Blood on the Moon

Rose

The chatter in the room is at a low rumble, which is considered loud for this group that consists primarily of our oldest vampires. Prestige and wisdom come with age, or so they tell us. I don’t think you have to be old and experienced to be wise, but it does help.

The oldest Elder, Elizabeth Frost, is over three thousand years old. Girl literally saw the Revolutionary War, the Civil War, both World Wars, then Saemel’s siege and eventual fall. Plus, there are countless other minor tiffs in between.

Yet you wouldn’t know since she was bitten when she was seventeen. She still has a youthful face and figure, not yet fully developed. It must be weird living all this time yet still appearing as a teenager. People who don’t know who she is must be confused when she speaks. Even I’m taken off guard sometimes.

“Welcome, everyone,” I greet, taking my seat at the head of the table next to Victor. “Thank you for calling this meeting, Pierre.”

Pierre was originally born in France, long before Europe became Silvana. He’s the only one around the same age as Elizabeth, having lived through the French Revolutionary War before he was bitten. He was bitten in his thirties, so he’s forever handsome in a very mature, ripened way. I’ve always thought peak attractiveness for men is in their late twenties and thirties if not even forties. So he’s smack dap in the middle of that forever.

Lucky bastard.

“I know that it is on short notice,” he announces, his accent still strong and thick despite being away from his home country for centuries. Part of me thinks he’s kept it on purpose, working hard to preserve what little is left of his identity that exists over time. “But, with tensions rising between Black Opal and River Run, we need to make a decision about who we will support if the time comes. It’s better to have a plan and not need it than to need a plan and not have one.”

“I second that,” Elizabeth concurs.

Well, there is no avoiding this conversation. It was inevitable, given the state of political relations even with other Clans and Packs in the area. Everyone is picking a side. Not publicly, of course, but through rumors and whispers.

Right now, the whisper about the Crimson Night Clan is we’ve been neutral and undecided. Realistically, we can only stay that way for so long before people ask why we’re so hesitant.

I let out a long sigh. I know what is best for my Clan. River Run is in the right in this scenario; I know as much by speaking with Asher. They’re also much more powerful, so they have better odds of winning, and I don’t want to be caught with my pants down by backing a losing horse.

But, my heart is torn. I don’t want to go against Asher’s pack publicly. What will this mean for our future together if I do this? Will his pack hold it against me? Will he?

I don’t think he will. He understands my predicament and would likely take River Run’s side himself if he weren’t so loyal to his pack members.

But what if there is a war? What if my Clan is called to fight, and we kill some of their military? What if his military kills some of mine? Will we ever forgive each other? Is that a burden and weight that, even if we don’t believe it consciously, our subconscious mind could never forget? Would there always be a nagging feeling of disgust?

It’s hard to say.

What if Victor died in battle? At the hands of one of his pack members, under duress from their cruel leader or not? Even if I could intellectually understand it wasn’t his fault, would my heart feel the same? Would I ever be able to look him in the eyes again?

Would he be able to look me in the eyes?

“I think the answer to your question is obvious. Albeit, I have been hesitant to pick a side in the conflict for fear of throwing more fuel on the fire. I don’t want to see two packs at war, especially since it could affect us. But also because there will be loss of life, and nobody wants to see that.”

“It is regrettable that they can’t compromise,” Victor seconds. “Hopefully, it’ll be a cold war, though.”

“Either way,” I continue. “It’s best for our Clan to back the River Run Pack. They are in a vastly better position to win this battle, and we’ve always had a good relationship with them. I can’t say the same for Black Opal.”

“Shall we take a vote?” Victor asks. “If you agree with Clan Leader Rose’s decision that we should take River Run’s side in the potential conflict between the Black Opal Pack and River Run Pack, raise your hand.”

It’s unanimous. Every single Elder in the room raises their hand. This is remarkable, given this is the first time these old fucks have all agreed on something. I’m used to much more bickering and finger-pointing.

I feel deflated, though. There’s a part of me that wishes someone would dissent, so maybe I would’ve argued to postpone this decision. Even if it were just for another week.

But no.

And now, all I can hope is for Asher’s forgiveness.

And mine.

Asher

My head is still spinning from my conversation with my sister, my hands stuffed in my pockets as I make my way back to the house, my head down. Partly because I don’t want to meet anyone’s eyes, even though I know I should given that I want to repair my reputation.

But it’s so painful. It hurts me to see the look in their eyes of either pity or disgust. They look at me like I’m weak; a fragile excuse for a man and Alpha. There’s so much pressure on me to be tough and perform a kind of masculinity I’ve never been interested in. I’m not the kind of man who screams and yells at people to get what I want or who bangs my chest and uses my fists instead of my words. That’s never been where I’ve found my sense of manhood, and I don’t think it should be.

But I lost a part of myself in Genevieve. The part that had confidence and fought for what I care about; who I care about. Or maybe that fight was always in me, but I just stopped caring about myself. I’d fight for my family, for my friends, but not me. And, in the process, that ended up hurting the ones I love.

That doesn’t matter, though. My internal thoughts and feelings and struggles don’t count in the court of public opinion. The facts to them only exist as follows: Alpha Man was beaten by Woman and did nothing to stop it. Same Alpha Man has family who are thieving vermin he protected behind the scenes.

So, for lack of a better word, not only am I pussy, but I’m also corrupt. I have no morals and no backbone.

How do I get those back without corrupting who I am? I’m not going to go around challenging any man I see to a fight so I can assert my dominance. That’s stupid. I don’t want to replace a dictator with a dictator.

But I also don’t want them to see me as a pushover, either. Because I’m not, nor will I be that way as a leader. I want them to know I can stand on my own two feet and fight for my pack. That I’d be willing to take risks and do whatever is necessary for them.

How do I prove that?

“Hello, mate.”

The two words freeze me in place, my eyes widening, the sentence stealing the breath from my throat.

“Tired?” She asks, her eyebrow raised as she lies in bed, dressed in a simple white camisole, her hands folded on her lap. She was waiting for me.

“I guess,” I answer plainly. I was planning on going straight to bed. “Just grabbing a few things before going to the couch.”

“You don’t want to talk?” She asks, a coldness behind her eyes that sends a shiver down my spine. She’s worse than a viper or a spider. Or any poisonous animal for that matter.

Under the light of the moon coming through our window, she looks like a demon. Something you might find in Revelations the humans would say. More terrifying than the undead vampires, shifting werewolves, dark-magic wielding warlocks, or even the deathless Gods.

She is pure evil.

But she’s calm, too. Which means she’s planning something. She isn’t panicked or scared. She’s not running her mouth about conspiracies or asking me where I’ve been all day.

No.

There’s a smirk behind her lips, one she won’t show on her face, but I can see in her eyes. It’s the look some wolves get as they watch an elk have their last moment’s of peace before the slaughter. It’s a feeling you get when you have the power and are in control of another’s fate. It’s sinister, yes, and a bit grotesque, but even I know it’s thrilling.

And here she is looking at me like I’m a mindless elk grazing in the forest. She knows I’ve popped my head up and spotted her, she can’t be that naive.

But she still believes she’s in control and has the power.

Why? What is she planning? What does she know?

“I don’t want to talk,” I reply. “There’s no point in speaking. We both know where we stand.”

“And you’re not going to sleep next to me?” She asks innocently. “That’s no way to treat your mate.”

“We’re hardly mates any longer.”

“True,” she admits, which surprises me. “But I still want you to sleep next to me. And, if you know what’s good for you and your family, you will.”

“Is that a threat?” I ask.

“Yes,” she answers plainly. “Get in bed, Asher.”

I don’t say another word. I just crawl into bed, lying over the covers. I don’t care if I’m cold, which shouldn’t be a problem since I run hot and won’t get any sleep lying next to her either way. I want to avoid making any skin to skin contact with her, though.

The smirk finally creeps on her face as she rests her head on the pillow, facing toward me as she closes her eyes to sleep, and I stare at the ceiling.

As tears brim in the corners of my eyes, my heart has never ached more deeply for Rose. I’d give anything to be sleeping in bed next to her right now.

I miss the way my nose and lips felt against her hair when I held her in my arms, my face nuzzled in the crook of her neck. I miss the way her body felt pressed against mine. My chest feels empty without her tucked away inside it.

I close my eyes, letting my imagination wander, harnessing my real mate bond to feel her, even though she’s not here. I want her to know I’m thinking about her. I want her to know how important to she is to me. How special.

I want her to know.