Lucien Cross should have walked away.
She was too innocent. Too soft. Too human.
But something ancient and territorial stirred in him the second their fingers touched.
Sera sat beside him in the shadowed VIP booth, her legs crossed, her scent curling into his lungs like honeyed smoke. She watched him cautiously, her lips parted slightly, as if she could feel the pull too.
"What's your name?" she asked finally, her voice quiet but bold.
"Lucien."
"Lucien," she repeated slowly, like tasting it on her tongue. "You always watch women like that?"
"Only once."
He let the silence settle, then leaned closer. "I don't chase. I take."
Sera's breath caught. Her pulse jumped beneath her skin — he could hear it. Smell it.
The wolf in him clawed closer to the surface, whispering one word: Mine.
But he couldn't claim her. Not here. Not like this. The moment he marked her, the bond would begin — and once it started, there would be no undoing it
Still, he needed more. One kiss. One touch. One taste to quiet the beast.
"Dance with me," he said, not a question.
She hesitated—just enough to amuse him—then slid from the booth. He followed her to the floor, placing his hands low on her waist as she swayed against him, her curves brushing places that made his control fray.
"Why do I feel like I know you?" she whispered.
"Because I was made for you," he said in his mind.
Instead, Lucien only murmured, "Maybe you do."
And when her hips rolled into his, when her neck tilted back just enough to expose the skin he ached to bite—he knew.
He wouldn't survive her.