The Moon's Chosen King

The city never slept.

It beats under under his feet like a restless living machine-glowing, breathing, alive with hunger. From the top floor of Blackwood Tower, Damien Blackwood stood straight, his tall frame casted by a full pane of glass that stretched from floor to ceiling. A living symbol carved from darkness and steel.

The building structure was a sea of shattered stars-endless lights shining from windows, headlights, billboards. But to Damien, they weren't beautiful. They were distractions. Every sparkle was a reminder of the chaos below. Weakness disguised as civilization. Noise dressed as order.

He did not blink. He rarely did when he was thinking.

His hands were inside his pockets, his statue relaxed, but his unique aura carried tension like live wire. Even when still, Damien Blackwood was always in control. His aura remained in the air like electricity. Into the walls. Into the floor under his feet.

Power was an old companion. He wore it like a second skin.

Below him, the city carried on in blissful ignorance. They did not know the man who watched them from above. They did not know the empire they served, not really. They saw his name on buildings, read his titles in headlines, and whispered rumors behind boardroom doors.

But no one knew him.

And that was by design.

The office behind him was silent. Not the kind of silence that came from absence, but the kind born of precision. Every piece of furniture was angular, dark, and expensive. No clutter. No personal photos. Not even a splash of color.

His world had no room for softness.

He looked away from the window, at last, the black shinning fabric of his blazer brushing against his well ironed white shirt. The quiet sound of fabric was the only sound as he crossed the polished floor toward his desk.

He remained calm. Damien never rushed.

A decanter sat on a silver tray, half filled with rich amber whiskey. He poured a glass with one smooth motion, no ice. He liked the heat. The bite. It reminded him he could still feel.

Sometimes.

The drink touched his lips just as a familiar memory slithered into his thoughts.

Snow.

The feeling of rejection feels colder than winter wind.

A calm lady's voice, quiet just like a whisper.

"You will never be enough for me."

His grip tightened around the glass.

Isla.

He did not let himself think about her often. But sometimes-on nights like this, when the city slowed and the air shifted-she crept in.

The first mate he'd lost. Or rather, the one who'd walked away before she was ever truly his.

Her betrayal had been the crucible.

He'd been nothing then. No empire. No kingdom. Just a young wolf with too much rage and not enough armor. He remembered the way her back had looked as she turned away. The snow hadn't yet settled over the tracks her boots left behind.

She did not just leave him.

She carved the man he would become.

Damien raised the glass back to his lips, drank gently from it, then placed it down gently but it still made a little noise that echoed loudly because of how quiet everywhere was.

He wasn't that boy anymore. The one who'd begged for love.

Now, they bowed. Or they bled.

A faint knock broke the silence.

Two sharp raps.

Precise. Timed. Expected.

He did not look up. "Enter."

The door opened, and Ethan Cross stepped in, his usual confident gait unbothered by the weight of the room. Damien's second-in-command. His beta. The only person left who still called him out when he was being insufferable.

Ethan moved like a soldier who knew the war was never over. Tousled dirty blond hair, casual dark clothes, sharp hazel eyes that saw everything. Loyal by nature, but he wasn't a people pleaser.

"You came in early," Ethan said, looking at the untouched files on the desk.

"Or late."

"Hard to tell with you."

Damien said nothing.

Ethan walked to stand across from him, leaning against the edge of the desk. "You have been doing that thing again."

"What thing?"

"The brooding window stare. Arms folded. Whiskey in hand. A city trembling beneath your feet. Very 'Alpha King in existential crisis.'"

Damien cut him a sideways look. "You are irritating when you try to be funny."

"I'm irritating when I succeed."

Another beat of silence passed.

"I felt it," Ethan said finally. His voice dropped, serious now. "The shift."

Damien nodded once. "Something's changed."

"Not danger?"

"No. Not yet."

"But it's close."

"Yes."

Ethan breathing heavily through his nose, his eyes looking round the room like he was expecting something to appear from out of the shadows. "I have something you will want to see."

Damien did not move. "Unless it is a threat, I am really not interested."

Ethan reached into his jacket and brought out out a slim black folder. "Depends how you define threat."

Damien arched a brow but took the file anyway, flipping it open with one hand. His eyes scanned the first page.

Serena Vale.

Executive-level recruit. Degrees in international business and behavioral psychology. Fluent in three languages. Sharp. Efficient. Brilliant.

And... something else.

Her photo stared back at him.

Long dark hair. Green eyes that held fire. Not classically beautiful, but striking. Memorable. Like someone who did not beg to be noticed but refused to be forgotten.

Damien felt something unfamiliar stir in his chest. Not attraction, not exactly.

Recognition.

Or maybe... resonance.

"She's already made waves downstairs," Ethan said, arms crossed. "Uncovered two internal compliance violations before her third coffee."

"She's only been here a day."

"Six hours."

Damien raised an eyebrow.

"She also told Director Westbrook that she doesn't 'fetch lattes.'"

"She was hired as an assistant."

"She thinks she was hired as a weapon," Ethan said. "And she's acting like it."

That made Damien pause.

He closed the file and set it aside, but her name lingered.

Serena Vale.

There was something there. A hum beneath the surface. Not just in her résumé or photo-but in the air. The shift they'd both felt tonight... it coincided with her arrival.

Coincidence?

He did not believe in that.

"What department?"

"Executive Strategy. Assigned to your floor."

His gaze snapped up. "Mine?"

Ethan grinned. "HR said it came directly from the oversight board. They're testing a new placement model. Top talent goes straight to the top floor."

Damien frowned.

He did not like people forced into his orbit.

He chose who stood close. Who was allowed into the shadows of his world?

Still... something about her made it difficult to dismiss.

"Is she worth my time?" he asked, his voice low.

Ethan did not answer right away.

Then, quietly, with conviction: "More than you realize."

Damien turned his gaze back to the window, but this time, he did not see lights.

He saw green eyes.

And something shifting in the dark.

Damien turned his gaze back to the window, but this time, he did not see lights.

He saw green eyes.

And something shifting in the dark.

He hated this feeling.

That curiosity. That slight lift in his chest. That whisper in his mind asked: Who is she, really?

The woman hadn't even stepped into his office, yet she'd already disrupted his energy. And Damien Blackwood wasn't a man easily shaken-especially not by someone new to the Tower.

He did not believe in fate. Not anymore. Not after Isla.

But something in the air tonight felt too sharp to be accidental. The scent of change. The kind that bit deep and would not let go.

He reached for the file again, slower this time. Opened it. Studied her photo for a long second. The woman's gaze-frozen in a corporate headshot-somehow managed to feel confrontational. Unapologetic. She did not smile like most people did for cameras.

No, this one stared through it.

"She'll challenge you," Ethan said behind him, voice quieter now.

Damien's thumb tapped once against the page. "Good. I'm tired of spineless employees."

Ethan smirked. "You're also tired of people with a spine."

"True."

Damien closed the folder again and held it for a second longer than necessary. There was something more beneath the surface of her file, something he couldn't quite put his finger on. No red flags, nothing missing-but a sense. A tug.

Not human, maybe.

Not fully.

He pushed the thought aside. He'd learned long ago not to jump to conclusions. But that did not mean he would not watch her. Closely.

"make sure I get to see her first thing tomorrow," he said, dropping the folder after unlocking his drawer then he locked it back. "In person."

Ethan raised a brow. "You sure?"

Damien's icy gaze flicked toward him. "You don't trust your instincts?"

"Oh, I do," Ethan replied, turning toward the door. "I just hope you're ready for what comes with them."

The door shut softly behind him.

And Damien was alone again.

But it did not feel like silence this time.

Something was stirring. Not loud. Not aggressive. But present.

Like a distant drumbeat building somewhere underground.

He returned to the window. The glass still reflected his figure, sharp and motionless, but his thoughts weren't still anymore.

He thought of the rumors whispered in ancient circles-about the second mate. The one fate delivered after rejection. The rare ones. The dangerous ones.

Most wolves never got a second chance.

He never wanted one.

But the moon did not care what men like Damien Blackwood wanted.

It never had.

He stared out at the skyline again. The glow of the city no longer bored him. It burned. Like something waiting to catch fire.

And somewhere beneath it... she was already here.