Dawn found Selene waking to the weight of an intrusive gaze. Her eyes opened to find Lysander already dressed in a tailored black shirt, sleeves rolled to reveal corded forearms, standing by the divan. He had reassumed the mask of the corporate aristocrat, but his eyes were conducting a clinical assessment of her condition.
She pulled the silk blanket higher, sitting up defensively.
"Did you sleep poorly?" His tone was flat, yet the question itself was uncharacteristic.
She hadn't. How could anyone rest sharing a chamber with a volatile predator? Though his breathing had steadied after midnight, her own nerves had remained taut until dawn's first light.
" adequately," she deflected, voice rough with sleep.
Lysander's gaze drifted from her face to the delicate fabric of her robe. "The attorney arrives at nine. Be prepared to execute the agreement."
The contract. Her fate, formalized in ink.
"Also," he turned to leave, pausing at the threshold without looking back, "your access is extended to the west wing library and conservatory. Lucian or Matron Wu will accompany you."
A concession for her compliance? Selene pressed her lips together, withholding response.
Only after he departed did the tension in her shoulders ease. Rising, she found a new ensemble—including impeccably sized lingerie—laid out silently by Matron Wu. This omnipresent provisioning intensified her sense of being a curated possession.
At the appointed hour, in the sterile study, the Thorne Group's chief legal counsel presented a dossier of formidable thickness. Lysander was conspicuously absent; only Lucian stood sentinel.
The terms codified their arrangement in glacial prose. The Thornes would fund the orphanage's permanence; she would provide biological compliance and wifely performance. The duration: until Lysander's requirement ceased. An indefinite sentence.
She scrutinized the hematological clauses. Procedures were guaranteed to be "medically supervised and non-debilitating." A small mercy. She wouldn't be bled like livestock.
"Miss Selene, if the terms are agreeable." The lawyer extended a lacquered pen.
Her fingers were cold around the barrel. This signature would seal her covenant with the gilded cage. The faces of Matron Agnes and the children surfaced in her mind. She pressed down, etching her name into the document with finality. The scratch of nib on parchment was the sound of a lock engaging.
Post-signing, only Lucian remained.
"The Master suggested the library might be of interest," he stated, his demeanor impeccably formal.
Seeking respite, she acquiesced.
The Thorne library was a sanctum of accumulated knowledge. Vaulted ceilings soared above mahogany shelves laden with volumes spanning quarterly reports to pre-industrial philosophy. But her attention was captured by an alcove housing texts bound in weathered leather, their spines etched in runic scripts—the forbidden archives of Lycan lore.
She extracted a heavy tome embossed with a wolf-head crest. The pages revealed intricate illuminations: transformations under lunar cycles, archaic blood rituals, and one chilling depiction—a figure shackled in agony, his flesh carved with esoteric patterns that echoed the cursed bindings she'd glimpsed on Lysander's torso.
A footfall sounded behind her. Guiltily, she snapped the volume shut and returned it to its shelf.
Lysander stood observing her, his arrival silent.
"These texts hold little of value," he said, moving to stand beside her. His proximity brought the scent of frost and faint nicotine.
"Merely passing time," she murmured, lowering her gaze.
He reached past her, retrieving the very volume she had handled. "Lunar Eclipse and the Bloodline Shackles," he translated, his fingers tracing the embossed sigil. "Most is apocryphal. Forgotten for a reason."
He set the book aside, his gaze sharpening. "Certain knowledge offers no protection. Only peril."
A deliberate warning.
Selene lifted her chin, meeting his eyes. "Do you fear I might decipher your own shackles, Mr. Thorne, and thus diminish my utility?"
The challenge hung between them, sharp and deliberate.
Lysander's presence turned glacial. He closed the distance, his shoes meeting hers, leaning into her space. A storm gathered in his obsidian eyes. "Understand this. Your value is mine to determine. Until you can defend yourself, curiosity is a weapon that will fire backward." His voice dropped to a lethal whisper. "It will destroy you, and everything you seek to protect."
The threat to the orphanage was unequivocal.
Selene paled, her hands tightening their grip on each other. The power dynamic was absolute.
His point made, he withdrew slightly, his gaze catching on the pale column of her throat where a faint blush still lingered from the night's proximity.
"There is a conclave with the Elders tonight. You will attend," he stated, shifting to matters of state. "Matron Wu will provide suitable attire."
He collected the forbidden text and departed.
Alone, Selene stood watching sunbeams illuminate dust motes in the still air, feeling no warmth. Her fingertips brushed the cold leather spines.
He was correct. She possessed no physical power. But knowledge... knowledge was a different kind of currency. Those forbidden pages were a crack in the monolith, admitting a sliver of light.
She would not remain a passive asset. Even within her gilded prison, she would uncover the truth of her blood and master the rules of this new world.
That evening, draped in a champagne-colored gown selected by Matron Wu, her fatigue concealed by artful cosmetics, she stood beside Lysander before the teleconference screen. A mask of polite detachment settled over her features.
The austere faces of the Lycan Elders materialized on the monitor. Lysander's introduction was stark. "My wife, Selene."
She felt the weight of their collective scrutiny. Inclining her head precisely as instructed, her voice was measured and clear. "Elders."
Throughout the exchange, she was a portrait of wifely decorum. Lysander's hand rested on hers, a gesture of possession masquerading as intimacy, a silent demand for compliance.
When the screen darkened, it was over.
Lysander released her. "Adequate," he pronounced.
Selene's smile was a brittle facade. The performance was draining.
Back in their shared chamber, the air grew thick with unspoken tensions. Selene moved toward her divan as Lysander retreated to the bath.
The sound of water covered her movements. Her eyes drifted to the nightstand, where Lunar Eclipse and the Bloodline Shackles now resided.
Why bring it here? A reminder of her place? Or an unintentional clue?
The water ceased. Selene quickly feigned sleep.
Lysander emerged, a towel at his waist. He paused, observing the still form on the divan. Instead of retiring, he collected the book and settled against the headboard, the soft click of his reading lamp the only sound as he began to study the forbidden text.
In the manufactured quiet, two people breathed in careful rhythm.
Eyes closed, Selene was acutely aware of his focus, of the pages turning between them.
A fragile truce held in the darkness. But Selene knew this equilibrium was temporary. Her gambit had begun. The prisoner was learning to pick her locks.