Lysander's stride was swift and imperious, as if the man on the verge of shattering in the study had been merely a figment of Selene's imagination. But the throbbing imprint on her arm and the lingering, heated scent of him—musky and faintly wild—in the air were stark reminders of the brutal reality.
She followed him in silence through corridors deeper and more silent than the front halls. The decor here was older, more primal. The abstract paintings gave way to murals depicting wolf packs, moonlit rituals, and ancient totems, their colors somber, their lines bold, radiating a mysterious, raw power. The air carried a strange scent, like sandalwood and cold fir, meant to soothe yet inspiring an instinctive awe.
He finally stopped before a set of heavy double doors intricately carved with a repeating wolf's head motif. Pushing them open revealed a vast sitting room, austere in its design, dominated by shades of black, grey, and silver. A massive floor-to-ceiling window offered a view of a private courtyard bathed in moonlight, the open space outside only serving to accentuate the room's cavernous emptiness and chill.
Lysander didn't turn on the main lights. Only a few muted, recessed wall sconces cast pools of amber light, pushing back the shadows just enough. He walked to the central black leather sofa, his back to Selene, and lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, a gesture of profound weariness.
"Sit." The command was terse. His voice had regained most of its cool composure, but a trained ear could detect the ragged edges, the hoarseness of someone who had just walked back from the brink.
Selene obeyed, perching on the single armchair farthest from him. Her spine was ramrod straight, her hands folded neatly in her lap—a defensive posture. She kept her eyes downcast, fixed on her own slender fingers, not daring to meet his gaze while her mind raced, analyzing her predicament and the baffling efficacy of her blood.
Lysander turned. His deep gaze settled on her, reassessing her like a recovered asset whose value had unexpectedly skyrocketed. He didn't speak immediately, merely subjected her to that silent, weighty scrutiny until she felt she might suffocate.
After a long moment, he broke the uncomfortable silence. "What happened earlier," he began, pausing as if searching for the right words, "was an anomaly. My constitution… is susceptible during the full moon."
He made it sound like a minor inconvenience. Selene knew it was anything but. It was a complete loss of control, the roar of a primal beast.
"I… understand," she replied softly, her voice betraying a faint tremor. She had no choice but to understand. Her fate was now tied to his "susceptibility."
"You don't," Lysander cut her off, blunt and unsparing. He closed the distance, settling onto the sofa opposite her. His large frame instantly dominated the space. "But you need to know that managing such 'anomalies' is the core of your duties."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands steepled. Those eyes, now returned to a deep, dark hue, fixed on her with unnerving sharpness. "As you witnessed, I require you. Or more precisely, I require your blood."
The stark, brutal honesty of his words was an ice pick, shattering the last vestiges of her hope. She was indeed just a medicine.
"Why me?" She lifted her eyes, finally gathering the courage to meet his gaze. "What is so special about my blood?"
This was her greatest confusion. Elara was her twin. If it were a matter of bloodline, it made no sense for only one of them to be special.
A flicker of the same question passed through Lysander's eyes. "That is what I intend to discover," he said, offering no answer but posing another. "Before you, the Thorne family sought others with a similar… effect. All failed. You are the only one."
The only one. The term settled heavily in her heart. It meant she was irreplaceable, and therefore, at greater risk.
"Therefore," Lysander leaned back against the sofa, the posture of a corporate king reasserting control, "our arrangement requires clearer terms."
"The Thorne Group will immediately inject capital, eliminating the Havenwood Orphanage's debt entirely and establishing a trust to ensure its future operation. You may visit whenever you wish—I will arrange security. Or surveillance," he stated flatly, leaving no room for argument. "In return, you will reside here. You will provide your blood when I require it. And you will play the part of 'Mrs. Thorne,' handling all necessary social obligations and the pressures from within the Lycan clans."
"Play the part?" Selene seized on the phrase.
"Precisely. A performance for the benefit of the scheming Elder Council and outside forces," he said, a humorless twist to his lips. "You need not invest genuine sentiment. I certainly will not. This is a transaction."
His words were like cold contract clauses, demarcating the boundaries with chilling clarity. A tumult of emotions warred within Selene—a faint relief that her worst fears (of physical intimacy) were assuaged, a sting of humiliation at being so commodified, and a deep unease about the dangers lurking behind this "performance."
"What exactly would I need to do?" she asked, striving to keep her voice level.
"Be compliant. Remain discreet. And use your blood to restore my clarity when I lose control," he listed, his gaze drifting once more to the nearly invisible mark on her neck, his eyes darkening. "For everything else, Lucian will instruct you. Tomorrow, my lawyer will bring the formal contract."
He stood, walking to his desk and picking up the internal phone. "Lucian. Escort her to the rooms in the Moonstone Wing."
He didn't look at her again, as if the conversation that had just decided her future was nothing more than a routine business negotiation.
Lucian appeared soundlessly at the door, his demeanor as severe as ever. "Miss Selene, follow me."
Selene rose, casting one last look at Lysander's back. He stood before the panoramic window, watching the moon-drenched night, his silhouette straight yet somehow projecting an air of profound isolation and burden. That full moon was not a thing of beauty for him, but a curse.
She turned and followed Lucian out of the room that smelled so strongly of him.
Walking the corridor towards the so-called Moonstone Wing, Lucian spoke unprompted, his tone still devoid of inflection. "Miss Selene, it is imperative you keep the specifics of the Master's condition confidential. In public, especially among the Lycans, you are a devoted couple, united by genuine affection."
"I understand," Selene nodded.
"Your room." Lucian stopped before an elegantly carved door. "There is a call bell inside for any needs. Also," he paused, adding, "for your safety, and for the Master's… requirements, please do not venture beyond the main estate grounds. Especially at night."
The warning in his tone was unmistakable. This opulent mansion was both sanctuary and cage.
Selene pushed the door open. The room was spacious, tastefully and comfortably furnished, far warmer than the austere style prevalent elsewhere. A window looked out onto a courtyard filled with white flowers, serene and beautiful under the moonlight. But the beauty did little to dispel the chill in her heart.
She closed the door, her back sliding down its polished surface until she sat on the floor. Her world had been upended in a single day. To save one home, she had come to another—a gilded one, teeming with hidden perils. Her marriage was a transaction. Her value lay in her veins. And her future husband was a Lycan who turned into a beast under the full moon.
The bruise on her arm ached, a constant reminder of Lysander's danger. Yet, strangely, she didn't feel the despair she had anticipated. Perhaps because the orphanage was safe for now. Or perhaps because… within the extreme danger, she had glimpsed a possibility—not just of survival, but of leverage. Her blood was the rein that could check the beast.
She lifted a hand, her fingers lightly brushing the tiny wound on her neck. Moonlight filtered through the sheer curtains, falling gently upon her.
"Lysander Thorne…" she whispered the name. In her clear eyes, fear was gradually being supplanted by a more complex mix of wariness, curiosity, and a flicker of nascent resolve.
The transaction, with her as the central stake, had only just begun.