The ballroom of Ashford Hall shimmered under
candlelight, its gilded mirrors reflecting the
faces of London’s elite. Eleanor Whitmore, heir
to the Whitmore estate, stood at the edge of the
dance floor, her fingers tightening around the
stem of her champagne flute. The air was thick
with perfume and tension, but her eyes were
fixed on one man—Lucian Blackwood, the reclusive
CEO of Blackwood Industries. His presence had
been an unspoken threat since their childhood,
when his family’s rise had eclipsed hers. Now,
he stood across the room, his tailored coat and
sharp features as commanding as ever.
The setting had changed everything. In this
altered Regency England, the full moon did not
merely mark the night—it transformed those
marked by the curse of lycanthropy. The Whitmore
line had borne the curse for generations, and
Eleanor had spent her life hiding it. But Lucian
knew. He had always known.
At the height of the ball, a carriage crash
shattered the illusion of civility. A scream
echoed through the hall as guests scrambled back.
Eleanor moved instinctively, her pulse
quickening. The moon had risen, and the air grew
colder. She felt the shift in her bones, the
familiar pull of the transformation. She turned
away, retreating to the shadows of the gallery,
where the portraits of past Whitmores watched
silently.
Lucian found her there. His voice was low, edged
with something she couldn’t name. “You’ve always
run from this.”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached into her
bodice and withdrew a silver locket—a relic from
her grandmother, the last woman in the Whitmore
line who had resisted the curse. It was said to
contain a fragment of the first lycanthrope’s
soul, a ward against the moon’s influence. But
it wasn’t working anymore.
He stepped closer, his gaze flicking to the
locket, then back to her face. “You’re not the
only one with secrets.”
The words hung between them, heavy with
implication. He had never spoken of his own
burden, but she knew. His family had hunted the
Whitmores for years, seeking to erase their
bloodline. And now, standing before her, he
looked less like an enemy and more like a man
caught in the same web of fate.
Outside, the storm broke. Thunder rolled over
the estate as the moon climbed higher. Eleanor
felt the change coming, the ache in her joints,
the hunger clawing at her throat. She had to
leave. Had to find the sanctuary beneath the old
oak tree in the woods, where the curse’s grip
was weakest.
Lucian caught her wrist, his grip firm. “Come
with me.”
She hesitated. Trust was a luxury she couldn’t
afford. But the moon was rising, and time was
running out.
They ran through the rainsoaked gardens, past
the ruins of the old chapel, where the first
Whitmore had made the pact with the beast. The
locket burned hot against her skin, its power
waning.
In the clearing, beneath the ancient oak, she
stopped. The transformation was upon her. Her
vision blurred, her body contorting as fangs
erupted and claws lengthened. She howled, the
sound echoing through the trees.
Lucian stood his ground, though his expression
was grim. He pulled a small vial from his pocket—
a serum, the result of years of research. “This
is what I’ve been working on,” he said. “A cure.
”
She stared at him, the beast within her snarling.
Could she trust him?
The choice was made for her when the wolf lunged.
He threw himself between her and the attack, the
serum shattering against the ground. The beast
recoiled, confused.
Eleanor stood frozen, human again, as the storm
passed. The moon dipped below the horizon, its
power fading.
Lucian looked up at her, his face pale. “We
don’t have much time. The next full moon will
come soon.”
She reached for his hand, the weight of the
moment settling between them. The curse had
bound them for years. Now, it might be the thing
that finally brought them together.
