Samantha’s POV
The Bloodmoon Club throbbed like a living thing—bass reverberating through bone, heat clinging to skin, sweat and perfume tangled thick in the air. The lights bled red and silver across moving bodies, and every breath I took felt heavier than the last. Whiskey burned down my throat, but it didn’t even come close to dulling the ache tearing through my chest.
The room spun. Music roared. Laughter echoed.
And yet all I could see was them.
In the elevated VIP lounge, framed by velvet seating and glass railings, Ashford stood beside Bella like he belonged there—like he had always belonged at her side. She leaned close, whispering something meant only for him, her manicured fingers brushing his jaw as if she had every right to touch him.
And he reacted.
Just slightly—but enough.
His jaw tightened. His posture shifted. Color crept faintly across his cheekbones.
A blush.
Something inside me cracked.
My fingers curled around the glass until I felt it give, a sharp fissure running through the crystal. Whiskey sloshed over my hand, but I didn’t care. I tipped it back and swallowed what remained, then shoved my way toward the dance floor, letting the noise swallow me whole.
The red dress I wore clung to my body like a challenge—bold, unforgiving, unmistakable. It wasn’t meant to invite softness. It dared people to test me.
And they did.
Three men—young, wealthy, reckless—closed in too quickly. One of them laughed too loudly. Another stepped far too close. A hand slid along my waist, slow and entitled.
“Touch me again,” I said flatly, “and you’ll regret it.”
They laughed.
One leaned closer.
I snapped.
“Ashford!” I shouted, sharp and furious.
The response was immediate.
The crowd shifted instinctively, bodies pulling back as Ashford cut through them with purpose. He didn’t run—but his presence was enough. The men paled, stumbling backward, muttering apologies as they scattered.
I turned on him, anger blazing.
“Wow,” I sneered. “I didn’t think you’d notice. You seemed preoccupied.”
His gaze darkened. “I didn’t see them—”
“No,” I interrupted, stepping into his space. “You didn’t want to. You were watching her.”
His jaw tightened. “You’ve had too much to drink.”
I laughed—a bitter, broken sound. “Good. At least then I won’t remember how invisible you make me feel.”
Before he could respond, a scream sliced through the music.
Everything exploded into chaos.
Glass shattered. Someone fell. Panic tore through the club like wildfire. People screamed, shoved, scrambled. Security rushed in, but it was too late—masked intruders were already inside, moving fast, violent, coordinated.
I turned sharply—
And saw Ashford.
He was already moving.
Not toward me.
Toward her.
He slammed into one of the attackers, dragging Bella behind him, shielding her with his body. Again.
My chest constricted.
I barely had time to react before someone was in front of me—a man moving too fast, eyes wild, blade flashing. I fought back instinctively, striking, clawing, desperate. I managed to land a hit, but it wasn’t enough.
Pain tore through my shoulder.
White‑hot. Explosive.
I screamed as something burned through my veins, fire spreading fast, brutal, merciless. The man pulled away just as suddenly, disappearing into the chaos.
My legs gave out.
The club had become a battlefield—blood streaking marble floors, people screaming, security shouting orders. Through the haze, I saw Ashford again—still beside Bella, fighting anyone who came close to her.
Something surged inside me.
Not strength.
Something else.
And then everything went black.
---
I woke to sterile light and the faint hum of machines.
The smell of antiseptic filled my nose. My shoulder throbbed viciously, wrapped tight in bandages, every movement sending pain ricocheting through my body.
I blinked.
I was awake.
That didn’t make sense.
The attack—whatever they used—it was meant to put people under. Permanent. That same method had left Nathaniel Sterling unconscious for years.
So why was I still here?
Before I could sit up, voices reached me—muffled, emotional. I turned my head slowly toward the glass wall separating my room from the corridor.
And there they were.
Bella, crying into Ashford’s chest.
He held her carefully, one hand smoothing her hair, his voice low and gentle.
“I shouldn’t have gone,” she sobbed. “If I hadn’t been there, she wouldn’t have been hurt.”
“No,” he murmured. “You didn’t know. I failed both of you.”
She pulled back slightly, eyes shimmering. “Then why did you protect me first?”
His voice broke. “Because I—”
I grabbed the vase beside my bed and hurled it.
It shattered loudly against the floor.
Both of them froze.
Bella rushed into the room, eyes wide. “Samantha! You’re awake—thank God! I was so scared—”
“Leave,” I said coldly. “Your presence is doing me no favors.”
Her face crumpled. She fled in tears.
Ashford stayed.
“I didn’t have a choice—” he began.
“You always do,” I snapped. “And you always choose her.”
---
The day I was discharged, I went straight to the study.
Pain still lingered in my shoulder. Rage burned hotter.
Ashford stood when I entered.
“Kneel,” I said.
He stiffened—but complied.
“You broke your oath,” I said evenly. “You know the consequences.”
He swallowed. “I accept them.”
I laughed bitterly. “You’d rather lose your dignity than walk away from her.”
“If that’s the price,” he muttered.
I lifted my hand—
The door burst open.
“Stop!” Bella cried, throwing herself between us. “Punish me instead!”
“Move,” I warned.
She didn’t.
Something inside me snapped.
I struck.
Blood sprayed.
She screamed.
Ashford caught her instantly, fury blazing in his eyes as he looked at me—not with guilt. Not regret.
With hatred.
Then he carried her out.
The door slammed shut.
And I stood alone, hands shaking, heart torn open—realizing that no wound I carried would ever hurt as much as this.
