POV Natalie
Standing in a room packed with werewolves who want me dead wasn’t exactly on my bucket list, but here we fucking are. Life’s been a real bitch lately—two days of rabbit blood and rainwater in the woods, hiding from search parties like some discount Rambo, all so I could drag my half-dead ass back here for the wedding from hell.
The escape from Björn’s compound was like something out of a bad action movie. Three broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder, and enough silver poisoning to kill a normal vampire twice over. I spent the first night passed out in a hollow log, the second night eating raw squirrel and trying not to think about how this was probably the stupidest thing I’d ever done.
Which is saying something, considering my track record.
But worth it, though. Because holy shit, does Avery look incredible in that dress.
Like, inappropriately gorgeous. The kind of stunning that short-circuits your brain while you’re surrounded by fifty people who consider you a walking cheeseburger. White silk flowing like liquid starlight, hair twisted into some architectural masterpiece that probably required a team of engineers, and those eyes—Jesus, those eyes staring at me like I just performed actual miracles instead of breaking out of a psychopath’s basement.
Every bruise, every sleepless hour, every moment of wondering if I’d die alone in those woods—worth it for this exact second.
The wedding decorations are obscenely beautiful. Flowers everywhere, candles flickering like tiny stars, the whole fairy tale princess fantasy cranked up to eleven. It’s the kind of setup that probably cost more than most people’s houses, all of it designed to celebrate Avery walking into a nightmare.
Over my dead fucking body.
“How dare you!” Camden Shadowmere’s voice detonates through the hall like a sonic boom. He’s on his feet, pointing at me like I’m a war criminal who just crashed his daughter’s bar mitzvah. “How dare a vampire defile our sacred space!”
And we’re off to the races.
The entire room explodes into chaos. Chairs scraping stone, voices climbing to near-hysteria, the beautiful sound of about fifty apex predators getting ready to tear me apart with their bare hands. Really setting the mood for what should be a lovely celebration of eternal love.
I catch sight of Joanna in the front row, her face cycling through about seventeen different emotions in the span of three seconds. Shock, relief, terror, hope—it’s like watching someone’s brain try to process a car crash in real time.
“Get that thing out of here!”
“Kill the bloodsucker!”
“Burn the leech alive!”
“This is pure blasphemy!”
The crowd’s working itself into a proper frenzy now. Nothing like good old-fashioned species hatred to get the blood pumping at a wedding reception. I can smell the adrenaline, the rage, the collective desire to rip me into bite-sized pieces. It’s intoxicating in the worst possible way.
“I am not the enemy!” I shout over the beautiful symphony of death threats, and somehow my voice cuts through their collective rage like a knife through butter. All those years of vampire vocal training finally paying dividends in the most absurd way possible.
“The hell you’re not!” some random pack member screams, spit flying from his mouth like he’s having a religious experience. “Your kind has been slaughtering us for centuries!”
“You’ve murdered our children!” another voice adds, because apparently we’re doing greatest hits of supernatural grievances.
“Destroyed our families!”
“Started wars that have decimated both our species!”
“Turned our lands into graveyards!”
“Made our lives a living hell!”
The accusations keep flying like a meteor shower of justified rage, each one designed to work the crowd into enough of a bloodlust to justify tearing me limb from limb. And honestly? I get it. If I were sitting in their position, with their history, I’d probably want to murder me too.
The math checks out, even if they’re aiming at the wrong target.
I can see Björn near the altar, his expression shifting from surprise to calculation. He’s probably trying to figure out how to spin this to his advantage, how to use my dramatic entrance to tighten his grip on Avery. The bastard actually looks pleased, like my arrival is just another chess piece he can move around his board.
“You want to talk about who’s been killing your species?” I say, letting my voice carry across the room with the kind of authority that makes people shut their mouths and pay attention. “You want to know who’s been orchestrating every massacre, every war, every cycle of violence that’s kept us at each other’s throats for generations?”
The room goes dead silent. Not peaceful quiet—the kind of electric stillness that happens right before lightning strikes and changes everything forever.
I can feel Avery’s eyes on me, can sense the collective held breath of fifty werewolves processing what I’m about to say. This is it. The moment where I either save everyone or get myself killed in the most spectacular fashion possible.
The wedding officiant stands frozen mid-ceremony, his mouth hanging open like he’s trying to catch flies. The string quartet has stopped playing, their instruments hanging limp in their hands. Even the flowers seem to be holding their breath.
“You want to know who’s been playing puppet master with both our species, making sure we stay too busy killing each other to notice what’s really happening?”
My finger finds its target—the bastard in the thousand-dollar suit who’s been pulling everyone’s strings like a psychopathic orchestra conductor.
“He did.”