Single Mother of a Werewolf Baby novel Chapter 276

Chapter 276: Gabriel Leroux

The sun began its slow descent over the Wadden Sea like a bleeding orb of orange. The sky was not merely darkening; it was undergoing an alchemy of colour. The fierce blue of day had given way to a wash of saffron and rose madder near the horizon, bleeding upwards into a deep shade of lavender. Directly above lingered a profound, cloudless aquamarine... the last defiant vestige of daylight.

This celestial canvas was mirrored with a softer, more liquid fidelity across the flat expanse of the Wadden Sea. The water formed a mosaic of shimmering tidal pools and winding channels, reflecting the sky not as a single image at low tide but as a thousand fragmented pieces like a shattered mirror of hammered gold and polished amethyst.

In the distance, the dark shapes of the islands... Fanø and Mandø were no more than smudges of charcoal on the glowing rim of the world, like secrets half-told.

Here, nature was not curated into manicured parks as it was in the bustling metropolises. It was raw, immense, and humbling. The air carried a scent one could almost taste like kelpy brine, the damp aroma of sand still warm from the vanished sun, and the faint wild perfume of beach grasses clinging to the dunes that cradled the horizon. It was the scent of profound cleanliness, of ancient cycles of tide and time... a stark contrast to the cloying perfume and diesel fumes of the cities people were used to nowadays.

The low, angled rays of the setting sun sculpted the dunes, casting long indigo shadows that gave texture and depth to every undulation. Each blade of marram grass stood as a slender, whip-like silhouette that trembled not with the wind, but with the very essence of twilight. A lone seabird... a curlew, perhaps, or an oystercatcher crossed the molten disc of the sun, its cry a lonely, piercing note that underscored the vast silence.

Turning from the window, Lucian’s gaze swept across the interior, now beginning to harmonise with the dusk outside. The hotel’s design was all clean lines and minimalist elegance that served as a perfect frame for the art of the evening. The few pieces of furniture... low, deep sofas in tones of charcoal and ivory, and a single stark sculpture of smoothed driftwood had been placed with deliberate care, composing a quiet visual symphony.

As the sky outside deepened, the interior lighting began its quiet work. It was not the harsh glare of a chandelier, but a beautifully layered illumination. Hidden LEDs cast ambient glows along the ceiling; pinpoint spotlights lit the artfully arranged clusters of crystal glasses on a sideboard, making them glitter like captured constellations. Nearby, a beautifully decorated fireplace, carved from native stone, began to crackle with a warm, dancing fire. The flames cast shifting amber patterns across the faces of the few early guests, their murmured conversations a soft counterpoint to the vast quiet beyond the glass.

The last sliver of sun dipped below the watery horizon, and for a fleeting moment, the world was bathed in a magical twilight. The western sky became a thin, fiery line... a final ember in a grate of ashes and violets. Then, one by one, the stars began to reveal themselves through the fabric of the night.

Out here, far from the light-polluted glow of Esbjerg, they were startlingly clear and innumerable. The Milky Way emerged as a faint, luminous veil... a cosmic echo of the wet, star-reflecting sands of the Wadden Sea.

As the transition completed, the world outside turned monochrome and silver. The sea became a sheet of dark, rippled slate, and the sky deepened into velvety indigo... its brilliance rendering the hotel’s lit interior all the more intimate, all the more precious. The glass walls, which by day offered a commanding view, now formed a barrier against the immense, star-dusted darkness, creating a sanctuary of warmth and light. Reflected upon the glass were two worlds at once... the elegant firelit interior with its moving silk and fine wool curtains, and superimposed upon it, the profound depth of the Nordic night.

Lucian Greymoore, eldest son of the patriarch of the Greymoore Clan Alistair Greymoore, had come to Esbjerg to attend a gathering hosted by Gabriel Leroux. Gabriel, a direct descendant of the Leroux Clan, had recently been appointed to oversee his family’s business interests in the United Kingdom. As the Greymoores were a London-based clan long entwined with political power... and, like the Leroux, a lineage of werewolves; Gabriel sought collaboration with them to strengthen his foothold in the Kingdom.

The historical enmity between the Leroux and Raynor Clans was well known throughout the supernatural world. As the Raynors held their territory in the Kingdom, Gabriel was determined to secure the allegiance of other werewolf houses before setting foot on British soil. Thus, he had reached out to Lucian... both of them being of the same generation and knowing that the Greymoores wielded far greater influence in the political arena than the Raynors ever had.

But after that, everything went wrong. Lucian was defeated in a sacred duel by Ethan Raynor... a humiliation known throughout the entire supernatural community. In the aftermath, the Raynor Clan nearly dismantled the Greymoores’ political sphere, which had been painstakingly built over hundreds of years.

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