"No," he whispers. "The perimeter is secure."
He leans down, pressing a kiss to my navel.
"But the timeline might be faster than you calculated,chérie."
"What does that mean?"
He rests his large, warm hand flat against my lower belly.
"I hear two heartbeats," he says.
MIRANDA
Belle Rêvewas built to be a mausoleum. For two hundred years, it stood in silence, a monument to dead things and stagnant air, smelling of dried roses and secrets.
Tonight, it smells like roasted pork, gumbo, and fifty different kinds of cologne.
The dining hall is an acoustic disaster. The crystal chandelier—one of the few things that survived the fire and the looting—vibrates with the sheer decibel level of the conversation below it.
I stand near the table, bouncing slightly on my heels to soothe the bundle in my arms.
"Chaos," I whisper, scanning the room. "Absolute, unmitigated chaos."
To my left, Remy is arm-wrestling a Duval cousin named Julian. Remy’s arm is bulging, veins popping as he strains against the vampire’s unnatural, marble-still strength. The table groans under their elbows. A group of wolves is cheering Remy on, barking and pounding the wood, while three female vampires watch with expressions of polite, morbid fascination, sipping synthetic blood from wine glasses.
"Elbow foul," Vance shouts, pointing a chicken leg at Julian. "Check the elbow!"
"I do not foul," Julian draws, bored. He slams Remy’s hand down with a crack that shakes the silverware.
Remy howls in defeat, grinning despite the loss, and slides a twenty-dollar bill across the tablecloth.
It’s illogical. Wolves and Vampires don't break bread. They don't share space without bloodshed. The biological imperative is to kill on sight.
But they aren't looking at each other as predator and prey tonight. They are staring at the head of the table. Looking at the empty chair where the Alpha sits, and the woman standing beside it.
They’re looking at the Council.
The baby shifts in my arms, letting out a soft, gurgling noise.
I look down.
Aurore is six weeks old. She has Jax’s dark hair, a thick mop that refuses to lay flat, already hinting at the wildness in her genetics. But when she blinks up at me, the eyes are mine.
Violet. Stark, unnatural violet.
But in the center, fracturing the iris like a starburst, are flecks of molten gold.
She is the first of her kind. A born Chimera. The bridge built from the start, not forged in trauma.
"You're loud," I tell her, smoothing the velvet of her tiny dress. "Just like your father."
She blows a bubble of spit in response.
A draft of cold air sweeps through the room, cutting through the humidity and the heat of too many bodies. The heavy oak double doors at the end of the hall groan.
The room goes silent. Instincts kick in. Wolves stop chewing; Vampires go still.
The doors swing open.
