The Broken Protocol

A heavy silence fell over the ballroom until my father, Lord Blackwood, stepped forward. As host and head of our house, protocol required his intervention. He moved deliberately, his face a study in controlled diplomacy.

"Alpha Connor," he greeted, his clear voice echoing in the quiet room. "We did not expect your delegation until tomorrow's council."

So, this was Connor—the Alpha of the Moon Hunters, leader of the border pack whose territory touched ours. His name was often mentioned at council meetings, usually with frustration or concern.

"Lord Blackwood," Connor replied, his deep, resonant voice carrying a hint of growl. "The situation at the border has... accelerated our plans."

My father's mouth tightened slightly. "Nonetheless, protocols exist for a reason. An announcement would have been appropriate."

"We announced ourselves," Connor answered, unapologetic. "Just not the way you prefer."

A murmur rippled through the vampires. Such disrespect would typically demand immediate censure or challenge, yet the Blood Accord’s protections for diplomatic envoys prevented that.

"Indeed," my father's voice cooled. "May I inquire as to the urgent matter that could not await the formal council?"

Connor's gaze swept the room, lingering on the opulence around us. "Your border patrols have doubled in the past month. Three of our hunters were detained well within their hunting grounds, and we've detected vampire scouts in our territory on seven separate occasions."

My father's expression revealed nothing, though I recognized the slight tension in his shoulders. "Serious accusations, Alpha Connor. Perhaps we should discuss this in the council chamber, not at a social gathering."

"I find that social gatherings often reveal more truth than council chambers," Connor replied. "Less rehearsed lying, more genuine reaction."

One of the werewolves behind him—a broad man with tattoos—grunted in agreement.

My father's patience visibly thinned. "Very well. If immediate discussion is your preference, we shall adjourn to my study. I'm sure my guests will excuse my brief absence."

"Actually," Connor said, his voice taking on a dangerous edge, "I think your guests should hear what I have to say." His eyes scanned the room with renewed purpose. "After all, they should know when war is brewing on their doorstep."

The word "war" sent another wave of whispers through the crowd. The Blood Accord had maintained peace for nearly a century, though everyone knew its foundations were fragile.

"You speak recklessly, Alpha," my father warned. "The Accord—"

"Has been stretched to its breaking point," Connor interjected. "You test our boundaries, we respond in kind. The cycle escalates. I'm not here to continue it."

"Then what is your purpose here tonight?" my mother's voice interjected as she moved beside my father. "Beyond disrupting our gathering with dramatic entrances and vague threats?"

Connor's expression shifted, a grim amusement briefly crossing his features. "Not threats, Lady Blackwood. Solutions."

I watched with growing unease. Border disputes were common, but few warranted such a direct confrontation. Something unsaid was underlying this tension. I scanned the tense, vigilant werewolves. This was not merely diplomacy; they were ready for conflict.

"What solution could warrant this approach?" my father asked, skepticism clear.

Connor's response was interrupted as his head turned suddenly, his body tensing as if catching a scent. His amber eyes roamed the room with new purpose, seeking something—or someone.

Then those eyes found mine.

A jolt passed through me—recognition, perhaps a warning—something primal and impossible to ignore. His gaze locked onto mine, and the rest of the room faded away.

The conversation continued, but I barely registered the words. A strange pressure built in my chest—unsettling yet not entirely unpleasant. For the first time in centuries, I felt truly seen—not as the Blackwood princess, not as a political asset, but simply as myself.

And it terrified me.

His eyes held mine across the crowded ballroom, erasing the music, conversations, and political tension until only his amber gaze remained, burning into me. I wanted to look away but could not break the connection. My heart, usually steady as immortality dictates, now raced like a newborn vampire on her first hunt.

Connor tilted his head slightly, nostrils flaring as if catching my scent. The intensity of his focus was raw, unfiltered by pretense or calculation. In vampire society, such directness was often seen as vulgar, even offensive. Yet I couldn’t summon indignation.

His eyes, molten gold, burned into my soul. I felt exposed, vulnerable, yet oddly alive.

Werewolves were our ancestral foes, driven by instinct rather than intellect, ruled by their baser natures. They transformed under the moon while we maintained dignity and control. Yet as he stared at me with that predatory focus, I felt a disturbing kinship. Behind the mask I presented to our society, did part of me not envy that freedom? That raw authenticity? The thought was treasonous, sure to earn my mother’s cold disapproval.

I forced myself to remember the legends—werewolves dismantling vampire envoys during the Blood Wars, hunters returning from border patrols missing limbs, ancient vampire estates burning with inhabitants trapped inside. This man, this Alpha, likely had vampire blood on his hands. Perhaps even my kin's.

Still, I couldn’t look away.

The moment stretched between us like a taut wire, charged with potential. Then he moved.

Connor broke away from my father and the diplomats without a word. His steps were fluid and purposeful, each one drawing him closer to me.

Each step bringing him to me...