BENEATH THE SILVER HOWL

The sky over Edinburgh was cloaked in a heavy mist, the kind that curled around the old stone buildings like secrets not meant to be spoken aloud. Ivy Gale stood at the foot of Rothmoor Manor, clutching her black velvet shawl around her shoulders, her heart racing louder than the wind in her ears. She did not belong here. The invitation had arrived three days ago, written on thick parchment, sealed with wax, with no sender. Just her name, Ivy Gale. No one else she knew had received one, not her colleagues at the gallery, not her friends. She was not high society or influential. She was the girl who cataloged oil paintings and brushed off champagne offers from married collectors. Yet here she was, standing before a mansion that looked like it had been carved out of the very night. Candles flickered in the towering windows. Music, low and haunting, filtered out through cracks in the ancient walls. Somewhere inside, Edinburgh’s most elusive billionaire, Veyne Roth, was hosting a masquerade no one had seen coming. And she was on the list. “Miss?” a voice broke through the fog. A tall man in a black mask stood at the door, his eyes unreadable. “Your invitation?” Ivy handed it over with slightly trembling fingers. The man studied it, then nodded and opened the doors wide. A rush of warm air hit her as she stepped in, her breath caught somewhere between awe and unease. The ballroom shimmered in candlelight and gold. Chandeliers dripped crystals like frozen tears from the vaulted ceiling. Every guest was masked, and yet Ivy felt their eyes on her, curious and assessing. A few smiled, and some whispered. It was as if they all knew something she didn’t. Then she saw him. He stood at the far end of the ballroom, half-hidden in shadows, like the darkness itself bent around him. He was tall, easily over six feet, with broad shoulders wrapped in a tailored black suit that hugged every powerful line of his body. His shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, revealing the barest hint of a toned chest and a glint of silver at his wrist. But it was his mask that made her breath stutter. Black leather. Minimalist. Etched faintly with the shape of a wolf. And his eyes, God, his eyes gray and piercing, glowing faintly in the candlelight. They were old eyes. Not aged, but ancient. Wild and wise and He did not smile. He did not speak. But he saw her. Really saw her. And just like that, Ivy Gale forgot how to breathe. The music shifted into something darker, more primal. Strings moaned. Drums beat like a racing heart. Ivy tried to pull her gaze away but couldn’t. The man in the wolf mask moved slowly and deliberately, cutting through the crowd with effortless power. He stopped before her, only inches from her. The surrounding air thickened. “Dance with me,” he said. His voice was not what she expected. It was low, rough-edged like whiskey and smoke, but there was something else underneath its restraint. Like if he let himself go, he would tear the world apart. “I don’t even know your name,” she whispered. “I am not here to give it.” He extended his hand. God help her, she took it. He led her into the center of the room, but the crowd melted away as if they sensed this was not just another waltz. Ivy’s heart thudded against her ribs as he pulled her close. Too close. His hand was warm on her waist. His scent of leather, cedar, and something wild wrapped around her like a storm. They moved together in perfect sync, even though Ivy had not danced like that in years. She was not thinking. She was feeling every inch of him, every shift in his breath, the way his fingers grazed her spine. “You are not like them,” he murmured near her ear. She shivered. “You do not know me.” “I know enough.” “What do you want from me?” she asked. The music slowed. He stopped dancing. His lips were barely an inch from hers. “Only what you are willing to give.” Later, she would wonder how they ended up in the darkened corridor beyond the ballroom. She would try to piece together when the walls blurred and her heartbeat overtook everything else. But at that moment, there was no logic. Just need. His mouth crashed into hers like a wave against stone-hungry, desperate, claiming. Ivy responded in kind, fingers tangling in his thick black hair, nails scraping against his shoulders. He growled low in his throat, a sound that wasn’t entirely human, and pressed her against the wall. His hands roamed her body like he had already memorized it, every curve, every tremble. Her body arched into him, sparks lighting up beneath her skin. The corridor was cold, but her blood was fresh. He pulled back once, just once, as if warring with himself. “I should let you go,” he rasped. “Then why don’t you?” His jaw clenched. “Because I can’t.” And when he kissed her again, it was ruinous. The room they found was somewhere high in the manor, the bed draped in silver and black, like a king’s lair. She let him undress her slowly, reverently, as though each layer peeled back a truth he wasn’t ready to face. When he kissed her again, it wasn’t hunger. It was sorrow. He took her to his room; when she entered, she could not help but notice that the bed was draped in silver and black velvet-like shadows laced with moonlight. The fire in the hearth burnt low, its flickering light painting golden curves across Ivy’s bare skin. Veyne stood at the edge of the bed, eyes locked on her, jaw tight as though holding back a storm. “Tell me to stop,” he said hoarsely. Ivy didn’t. Couldn’t. She reached for him instead. He shed the last of his clothing, revealing a body carved from heat and strength, lean muscle over tanned skin, scars etched like faded stories across his chest. But it was not just his form that stirred her; it was the way he looked at her. As if she were something fragile, holy. A flame he both worshiped and feared to touch. He crawled over her slowly, the bed dipping beneath his weight. One arm braced beside her head, the other sliding along her waist, palm splaying against the soft slope of her hip. Her breath hitched as his mouth found her neck. He did not rush. He took his time. Every kiss down her throat, every brush of his lips along her collarbone felt like he was memorizing her, committing her taste to memory.