Silver Shackles Under the Moonlight

When Astrid opened her eyes, her vision was pierced by the intricate Gothic moldings on the ceiling. A splitting headache throbbed behind her temples, as if a colony of vampire bats were frantically beating their wings against her skull. Last night had been the design department’s annual gala. To endure the company of those arrogant purebloods, she had been forced to down several glasses of "synthetic plasma" spiked with heavy spirits. After that… fragmented memories flickered like torn film strips: scalding skin, stifled gasps, and an overwhelming pressure that felt as if it would tear her very soul apart. She bolted upright, only to find herself lying in a vast, almost absurdly large bed of deep ebony. Scattered across the carpet was her cheap white shirt, the fabric brutally shredded, its silver threads snapped into useless glints. "Dammit..." she cursed, her voice a jagged rasp. On the nightstand sat a neatly folded, brand-new professional suit in deep violet—a limited-edition piece from Valkyrie’s latest couture line. Every stitch exuded the haughty restraint of an apex predator. She dressed hurriedly, her fingers trembling as they brushed against her collarbone. She noticed that her neck and everything above was impeccably clean, devoid of a single mark; however, beneath the concealment of the collar, her skin was a battlefield of bruises from savage, primal bites. He was holding back. He hadn't punctured her throat to inject venom, but he had unleashed his rawest possessiveness in the places hidden from view. Astrid stepped out of the bedroom. The suite was immense—cold, hollow, and saturated with the expensive scent of silver fir and the oppressive aura of a high-ranking Alpha werewolf. This wasn't a hotel; it was the private sanctum of an apex stalker. In the expansive open-concept living area, a silhouette crashed into her sight. A man sat on a leather sofa, a laptop balanced on his knees, his fingers dancing across the keys. Even in a relaxed posture, the sheer weight of his authority made the air in the room feel thin. Sensing movement, he looked up. Those deep-set eyes now shimmered with a cold, amber luminescence. Killian Valerius. The supreme sovereign of the Valkyrie Group—the "Ascetic Tyrant" rumored to possess a severe obsession with cleanliness and an utter disdain for the opposite s*x. "I am in the middle of a global video conference," Killian’s voice rumbled, low and resonant like thunder trapped in a chest, laced with the magnetic rasp of the night before. Astrid froze in place, not daring to draw a breath. "Come here. Drink this." Killian leaned forward slightly, his long fingers sliding a glass of honey water infused with a special slow-release agent across the table. He seemed oblivious to the fact that as his collar dipped, a vivid crimson scratch on the side of his neck flashed momentarily before the high-definition camera. Astrid’s cheeks burned. That was her masterpiece, carved during the brink of losing control last night. She sat down, averting her eyes, and dutifully sipped the water. She must have stumbled into the wrong vehicle last night—the mobile territory of the Wolf Lord himself. Fifteen minutes later, Killian ended the meeting, closed his laptop, and began handling his breakfast with elegant precision. "My apologies. I didn't know it was your first time; I was a bit... unrefined," he said. His tone was as flat as if he were reading an insignificant acquisition contract, his face devoid of emotion. Astrid nearly choked on the honey water, the blush creeping all the way to her ears. "The family doctor will be here in five minutes. You are not permitted to leave yet," he stated. Astrid raised the glass of milk to hide her inner turmoil. She had no idea what this cold, mercurial Alpha was plotting. Was he afraid she might conceive an heir carrying the Wolf King’s lineage? "Wait here. I have a negotiation regarding territorial expansion today. Sebastian will see you home." "Mr. Valerius, I can manage on my own. No need to trouble yourself." "Is that a suggestion that my performance last night was so lacking that you are desperate to escape?" He looked up slightly, a dangerous flicker of amusement dancing in his amber pupils. "..." Astrid was speechless. In the face of this absolute hierarchy, her sharp wit was utterly useless. "Mr. Valerius, the doctor has arrived," an elderly maid said, appearing respectfully from the shadows. Killian said nothing, merely watching Astrid in silence. Her golden hair, radiant as moonlight, and her porcelain skin were breathtaking in the morning light. He exhaled a nearly imperceptible sigh. "Follow me." Returning to the bedroom that felt like an ancient altar, Astrid felt her palms grow damp. The room had been tidied, but that didn't stop the memories of last night’s madness from flooding back. A professional female vampire doctor entered, and Killian exited, locking the door behind him. There was no forced medication as she had feared; the doctor simply examined her injuries and applied an expensive healing salve. The cooling sensation soothed her physical discomfort but only deepened her sense of shame. By the time she stepped out again, Killian was gone. Waiting downstairs was Sebastian. "Last night... did I get into the wrong car?" After sitting in the armored luxury vehicle, Astrid stared at the thick fog outside the window and asked in a low voice. "Strictly speaking, yes, the future Mrs. Valerius," Sebastian replied, expertly igniting the engine, his tone light. "I’ve never seen anyone quite as thoroughly intoxicated as you were. You broke into the Boss’s car, hugged him, called him a 'Big Polar Bear,' and nearly ripped his bespoke silk shirt to shreds. He’s still missing half the buttons." Astrid buried her face deep into her collar, wishing she could vanish on the spot. "The Boss intended to take you home, but your blood scent became somewhat... volatile after the drinking. He was worried you’d be targeted by rogue vampires if left alone, so he could only bring you back to his territory." "As you can see, nothing happened," Astrid argued, pointing to her neck, which had been cleaned of any trace. "It seems our Lord behaves much more like a gentleman when facing his 'Fated Mate' than I imagined," Sebastian drawled, his smile full of mischief.