cramped and spartan, a borrowed safehouse that smells of stale coffee and disinfectant. Pacing the worn carpet, I try to stifle the panic threatening to consume me. That rumor is a spark, and if I can’t snuff it out or harness it, it’ll become a conflagration that scorches my carefully orchestrated revenge to ash.

Furious energy crackles beneath my skin. I need answers, now. My mind scrambles, piecing together the scraps of intel I’ve collected on Damien’s dealings, searching for any clue that ties him to a secret child. Perhaps he’s using it as leverage. Or, worse, it might be a shield he’s created against me and every other enemy in his path.

Without hesitation, I fling open the closet, rummaging past battered jackets and boots until my hands land on a weathered box of old files. I yank it free, nearly toppling stacks of half-shredded documents from the safehouse’s previous occupant. Dust drifts in the air as I drag the box onto the small kitchen table, flipping the overhead light on. The illumination is harsh and unforgiving, casting a glare on dozens of tattered folders and scraps of paper that trace my tumultuous history with Damien.

In these pages lie secrets I once believed I could bury, reports, coded ledgers, photos capturing stolen moments of intimacy and violence. My gaze skims an image of Damien standing outside his exclusive nightclub, jaw set like a predator, eyes gleaming with the promise of blood. Another snapshot: me, pinned against the wall in a back alley, grinning through bruised lips as we finished a confrontation with rival wolves. We were unstoppable back then, locked in a twisted dance of desire and danger.

As I sift through the evidence, I brace for the onslaught of memories. The raw, explicit recollections are never gentle, reminding me just how deep our connection once ran, and how ferocious the fallout became. I come across an old letter, the edges singed from when I nearly burned every memento of us. My hands tremble as I read the words scrawled in frantic script: “Meet me at midnight. I can’t bear the distance anymore. I need to taste the violence on your lips again, Damien.”

A ragged breath escapes my throat. In many ways, we were an inferno of passion, devouring each other in sweaty, desperate nights that blurred the line between ecstasy and destruction. But equally potent were the fights, the times his power overshadowed my own, the nights his authority as Alpha and mafia king threatened to crush my spirit. My chest tightens, remembering how easily I once lost myself in his arms, wanting the aggression that laced our bond, craving the savage intimacy no one else could offer.

But now? The man I loved has grown into something monstrous, or maybe that monster always lurked beneath his handsome facade, waiting for the right trigger to emerge. And if rumors of his hidden child are true, it means he’s playing a game with consequences far more dire than I imagined.

I press deeper into the files, stumbling across references to old business deals, bribes paid to keep certain births under wraps, hush money funneled through countless shell accounts. My heart thuds faster as I begin to see patterns, documents that speak of medical expenses, a series of cryptic transactions pointing to specialized clinics known for secrecy and high-risk pregnancies among werewolves. My throat goes dry. Could Damien have orchestrated such a conspiracy behind my back all this time?

Flashes of memory assault me: the feral tension in his gaze whenever the topic of loyalty arose, the near-violent protectiveness he exuded if he suspected I was in danger, the simmering resentment whenever mention of children or lineage was whispered among the pack. Back then, I believed it stemmed from the burdens of leadership and the scars of his own brutal upbringing. Now, I wonder if a deeper secret fueled his volatility.

-

A sudden vibration jolts me from my dark reverie. My phone rattles on the table’s edge. The screen lights up with a name I haven’t seen in months: Arlo. A twinge of old, complicated emotion tugs at me, mingling with a fresh jolt of dread. Arlo was a fleeting lover in the storm that followed my breakup with Damien, a man who once offered me a reprieve from heartbreak in exchange for a glimpse of danger.

I hesitate only a moment before answering. “What do you want?”

A low chuckle spills from the receiver. “Always so warm and welcoming, Aria.”

“Cut the bullshit, Arlo.” My voice is harsher than I intend, adrenaline making me snap. “If you’re calling me, it means you have news I need. Spill it.”

He exhales, a sound that crackles with tension. “Word travels fast in these circles. Heard about the rumor, didn’t you? About Damien’s kid?”

My stomach knots. “You know something.” It’s not a question.

“I might. But it’ll cost you.”

I grip the phone tighter, blood rushing in my ears. Memories flicker, Arlo’s hands pinning my hips as we tried to exorcise ghosts of the people we truly wanted. We found fleeting solace in each other’s arms, the s*x raw and desperate, lacking the twisted depth Damien and I once had. Even so, Arlo gleaned secrets about me, enough to remain a threat or an ally. “Just say what you have to say.”

His tone turns acerbic. “This is bigger than you think. That rumor is no idle gossip, Aria. The circles I run in, let’s just say if a child truly exists, certain high-rollers are planning to exploit the situation. I’ve heard talk of kidnappings, ransoms, messy deals.”

I swallow against a rising panic, my protective instincts for my own secret child flaring. “And Damien? How does he factor in?”

“He’s chasing shadows,” Arlo says. “Panicking, maybe. Some claim he’s on the verge of an alliance with an old enemy. Others say he’s doubling down on security, threatening to kill anyone who even whispers about a kid that’s not his.”

A cold sweat breaks across my brow. So Damien denies the rumor, or the child. “Why call me?”

A soft click of a lighter drifts through the phone, followed by a drag of a cigarette. “Because I recall how you used to talk about him, like he was the sun you orbited. Then it all collapsed. But something tells me you’ve never really gotten him out of your system, have you?”

A flush of anger ignites my cheeks. “Don’t psychoanalyze me. Tell me what you know.”

His laugh is dark. “The rumor has legs. The child is real, or so people say. If that’s true, then you’re not the only one who’s...” He cuts himself off, but the implication rings clear. “Let’s just say you should be worried you’re not the only one with claim to Damien’s legacy.”

My heart stutters. “Who else knows?”

“Plenty,” he says grimly. “And they’re circling like vultures. If you want the specifics, we can meet. Face to face.”

-

I end the call, my nerves buzzing. Arlo’s words echo in my mind, dredging up the tumultuous swirl of regret and longing that’s plagued me since Damien’s betrayal. The notion that he might have fathered another child stings more than I want to admit, reigniting that toxic mix of jealousy, rage, and twisted desire that has shaped our entire story.

I thought I’d buried any lingering tenderness for him beneath layers of hatred, forging myself into a woman who can kill without flinching if it means protecting what’s mine. But the more I contemplate the possibility of another child, another piece of Damien roaming free, the more I realize the old bond between us isn’t dead. It’s battered and bloodstained, but still tethered to my soul.

I slam the file box shut, cursing under my breath. I can’t let my emotions overshadow logic. If there’s a child, that means Damien’s web of deceit is even more tangled than I suspected. And if that child is threatened by the underworld, it might be the pressure point that either brings Damien to his knees or corners him into an even deadlier arrangement. My own child’s future is at stake too. If word leaks that Damien has a second heir, then my precious secret might be dragged into the light, painting an even brighter target on my back.

Hatred still smolders in my heart, fueled by memories of his rejection and the violence he wielded against anyone who crossed him. Yet, in the darkness of my safehouse, I can’t ignore the pang of something else, an echo of desire, the memory of how his touch once felt vital and all-consuming. I hate myself for acknowledging it, but the truth remains: no matter how brutal or unhinged our bond became, the magnetic pull between us lingers like a curse.

The duality within me, a savage need for retribution warring with a feral longing for the man who hurt me, tightens like a vise around my chest. Maybe that’s why the idea of him hiding another child cuts so deep. It’s an intrusion on the twisted narrative I’d constructed in my mind: that I was unique in his life, his only flaw, his singular regret. If there’s another child, it means I was just one more pawn in a never-ending cycle of violence and possession.

For a moment, I allow myself a flicker of heartbreak, an acknowledgment of the wounds that never healed. Then I harden my resolve. I’m not that broken lover anymore, stumbling through the wreckage of a disastrous affair. Now, I’m a force with a singular purpose: to protect my son and dismantle the empire that nearly destroyed me. If that means confronting another piece of Damien’s legacy, so be it.

-

I gather my things, stuffing crucial documents and a loaded pistol into a battered duffel. It’s time to face whatever the truth is, even if it leads me straight into the jaws of a man I once loved more than life. Outside, the city hums with perpetual activity, the neon haze painting the streets in lurid color. My reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror reveals eyes lit with a vengeful flame.

Just as I’m about to leave, my phone buzzes again. Expecting Arlo, I glance at the screen but find an unknown number. Anxiety coils in my stomach. I let it ring once more, twice, before pressing the phone to my ear.

“Aria Blackwell,” a distorted voice intones. “Word on the street is you’ve been sniffing around Damien’s affairs. Might want to watch your step.”

My fingers tighten on the handle of my bag. “Who is this?”

A low laugh. “Let’s just say I’m someone with a vested interest in certain secrets staying buried. If you keep poking your nose into topics like rumored heirs, you won’t like the repercussions. And it won’t be just you who suffers.”

My throat constricts. A direct threat. “If you have something to say, then say it. Don’t waste my time with scare tactics.”

The voice’s timbre dips to a menacing hush. “How about a little tip instead? That rumor you’re chasing leads straight to a name you know well: Jericho Lane, the man behind half the city’s hush-money clinics. Guess who’s funding him?”

My blood goes cold. Jericho Lane is a name that’s come up before, an elusive figure rumored to provide sanctuary for clandestine births and supernatural anomalies. My mind whirls with the connections. Is Jericho working for Damien? Or for one of his rivals, orchestrating a new way to manipulate the pack? Heart hammering, I try to form a coherent question, but the line goes dead before I can utter a word.

A heavy silence descends, broken only by the distant blare of traffic. Jericho Lane, someone tied to underground medical facilities, rumored to handle the dirtiest secrets of the supernatural underworld. If he’s at the center of this rumor, it means Damien’s empire is entrenched far deeper into black-market dealings than even I realized.

Abruptly, I toss my phone onto the table. My earlier rummaging through the files yielded scraps of references to shady clinics, coded payouts, and suspicious hush money. Now those faint hints sharpen into a menacing puzzle piece: Jericho Lane might be the key to confirming whether Damien truly fathered another child, and how that secret ties into the power plays gripping the city.

A rush of icy determination floods me. The empire I aim to destroy just showed me its throat, unveiling an unexpected vulnerability. If Jericho Lane and this rumored child are indeed real, exposing them could shatter Damien’s ironclad hold on the pack and the mafia network in one decisive blow.

Yet my instincts scream caution. Every move from this point on is a gamble. If I push too hard, I risk provoking Damien and his allies into lethal retaliation, one that could endanger not just me, but the child I’ve guarded so desperately. The weight of that possibility burns in my gut, reminding me of the stakes. But I can’t afford to relent. The truth I’ve stumbled upon is too vital, too explosive.

I sling the duffel over my shoulder, nerves taut as a drawn bowstring. Before I can take a step toward the door, my phone pings again, this time, a simple text from the unknown number. Three words glare back at me:

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”