Moon Over Manhattan

The Pull

Weeks blurred into a fevered haze.

Dreams came relentlessly: golden eyes dark, black fur brushing skin, moonlight too real, growl vibrating chest like call home didn’t want. Woke gasping, sheets twisted, fever-hot, crescent scar throbbing pulse—sometimes violently thought mark tear open again. Told herself to stress. Trauma gala. Panic attack dressed in fantasy.

Lied.

Buried work ruthless precision—dawn board meetings cut presentations blade, acquisitions negotiated encrypted lines, tone made grown executives flinch, empire father built cold precision running smoother ever under hand. Directors praised sharpness and decisiveness. Didn’t see fingers tremble signed contracts, eyes drifted windows searching skyline something couldn’t name, didn’t see gripped conference table edge knuckles bled white, fighting urge bolt outside scream moon.

Every full moon city is called—louder, angrier, and more insistent.

The first one came three weeks after the gala. Stood penthouse balcony barefoot cold marble, staring at the rising moon—huge, low, impossibly bright. Scar ignited. Skin prickled with static electricity lived under it. Vision sharpened unnaturally—saw individual snowflakes caught by the wind twenty stories below, heard distant heartbeat pigeon neighboring rooftop. Whispered empty air, voice cracking:

“Who are you?”

Lucien stepped into the darkness.

Been there all along—perched rooftop ledge two buildings over, wolf eyes tracking every movement. Pack elders warned: mating human heiresses meant exposure. Hunters still existed—wealthy families once tried to capture werewolves sport or science. Voss Global learned the truth, and the resources hunt Blackthorn's extinction. Stayed away. Tried.

Pull unbearable.

Crossed gap one fluid, impossible leap—silent, predatory—landing balcony railing gravity forgotten him. Dropped down, boots soft marble, golden eyes glowing faintly dark, pupils blown wide hunger terror.

“Man can’t stay away,” said, voice rougher remembered—edged close pain.

Elara didn’t scream. Didn’t flinch. Looked at him—chest rising falling fast, scar palm blazing silver-white brand coming alive.

“Been following.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Took a step closer. Air crackled—electric, dangerous. “You’re mine.” Words tore raw, desperate, furious. “I’m yours. Killing, stay away.”

Laughed—sharp, disbelieving, edged hysteria. “Don’t belong to anyone.”

“Not yet,” said, stepping closer still. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from the furnace, smell pine smoke, and feel the iron wild made knees weak core clench. “Feel it. Same thing I do. Every night I dream about myself. Every full moon stands whispering the name dark. Do you think I don’t feel too? Think I don't wake up with a hard aching calling?”

Breath hitched. Scar flared brighter—silver light threading arm veins moonlight. Vision sharpened further—saw individual beads sweat on the throat, a faint tremor in the hands, pupils dilated, and looked at their mouths.

Bond wasn’t gentle. Live wire—pulling, demanding, promising things I didn't understand, didn't want.

Took a step back. Spine hit the balcony railing. “Get out.”

Lucien didn’t move. “Tried. Weeks. Told impossible. Humans. Voss. One woman's family could destroy everything built to protect.” Voice dropped, rougher, almost broken. “Every night dream about me. Every full moon stand bond pulls hard and can't breathe. Do you think you don’t feel aching? Think I don't feel burning?”

Heart slammed ribs. “Delusional.”

“Am I?” Lifted hand—slow, careful—palm hovered an inch from hers. Scar blazed a response. Heat snapped—electric, intimate, almost painful. “Touch. See real.”

Should refuse. Should have screamed security. Should have done anything to lift and press his palm.

The moment the skin met, the world exploded.

Bond ignited—white-hot, searing, flooding him: scent, heat, wolf. Saw flashes—ancient forests, pack hunts, blood moons, Lucien standing by Declan’s pyre, golden eyes dim grief. Felt fear—not hunters, her. What to pack. Him.

Felt her—every hollow space, every sleepless night, every time she stood on the balcony felt the moon call her name. Felt aching chest, heat in thighs, terror, losing control.

Jerked back, gasping. “Hell, that?”

“Bond,” said, voice raw. “Real. Not going away.”

Stared joined hands. Scar palm glowed silver-white—mirroring the faint crescent own palm hadn’t noticed before. Mate Mark. Twin scars. Proof.

Yanked hand free. “Get out. Now.”

Lucien didn’t move. “Can’t. Not anymore. Elders’ right—mating means exposure. Staying away is killing me. Killing too.”

“I’m fine,” lied.

“You’re burning up,” countered. “Every full moon pull gets stronger. Soon won’t fight. Shift. Howl. Every wolf Northeast hears. Every hunter knows the look.”

Laughed brittle. “Saying turning werewolf touched hands?”

“Saying always one. Gene waiting.” Stepped closer—slow, careful. “I woke up one time.”

Wind rose—sharp, cold, distant sirens. Skin prickled. Scar throbbed. Felt it—pull, stronger now, tugging toward him gravity shifted.

I hated him.

Hated herself more.

“Get out,” whispered again. Words lacked force.

Lucien reached—slowly—brushed strand hair face. Touch gentle time. Reverent.

“Will,” said quietly. “Tell me nothing. Look, eyes tell you don't want this.”

Elara met gaze—golden, burning, terrified.

Opened mouth.

Nothing came out.

Lucien exhaled—shaky, relieved, doomed.

“Then not leaving,” said. “Tonight. Not ever.”

Stepped back—just enough to give space. Bond stayed taut, humming the promise threat.

Elara turned away, gripping railing knuckles whitened. City glittered below—indifferent, beautiful, unaware untouchable heiress taken first step toward something burning everything down.

The moon watched.

Bond pulsed.

Somewhere dark, hunters are already listening