The cameras were everywhere. Security men in black moved like chess pieces, speaking into earpieces that no one listened to while drones whirred above like mechanical flies.
I stalked closer, sand catching at my heels. Jordan had somehow snuggled me into the Logistics team. I had wanted to watch in crisp obscurity.
But how possible was it to drift into obscurity when I had my face half concealed with eye shades four degrees too big for my face and a comical hat that screamed "Look I'm an idiot" and was big enough to swallow the whole of my flamy head.
Pathetic.
Well atleast the flashes of cameras were not clicking in my direction and the maddening shrieks of the starstruck crowd did not whisper Night Carter.
I could hear loud syrupy versions of Jordan's name , italicized by fan girls according to their level of obsession.
"Jor Daeeeeennnnnn"
"Oh My Joe Files "
"Wonderboy Jordy"
"Jord Of the most High"
"Alpha Jordan "
Alpha Jordan? I freeze. Did this fucking mean that some of the wolf community were here. Of course.
I had thought their righteous indignation and resentment of him taking up Bloodstone 's offer would make them sit their pious asses at home and watch the ceremony on the TV with grating teeth.
Turns out I was wrong afterall. Turns out some of them actually had their feet deep in Don Puerto's sands today , eye witnessing Jordan's very first publicity shot with Bloodstone Records.
I wince. In my vision, a masked assailant had assailed Jordan.
What if the assassin was a wolf .
Yes. They had every reason to want him dead.
And yes, they were here. Today.
My breath hiked up a few centimeters.
Meanwhile, at the center of it all, Jordan Files stood with a shirt half unbuttoned, frost eyes glittering and a smile rehearsed to an art form. Every flash of a camera seemed to praise him, every scream from the crowd bent itself into a hymn .
The photographer — a wiry man with way more tattoos than common sense — clapped once. "Okay, people! We're going for the sun god shot! Mr. Files, shirt off. Let the light kiss you!"
Jordan peeled off his shirt in electrifying slow motion.
The screams from the dazed crowd shot up a hundred percent.
I rolled my eyes.
"Tell me again why I'm here," I muttered under my breath.
My eyes scanned the rooftop of the beach café behind him. The glare from the sun made it hard to see, but something — a flicker — snagged my attention.
A shimmer of metal? Or maybe just my gloomy nerves.
I pretended to adjust the lens on one of the photographer's backup cameras, angling it toward the café roof. Nothing. Just the shimmer of heat.
Still, my pulse climbed an octave.
The photographer shouted, "Now walk toward me, Jordan! Slow! Intense! "
Jordan walked.
The crowd gasped like he'd reinvented walking.
I resisted the maddening urge to wipe the stupid smile off his face . He was thoroughly enjoying the adulations.
As he should, I admit grudgingly.
The air suddenly shifted.
It wasn't dramatic . No thunder, no lightning. Just a subtle change.
Jordan tilted his face to the light, smiling with his arms stretched open, slow and theatrical, the perfect poster child for vanity.
If the universe had a flair for irony — and it often did — this would be the moment he died.
The crowd kept chanting, their voices curling through the salty air. The photographer was ecstatic, practically levitating as he clicked.
I, on the other hand, was doing trigonometry with rooftops and shadows.
There — again.
That flicker. Metal? Or maybe my nerves.
The photographer yelled something about "passion and raw masculinity," and that's when I heard it — a faint pop, almost swallowed by the wind.
The crowd didn't notice. The cameras didn't pause.
But my instincts screamed.
I lunged before I even thought, colliding into Jordan just as the second pop split the air.
We hit the sand hard — him first, me on top, the sound of screams erupting around us a second later.
"Jesus—Night!" he gasped, sand clinging to his lips. "What the hell"
"Stay down," I snapped, scanning the rooftops.
He snorted, dazed but still halfway in character. "You're ruining my best angle"
I elbowed him. "You're welcome for saving your jawline."
Another crack. The parasol above us burst open in a spray of shredded fabric.
The crowd was stampeding now — fans screaming, cameras dropping, the drones still humming overhead like idiot insects unaware the show had changed genres.
"Security! Get him out of here!" someone bellowed, too late, too useless.
Jordan rolled over, still clutching my arm as we crawled behind a barricade of beach chairs.
"Is this exactly how it happened in your vision?" he asked in a low mutter.
"Not exactly" I hissed with a sickening sense of dread. . Fuck. Something worse was about to happen.
His eyes darted upward, a glint of wolfish fury waltzing into the fear. "Wolf?"
I nodded grimly. "Maybe. "
The security team finally descended — black shirts, sunglasses, barking orders that sounded impressive and achieved nothing.
I could still feel it though — that invisible weight of a gaze trained on us. A predator's patience.