The Ulfric estate loomed ahead, its grand columns cutting against the twilight, its presence thick with power. A place of wealth and carefully curated appearances, nestled deep within the forests, just outside Toronto where the oldest supernatural bloodlines had claimed territory centuries ago.

The winding private road snaked through dense woodland, deliberately isolating the mansion from the modern world beyond. Old growth pines stood like silent sentinels, their shadows deepening as the car drove on the path. Even the wildlife seemed to quiet, instinctively aware of the predators that called this land home.

I had been here before, countless times in the past, watching the seasons change against the estate's imposing silhouette. But tonight, magik clung differently to the air. It was woven through the very foundation of the estate, humming beneath my skin as I stepped out of the limo. The mansion's windows gleamed amber against the encroaching darkness, each one revealing glimpses of supernatural elegance moving within.

Dread coiled in my stomach like a living thing, heavy and cold. It wasn't because of my location, nor was it because the Ulfrics hadn't thrown a dinner party in years. It was something else—something in the air itself, charged with anticipation, as though the very walls were holding their breath.

My mother, ever the socialite, was in high spirits. The hem of her designer dress whispered against the gravel as she walked ahead of me, her perfume mingling with the scent of pine and old power that always permeated these grounds. 

To her, this invitation wasn't just a dinner—it was a triumphant return to the inner circles she'd been fighting to reclaim.

Her laughter was light and airy as she stepped out of the car. She had been buzzing about Helga’s dinner all week, calling me and leaving text messages. Dropping hints, making little comments that chipped away at my patience.

My mom made it clear that although I was a grown woman and living on my own, tonight wasn’t an option. It was an evening to celebrate "the future," but my stepfather and I both knew what she meant.

Russell.

I swallowed down my irritation and forced a polite smile as I followed her and my stepfather inside.

The dining hall was exactly as I remembered—marble floors, high ceilings, chandeliers casting warm golden light over polished mahogany. 

Expensive, elegant and suffocating. The kind of place where people smiled with their teeth, some literal fangs but never their eyes.

A passing waiter, his fingers too long, his pupils thin slits like a serpent’s, gracefully poured wine into a crystal glass—dark, thick, not wine at all.

Supernaturals moved effortlessly through the space—wings folding neatly against backs, horns gleaming under the low golden light, tails flicking as whispered conversations filled the air.

“So,” my mom said, snatching a flute glass from a passing waiter. “Did Bryson return your texts?”

I bristled, already knowing where this was going. “If he did, I would have told you.”

Mom made a sound of disapproval, something between a scoff and a sigh. “Your brother hasn’t stopped skipping school, and running with the wrong crowd. If he keeps this up, he won’t graduate.”

“He’ll be fine,” I said, my voice tighter than I intended and officially dreading the rest of the night. “He’s just… figuring out some things.”

That was my excuse, when in all reality, I had no idea what Bryson had been up to. For a heartbeat, my eyes couldn’t help but to fall on Richard, my stepfather, the source of my brother’s downward spiral and he caught my glance. My chest tightened and my mom continued to exchange polite pleasantries with those around us. 

“That blue dress would have been lovely tonight,” she mused, her smile too bright, too knowing. “This dress makes you seem approachable.”

My stepfather held her hand, and told her. “Sweetie, it's just a dress. Let this go.”

She didn’t. She never did.

I clenched my jaw, allowing the many scents to fill my lungs. Incense, rare perfumes, something metallic—wards humming beneath the surface. And blood. Always blood.

My hand shot out and snatched a flute glass from a passing tray before the waiter even stopped. Downing the champagne in one go, I said. “I am approachable,” and now I licked the fizz off my lips. “Russell and I aren’t exclusive.”

My mom’s smile tightened as she plucked the now-empty glass from my fingers. “You should not be drinking. Richard, can you talk to her?”

I didn’t give him the chance. My hand shot out, grabbing another flute from a passing waitress.

“Can you stop?” she hissed, her voice sharp enough to cut. “You can’t handle your liquor.”

“Can you leave me alone?” I shot back, voice syrupy with fake sweetness.

A few curious eyes turned our way.

Richard exhaled a laugh, shaking his head, giving me a fatherly wink. “Kaylee is a smart woman who knows what she wants. We should trust her decisions.”

Mom pursed her lips, exhaling hard. “You say that, yet, she’s one shot away from stumbling over her heels.” Her eyes darted around the room as if this whole exchange had been a minor inconvenience.

She dumped the empty glasses onto a passing waiter’s tray, her attention already moving on, dismissing the entire conversation.

“He should be here,” My mom muttered, like Richard hadn’t spoken at all, her gaze stretching across the room, searching.

Russell was always here at these events, and so far we've had seven dates and they’ve been okay. He was the perfect gentleman with a side dish of control. 

The first few dates were normal, but the rest he chose our date locations. What we ate. Suggestions on what I wear and even my hair styles. I let him decide. I let him control. I let him think I agreed because I knew what was coming. 

The noose was already there, tightening with each step, each dinner, each decision made for me. And the worst part? I didn’t know how to stop it. 

I didn’t know if I could.

Inhaling, I bit back any retorts and or complains. They would fall on deaf ears and my mod had already steamrolled over my opinions tonight—first about the dress, then about Russell. 

"Oh, there your date is," She chirped, her dress sashaying behind her as she beelined toward my supposed date, not even bothering to check if I was following. 

Of course I was. 

I always did.

Did this count as a date, if I was forced into coming and the guy I was getting to know was always at these events?

Russell stood near the grand fireplace, drink in hand, watching me before I even reached him. His eyes flicked to me—a slow, assessing sweep from head to toe—and his smirk widened in approval. Not the smile of a man admiring beauty, but of a collector appraising his newest acquisition. 

As if he was already picturing me standing beside him, a trophy he had yet to claim but knew would be his.

"Mrs. Connor," Russell drawled to my mom, using her new surname after she married Richard. He reached for her, opening his arms for an embrace and his cologne washed over me—spice and something sharper, more chemical. Expensive. 

My mom gleefully returned the hug, practically melting into his approval. "Please, Russell, enough with the formalities. Call me Kiku."

Russell chuckled, his smile widening as he cast a sideways glance at me. "Of course, Kiku," he said smoothly, and something unspoken flickered behind his blue eyes—something that made my stomach tighten. The obnoxiousness of it all ticked in the back of my head like an old grandfather's clock, counting down the moments until I'd be cornered.

I was drowning in an hourglass. The sand rising too fast, filling my lungs, pulling me under like quicksand. Each grain, another second closer to the inevitable.

My mother beamed, squeezing his arm affectionately as she glanced between us with thinly veiled expectation. "Well, don't let me stand between both of you. Come, Richard." She stepped aside, and my stepfather and her disappeared into the crowd of guests, leaving me alone with the wolf in designer clothing.

Russell turned his full attention to me, stepping closer. Too close. His heat bled into my space, thickening the air until it clung to my lungs like smoke.

He took my hand, his grip firm, possessive. “You look… acceptable. What happened to the dress I sent to your house?” He lifted my hand to his lips and pressed a kiss on the top, slow and deliberate.

My stomach twisted, but I forced a neutral expression. “I had this crimson dress stashed in my closet, and it’s my favorite.”

Russell’s smirk barely faltered as he tugged my arm and placed it within his, leading me through the sea of guests. It was effortless for him, the way he maneuvered through the room, his presence commanding, as if I was merely an accessory at his side.

I should call this off. End it here and now but he was Russell Bale. That name meant something in the supernatural world. That name would put my family, to be specific my mother’s name in the good graces of the council.

“I’ve seen you in it many times,” he murmured, tone lined with mild annoyance. “You act like you can’t afford any other dresses.”

“I dress for comfort,” I told him, my voice even, controlled.

His fingers flexed over mine. “Comfort isn’t always an option, Kaylee. Not for people like us.”

I swallowed hard, letting him lead—even as every nerve in my body screamed to pull away. My limbs moved, but they weren’t mine. Just extensions of habit. Of fear, dressed up in grace.

Smile. Glide. Nod.

The practiced elegance of a proper lady bred for high society. My mother would have been proud—if she couldn’t smell the panic beneath the perfume.

“I tried calling you earlier,” Russell said, tone light but not harmless. “But it went straight to voicemail.”

His voice was pleasant. Too pleasant.

I smiled at a passing guest, lips stretching on command, but his words sliced beneath my skin. A hint of sugar-slicked accusation wrapped in concern. The kind of tone that said you’re mine, and I noticed you went missing.

"I have a gala event for Fradan Saldana in a few days," I offered, keeping my tone airy—rehearsed. But it still sounded like a defense. "I’ve been dealing with caterers and staff. Making sure everything runs perfectly. I've been drowning in calls and back-and-forth emails."

Each word tightened around my ribs, another link in the invisible chain he was wrapping around me. One loop at a time.

Russell hummed, his smirk barely contained. “Your first high event.”

I nodded, careful to keep my chin high. “My mother insisted I take control, but—”

“But you’d rather bake.”

The way he said bake… like it was a dirty word. Something base. Undignified. Like my passion for pastries and flavor profiles was childish compared to bloodlines and ambition. And maybe, in his eyes, it was. 

Russell—an ascending warlock born of a family that polished power like crystal, would never see value in sugar and heat.

However, what my mother was offering—Event Strategist—was more than just baking. It was influence wrapped in crystal glassware and custom floral installations. It wasn’t about cakes or pastries. It was about controlling the room. The narrative. The access.

Because being the one elites trusted to plan their parties, their galas, their secret gatherings? That wasn’t weakness. That was power.

I heard things. Saw things. Learned where leverage lived—whispered behind silk curtains, buried in champagne toasts, and sealed in backroom handshakes.

It was strategy, it was survival and that was what Russell understood better than most. The subtle art of being everywhere without being seen, of collecting secrets while appearing to simply serve champagne. 

That was partly how my mother had clawed her way back into the council's good graces—standing in the shadows, hearing things she shouldn't, using information as currency. And despite its effectiveness, I wanted no part of it.

“You’ll find your way soon enough,” was all Russell said.

A dismissal dressed as encouragement and then he was gone—swept into the orbit of other men, pulled into political conversations, business dealings, and the exhausting echo chamber of egos that thrived on their own importance.

I didn’t follow, and this time he didn’t haul me along.

Instead, I drifted—slipping through the cracks of the evening like smoke, drawn to quieter corners of the Ulfric’s estate.

I slipped through the French doors onto the east balcony. The night air cool against my flushed skin, the stone railing was cold beneath my palms as I leaned against it and exhaled the tension that had been building in my chest all evening.

A breeze stirred—soft, deliberate. The kind of wind that carried stories if you knew how to listen and on it… a scent.

Sharp. Smoky. Wild.

Not cologne, but something older. Something primal. Like pine caught fire and refused to go out.

It caught me off guard—because for a heartbeat, it reminded me of him. 

The eldest Ulfric son, Skoll.

The one who vanished five years ago like a myth swallowed by war and that was insane because, why was I thinking of him? 

I knew the Ulfric siblings, all three of them because Richard used to come here often and he would drag me with him. But I was younger than them—a child trailing after adults, watching from corners with curious, observant eyes. They barely noticed me. Especially him.

My chest tightened instinctively, muscles pulling taut like a bow drawn too long. When I was younger, that scent would unnerve me and yet, here it was again—carried on the wind like a warning.

Or maybe a promise.

I inhaled deeply, letting the scent fill my lungs. My body remembered what my mind tried to forget—the way Skoll moved through rooms like they belonged to him. The way his emerald eyes had once caught mine across a crowded hall, holding me frozen one too many times before dismissing me entirely.

My fingers curled against the cold stone railing. Perhaps I was just desperate—so desperate to escape Russell's suffocating grip that I was conjuring ghosts from memory. After all, no one had seen Skoll Ulfric in five years. After they buried his siblings, he spilled blood in the streets for weeks seeking revenge, that I never truly understood.

I don’t think anyone did.

Then, Skoll vanished into darkness with a mile high body count, and yet something in the air had changed tonight. 

Something electric. 

Dangerous.

And part of me—the reckless, foolish part I tried to keep buried—hoped it was him.

-

Since this is an early draft, I would love your feedback.

What kind of feedback should you provide? Insight on plot development. Characters .Any potential inconsistencies. Gaps in the story. What you liked or didn't. You don't have to comment on all of the above points. You can also just say, 'I enjoyed the chapter' and a few sentences on why and how it made you feel.

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