The cold night spread its cloak over the Crescent Blood Pack. The wind howled, sweeping across the courtyard like restless spirits, yet Theodore walked unshaken, each step carrying the weight of his torment. His broad frame was cloaked in the silver shadows of the moonlight, and though the winds lashed at him, he did not flinch.
From the window above, Isabella leaned out, half-drowsy but compelled. She had wrapped a shawl around herself, the chill grazing her skin, though her eyes remained fixed on him. The Alpha—her Alpha—wandering the grounds like a man haunted.
But then… another figure moved.
Beneath the ancient oak, young Lucien sat hunched, his small frame outlined against the gnarled bark. In his mouth, a crayon rested like a conspirator's cigar, while his other hand furiously sketched on crumpled parchment. His muttering filled the air.
"Should I hang him? Hm. No—too obvious. Perhaps a poisoned blade? Or better… let Father's hand be the weapon. Then Isabella will be mine… yes, mine."
A low chuckle rolled through the night—deep, velvety, unnerving.
Lucien froze.
"Oh, Lucien…" Theodore's voice sliced the silence, smooth and wicked. "What are you plotting there, you little fiend? Scribbling my epitaph already?"
Lucien jolted, fumbling the parchment to his chest, eyes wide. "I–I wasn't—"
Theodore tilted his head, smirking, his golden eyes gleaming like fire in the dark. "Show me the paper."
But Lucien bolted, feet pattering over the grass. His small legs betrayed him, tripping on the uneven earth. Within a heartbeat, Theodore's hand clasped his collar, yanking him effortlessly into the air and then against his chest.
"There you are," Theodore murmured darkly, lips curling. "Caught like a naughty rat in the pantry. Planning to kill me? To steal Isabella?"
Lucien puffed his cheeks, his defiance small yet sharp. "And what were you doing outside, huh, big brother? Weren't you supposed to be brooding in your grand bedchamber? Or did Luna Isabella kick you out?"
The boy's grin widened with mischief. "I bet she threw you so hard, your butt landed straight in the dirt! That must've hurt your precious Alpha ego, didn't it?"
Theodore's jaw clenched, but his smirk never wavered. "Careful, little snake. That tongue of yours is far sharper than your crayons."
Above them, Isabella pressed her hand to her mouth, shoulders shaking as she tried to stifle a laugh. The two brothers—one an Alpha cloaked in torment, the other a defiant imp plotting treachery—were a sight almost comical beneath the moonlight. Yet the mystery hung thick in the air: why was Lucien plotting, and why did Theodore, for once, allow his mockery instead of rage?