Chapter 4 – Wolves in the Den
The Shelby household was never truly quiet. Even in the dead of night, when the city's heart slowed to a dull thrum, the house carried the weight of restless souls.
Doors creaked. Boots shifted. Glasses clinked faintly in unsteady hands. It was a home built on sharp edges and sleepless ambition.
And yet, on this night, the wolf moved unseen.
Alexander's POV
The moon hung low, pale light brushing against brick and slate as Alexander slipped across the Shelby estate. His coat was left behind, his boots wrapped to silence their tread. Smoke had been extinguished long ago; tonight was not for cigars.
He climbed the wall like it was nothing, fingers curling into cracks, body flowing like shadow. He landed soundlessly in the garden, mist clinging to his shoulders. Windows glowed faintly, their light leaking across the dark.
He didn't knock. He didn't announce himself. He entered like a ghost.
The Shelby sisters trusted locks. Locks meant nothing to him.
He moved down the hall, steps measured, every breath slow and steady. He passed rooms where the air hummed with faint snores, where whiskey bottles stood half-drained on tables, where revolvers lay within easy reach of restless hands.
Until he came to hers.
Johanna Shelby.
Her door was half-ajar, the dim glow of a candle flickering faintly within. Alexander pushed it open without hesitation. The hinges sighed but didn't scream. He stepped inside.
Johanna was sprawled across her bed, one arm thrown lazily above her head, hair spilling like dark silk over the pillow. Her lips were parted in sleep, the faintest sound of breath escaping her. She looked younger, softer, stripped of the wolfish grin she carried in daylight.
Alexander removed his shirt, folded it neatly on the chair, and lay down beside her. His body moved with the surety of someone who had already decided what the world would accept.
He slid an arm around her waist and pulled her close.
Johanna froze.
Her breath hitched, body stiffening, eyes fluttering open in panic. For a second, she looked ready to scream, ready to draw the razor hidden beneath her pillow. But then she saw his face—those unnatural eyes, pale and burning, fixed on her in calm silence.
Her lips trembled. Her voice never came.
Alexander leaned in and kissed her, slow and deliberate, tasting the warmth of her swollen lips.
She gasped against him, but she didn't pull away. Her fingers twitched, hovered, then settled lightly on his arm as if testing whether this was real.
He said nothing. He didn't need to. The silence between them was louder than any words.
When he finally pulled back, she was staring at him wide-eyed, caught between fear and something she couldn't name. He only smirked faintly, pressed his forehead against hers, and closed his eyes.
Within minutes, he was asleep, his breathing slow, steady, unyielding.
Johanna lay awake much longer, heart hammering, trapped in the arms of a man who had entered her den like a wolf claiming his place.
Johanna's POV
Johanna Shelby was not the type to freeze.
She was fire and knives, laughter at funerals, a storm that rattled windows and left men begging for mercy. She mocked fear, spat in the face of control, and lived for the thrill of danger.
And yet, here she was, lying stiff in her own bed, her lips still burning from a kiss she hadn't expected, her body pressed against a chest that rose and fell with infuriating calm.
Alexander.
She could smell the faint bite of smoke on his skin, the warmth of his breath brushing against her neck. He had come into her house, her room, her bed, without hesitation, without invitation.
And she hadn't stopped him.
Her fingers twitched again, brushing against his forearm. Hard muscle met her touch. Solid. Unshakable. The body of someone who fought the world with his bare hands and didn't flinch.
Johanna bit her lip. She should have screamed. She should have dragged her razor across his throat and laughed while he bled. But she hadn't. Instead, she had let him kiss her. She had let him hold her.
Her heart was furious at her. Her pride was screaming. But some deeper part of her… some reckless, hidden piece… whispered that this was exactly what she had always wanted.
A man who didn't kneel. A man who didn't ask. A man who took.
She hated him for it. She wanted more.
Sleep never came easy. When it finally did, it was restless, heavy, full of smoke and the memory of his lips.
Thomisia's POV – The Morning After
The house was chaos.
Artie's voice carried through the halls like gunfire. Johanna's door had been found ajar. A shirt that wasn't hers sat neatly folded on the chair. And the stranger—the devil-eyed man—was gone.
Thomisia sat at the table, cigarette burning between her fingers, as Artie raged.
"He broke into the bloody house! Into her room! Slept in her bed!" Artie slammed her fists on the table, teeth bared. "I'll cut his bloody throat—"
Johanna appeared in the doorway then, hair loose, lips faintly bruised, eyes unreadable.
She ignored Artie. Ignored Thomisia. She walked straight past them into the kitchen.
Thomisia exhaled smoke slowly, studying her sister. Something had changed in Johanna's expression. A softness, a glow, an infuriating calm. Thomisia didn't like it.
"What did he do?" Thomisia asked quietly.
Johanna didn't answer. She tied her hair back, rolled up her sleeves, and began rummaging through the pantry.
Alexander's POV – The Kitchen
He was already there.
Alexander stood at the stove, sleeves rolled, pan sizzling. The smell of garlic and butter filled the air, mixing with the sharp scent of smoke curling from the cigar between his lips.
On the counter sat rice, eggs, diced vegetables, bits of pork. Simple ingredients, transformed beneath his hands with the precision of someone who made war of everything—even food.
Johanna froze in the doorway.
Artie followed, knife already half-drawn, but stopped short when the scent hit her nose.
Thomisia entered last, silent, eyes sharp.
Alexander plated the food—an omelette fried rice, golden and steaming—and slid it onto the table before Johanna. Then he leaned down, pressed a kiss against her forehead, and spoke for the first time that morning.
"Goodbye, for now."
And just like that, he was gone, smoke trailing behind him like a shadow's farewell.
Johanna's POV – Aftermath
The omelette was perfect.
Fluffy, savory, warm. Every bite carried something impossible to explain. Not just food. A message. A claim.
Johanna ate in silence while Artie raged and Thomisia smoked and the house spun in chaos. She ignored them all, her lips still tingling where his kiss had landed.
She didn't know if she hated him. Or if she wanted him more than anything.
But she knew one thing for certain.
The devil-eyed man wasn't leaving her life. Not now. Not ever.