The heavy, carved door shut behind her with a final, dull thud, severing Selene's last tangible connection to the world she knew.
Now, alone with Lysander in the study, the oppressive weight in the air intensified. Outside, the rain had ceased. The full moon, unveiled and merciless, hung in the sky, its cold radiance pouring through the massive windows, painting the room in stark contrasts of light and shadow. It also illuminated the feverish flush on Lysander's skin and the stark evidence of his struggle.
He turned away from her abruptly, striding to his desk where he braced his large hands on the polished surface, his knuckles white, his broad shoulders hunched as if bearing a colossal weight. The sound of his ragged, heavy breathing was unnaturally loud in the stillness. This was not the cool, controlled predator of before; this was a trapped beast, teetering on the edge of ruin.
Selene stood frozen, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. Every instinct screamed at her to be terrified, to flee, yet her feet were rooted to the floor. Tales of Lycans losing themselves to the moon's call wrapped around her mind, icy tendrils of fear paralyzing her limbs.
A low, guttural sound, torn from the depths of his throat, echoed from Lysander's direction.
His head snapped up. In the moonlight, his pupils were almost entirely consumed by a feral, phosphorescent green, devoid of any human reason. His gaze locked on her—no longer assessing, but purely predatory, the focus absolute.
Selene gasped, stumbling back a step until her spine met the unyielding cold of the door.
"L-Lysander?" Her voice trembled, a futile attempt to anchor him to his humanity.
The sound seemed to act as a trigger. Lysander shoved himself upright, lurching toward her. His steps were no longer steady but stiff, fraught with a visible, internal war against his own nature. The dangerous aura radiating from him thickened, suffocating her.
"Get out…" The words were ground out between his teeth, his voice a ragged, unrecognizable ruin—a warning to her, a command to himself.
She wanted to move, but sheer petrifying fear held her fast.
In that moment of hesitation, Lysander's tenuous control shattered. A deep, utterly non-human growl rumbled in his chest, the green light in his eyes flaring violently. He moved—a blur of dark motion—closing the distance between them in an instant.
Selene cried out, a short, sharp sound of pure terror, squeezing her eyes shut and throwing her arms up in a feeble defense.
The expected impact never came.
A wave of scorching heat washed over her neck, carrying the potent scent of male musk and something wild, untamed. Trembling, she forced her eyes open. Lysander's face was inches from hers. One of his hands was locked like a vice around her forearm, the pressure so immense she felt the bones protest. His head was buried in the curve of her shoulder, his breathing harsh and labored, each hot exhale searing her skin and sending shivers through her.
He was using every last shred of his will not to sink his teeth in.
She could feel the rock-hard tension in every muscle of his body, the frightening heat he emanated. In the face of ultimate fear, a strange, numb calm descended upon her. She knew she couldn't break free. Struggling would only provoke the beast faster.
It was then, perhaps due to the extreme tension and the rough friction of his breathing against her skin, that the edge of the small bandage on her neck—covering a minor cut from a picture frame the day before—was dislodged. A faint, almost imperceptible thread of blood-scent bloomed in the intimate space between them.
A miracle occurred.
The frantic rhythm of Lysander's heaving chest hitched. He stirred against her neck, his nostrils flaring as he sampled that elusive, metallic whisper in the air.
Then, Selene felt it clearly: the crushing pressure on her arm eased, just a fraction. The explosive, volatile energy that had surrounded him began to recede, unevenly and unsteadily, like a deflating threat.
The feral green light in his eyes flickered like a dying ember. Human awareness, fraught and chaotic, struggled back to the surface. He lifted his head, his gaze finding hers, filled with confusion, disbelief, and a dawning… bewilderment.
"You…" he rasped, the voice still gravelly, but no longer a pure animal's snarl.
Selene held her breath, not daring to move.
Abruptly, Lysander released her arm as if burned, staggering back several paces until his back collided with a bookshelf. The impact was solid and dull. He dragged in great, gulping breaths, his brow sheened with cold sweat, his eyes—now holding a complex mix of emotions—fixed on her, or more precisely, on the nearly invisible mark on her neck.
The brief, one-sided confrontation had left the study in disarray. Papers were scattered, a heavy wooden chair lay overturned.
Hurried footsteps sounded outside. Lucian's voice, tight with unmasked anxiety, came through the door. "Sir! Are you all right?"
Lysander drew a deep, shuddering breath, forcing a measure of cold command back into his voice, though it couldn't disguise his exhaustion. "...I'm fine. Do not enter."
The sounds from the hallway ceased.
Lysander's gaze remained locked on Selene, but it had shifted. It was now sharp with scrutiny, assessment, and the keen interest of a man who has discovered an unexpected variable. He was no longer looking at the cut, but directly into her wide, shaken eyes.
"You," he said slowly, each word weighed with deliberation, "come with me."
He offered no explanation for his loss of control, no apology, as if it were a trivial incident. But Selene sensed the subtle shift in his demeanor. The pure, utilitarian indifference had been nuanced by a hint of… inexplicable significance.
He turned away without another glance and moved toward a door on the far side of the study that led deeper into the mansion. Selene rubbed her throbbing arm, tracing the clear, bruising imprint of his fingers. She looked once more at the unnerving full moon beyond the window, bit her lower lip, and finally followed the dangerous, unpredictable figure who, in this moment, felt like her only anchor.
Her "duties," it seemed, were far more perilous than she had ever imagined. And her blood, it appeared, held secrets even she was not aware of.