In the days that followed, a strange new routine established itself within the confines of Lysander's bedroom.
Selene remained on the divan, Lysander on the imposing master bed. A symbolic distance separated them, an unspoken demarcation line that was never crossed. Lysander seemed to have accepted her presence, the initial intensity of his scrutiny fading into a watchful neutrality. Their interactions were sparse, limited to necessary directives: "There is a gala tomorrow evening," or, "The physician will draw blood this afternoon."
The blood draws were more clinical, and more restrained, than Selene had feared. A severe, sharp-eyed middle-aged physician—clearly a Lycan privy to the truth—performed the procedure with efficient dispassion, taking only small vials and examining the fading bruise on Selene's arm before leaving a tin of medicinal salve.
"The Master's condition has stabilized notably. Your… calming influence is significant," the physician stated, her tone as sterile as her instruments. "Maintain it."
Selene nodded silently, a complex bitterness settling within her. Her value was being quantified, confirmed. It solidified her position within the estate, but it also sharpened the feeling of being a verified instrument.
Lysander was often absent from the main house during the day, presumably attending to his corporate empire. Selene's world was bounded by the main hall and the Moonstone Wing, perpetually shadowed by either Lucian or Matron Wu. She spent most of her hours in the library, though after Lysander had removed Lunar Eclipse and the Bloodline Shackles, that particular section seemed to have been curated. The most sensitive-looking codices were gone, leaving behind sanitized texts on Lycan customs and historical chronicles—the peripheral lore.
Undaunted, she devoured these seemingly marginal accounts, piecing together the contours of Lycan society, their power structures, and… scattered legends of "pure Yin vessels" or unique bloodlines. She was a sponge, absorbing any fragment that might illuminate her predicament.
One afternoon, as she sketched a rare moonflower in the conservatory, Lucian appeared soundlessly.
"Miss Selene." He offered a tablet. "The Master requires you to familiarize yourself with these profiles for tomorrow's gala."
She took it. The device accessed an encrypted database containing dossiers on prominent Lycan attendees—photographs, clan affiliations, personality assessments, and their standing within the Lycan hierarchy. The details were exhaustive, including public preferences and aversions.
"This is…" Selene was surprised. This moved beyond vague "performance" to targeted intelligence.
"The Master prefers to avoid unnecessary complications," Lucian explained, his face its usual impassive mask. "Memorize the faces and names. Smile, speak little. If provoked, ignore it, or… leverage your status as Mrs. Thorne."
He delivered the last line with pointed significance.
She understood. Lysander was equipping her with armor and a weapon, however temporary and derivative. She began studying the dossiers in earnest, committing to memory the arrogant, shrewd, or openly hostile faces. The gala, she knew, would be a trial. Several families listed were those of the young women she'd encountered in the garden.
Lysander returned at dusk, finding her in the conservatory, the cool scent of the evening clinging to him. He glanced at the profile on her tablet—a notoriously conservative and insular Elder clan.
"Progress?" he asked, a thread of weariness woven through his voice.
"Sufficient," she said, setting the tablet aside. "I will endeavor not to make errors."
Lysander's gaze assessed her. She had grown leaner in these past days, but her eyes held a deeper calm, that resilient core shining through. He reached out abruptly, his fingertips brushing the petal of the moonflower she had been drawing.
"It blooms only under moonlight. The scent is a calming agent," he remarked, as if to himself. Then his eyes shifted to her. "Tomorrow, stay close. Whatever you hear or see, remain composed."
The instruction was devoid of warmth, yet it carried a nuance beyond mere warning—a shred of guidance.
"Yes," she replied. She watched his fingers, those same ones that could so easily crush her wrist, trace the delicate petal with such surprising gentleness. The man was an enigma, layered and impenetrable.
The following evening, the gala unfolded in a ballroom of one of Thorne Enterprises' premier hotels. Crystal chandeliers blazed above a sea of silk and jewels. Superficially, it was a gathering of business elites, but Selene sensed the undercurrents—a predatory energy thrumming beneath the polished surface, the subtle, contained danger that marked so many of the guests as Lycan.
When she entered on Lysander's arm, a ripple of attention passed through the crowd. She wore a haute couture gown of champagne-colored fringe that set off her pale complexion, her innate coolness elevated by the opulent fabric. Lysander, in bespoke black, was a pillar of absolute authority, commanding the room without effort.
He guided her through the throng, introducing her with the same, unyielding phrase: "My wife, Selene." Most offered polite veneers, but their eyes telegraphed scrutiny, disdain, or naked curiosity. Selene, following her preparation, maintained a faint, correct smile, speaking sparingly, nodding where required.
Trouble, however, sought her out.
The young woman in the red dress from the garden intercepted Selene as she momentarily broke away to fetch a drink—Lysander was detained by corporate elders. She was accompanied by a coterie of similarly hostile-looking youths.
"That's a lovely costume, Mrs. Thorne," the red-clad woman sneered, swirling her glass. "Lysander does invest well in his… calming agents."
The term "calming agent" was a poisoned dart, aimed true. Selene's grip tightened on her flute, but her smile held. Her cool gaze swept over the other woman. "Miss Li. You seem particularly invested in the dynamics of my marriage."
Using the woman's surname—thanks to her study—and reframing the insult as an interest in their private life threw Miss Li off balance.
A man beside her leered, a hint of Lycan pressure seeping into the space around them. "Humans are so fragile. I wonder if you can handle our… more fervent forms of socialization."
The air grew heavy. Selene felt a primal心悸, but she forced her spine straight, recalling Lucian's words. Leverage your status.
She lifted her eyes, meeting the man's challenge with unnerving calm. Her voice was soft, yet it cut through the murmur. "Sir, such 'fervor' directed at me, at my husband's event, would undoubtedly displease him. Or does your clan seek a confrontation with the Thorne family?"
She had elevated a personal slight to an inter-clan provocation, her tone laced with the authority of a hostess.
The man's face paled. His companion tugged at his sleeve. Lysander's reputation for protecting what was his—and his ruthlessness—were well-known.
A low, icy voice spoke from behind Selene. "My wife seems to have attracted your collective attention."
Lysander had materialized, his arm sliding around her waist, drawing her firmly to his side. His face was expressionless, but the look he leveled at the group carried a weight that made them flinch.
The group's bravado evaporated. Miss Li manufactured a weak smile. "Lysander, we were just chatting with Selene."
"Are you finished?" The question held no room for negotiation.
"Yes. Quite finished," they stammered, scattering into the crowd.
Lysander looked down at Selene. Her composure was intact, but the hand at her waist felt the fine tremor running through her.
"Adequate," he murmured, for her ears only.
The spare acknowledgment loosened the knot of tension in her chest for a fleeting moment. Leaning into his side, surrounded by his scent—frosty cologne and immense power—she felt, for the first time in this den of wolves, a sliver of… shelter.
For the remainder of the evening, no further overt challenges came. Selene played her part as the decorative consort, while Lysander stood as an unassailable bulwark against the storm.
In the silent car ride back, seated beside him, Selene watched the city lights streak past.
"'Calming agent'," she said quietly into the darkness. "They all know?"
Lysander, eyes closed, didn't stir. "There are no secrets among our kind. Especially when they cannot plant spies in my inner circle. Your existence is the focal point."
His bluntness chilled her.
"Frightened?" He opened his eyes, turning his head. The passing lights played across the sharp planes of his face.
Selene shook her head. She turned to meet his gaze, her clear eyes reflecting the city's glow and his own image. "I just understand my position more clearly now."
And she understood that to survive with dignity, she could not rely solely on his occasional, interest-aligned protection. She had to forge her own strength—of will, and perhaps, of whatever latent power she might possess.
Lysander held her gaze, watching the unwavering flame in her eyes. After a long moment, he closed his own again, the ghost of a curve touching his lips.
"Good."
Silence reclaimed the car, but a new understanding had been forged in the quiet. They were still prisoner and beast on the same chain, but the direction of their path now held the possibility of change, dictated by the subtle shifts within them both.