In the days following the gala, a subtle shift permeated the atmosphere of the main house. The staff, including Matron Wu and Lucian, regarded Selene with a deference that had shed its performative edge, replaced by a genuine, measured wariness. Her poised, unyielding response to the provocation—even leveraging her title as Mrs. Thorne—had clearly circulated. In the power-respecting culture of the Lycans, weakness was devoured, but resilience and wit, even in a human, could carve out a sliver of footing.
Lysander remained immersed in his work, yet Selene sensed he spent more time within the main house, particularly in the bedroom he now shared with her. He no longer wholly excluded her from his sphere. Occasionally, he permitted her to remain in his study while he worked, allowing her to read quietly on the sofa. They existed in a strange coexistence, the sounds of his keyboard and rustling papers intertwining with the soft whisper of her turning pages, creating a bizarre, newfound peace.
It was deep into one such night when Selene was jolted awake by Lucian's low, urgent summons. It was not the full moon, yet Lysander's condition appeared far graver than before.
She hurried after Lucian to the master bedroom, her heart clenching at the sight. Lysander wasn't pacing restlessly; he was curled tightly on the bed, his body wracked with violent tremors. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his teeth ground audibly, and the veins on his hands and neck stood out in stark relief, the skin beneath tinged with a sinister, dark hue. The air was thick with a suffocating mix of rage and agony.
"The Master, he…" Lucian's expression was grim. "This is different."
Quelling her fear, Selene approached the bed. She tried what had worked before, leaning close, letting her presence envelop him. This time, it was barely effective. Her proximity only caused his breathing to hitch erratically before he curled in on himself further, a wounded, guttural whine tearing from his throat.
Her scent alone was not enough.
What now? Did it truly require her blood?
As she hesitated, considering calling for the physician, her gaze fell on Lysander's hands—clawed into the sheets, knuckles twisted and white. Those same hands that had so easily subdued her, that had once traced the petal of a moonflower with surprising care.
A strange impulse seized her. Hesitantly, with painstaking slowness, she reached out. Not toward his neck, but to gently place her hand over his tightly clenched, trembling one.
Her fingertips were cool, a stark contrast to his scorching, fevered skin.
The moment she made contact, his entire body went rigid, as if struck by lightning. His head snapped up. His eyes were no longer pure feral green, but shot through with bloody veins—a brutal war between human reason and bestial madness raging within, the pain nearly palpable. He stared at her with a look that promised annihilation.
Selene's heart hammered in her throat, but she did not pull away. She forced herself to hold that terrifying gaze, her fingers pressing down with slight pressure on his spasming hand, attempting to impart a sliver of coolness and… solace.
"Lysander…" she whispered his name, her voice trembling with an uncertainty she didn't recognize in herself. "Come back."
It was not a rational calculation, not a transaction. It was a raw, instinctive response to a creature in profound suffering.
Miraculously, beneath the sustained touch of her fingers and the sound of his name, the frantic crimson in his eyes receded a fraction. The impossibly taut muscles in his arm loosened for a fleeting instant. Then his hand moved, closing over her wrist with crushing force!
A pained gasp escaped her, but she did not struggle.
He held her hand like a drowning man clinging to driftwood, pressing her palm fiercely against his burning forehead, then to his temple, which throbbed as if it might burst. His eyes were squeezed shut, thick lashes trembling with agony. His ragged, hot breath washed over her captive wrist.
She let him hold her. Her other hand, after a moment's hesitation, moved with a novice's courage to gently, tentatively, stroke the knotted, rigid muscles of his back.
Time stretched, marked only by strained silence and harsh breathing. Gradually, Selene felt the fiery heat beneath her palm begin to recede. The vise-like grip on her wrist eased, minutely at first, then more surely. The terrifying tremors slowly stilled.
When his eyes opened again, the bloodshot veins and feral green were gone, replaced only by bottomless exhaustion and a deep, bewildered confusion. He released her wrist, which now bore a livid, encircling bruise, worse than the last.
He stared at the mark, his brow furrowed deeply. When his eyes lifted to meet hers, they held a complexity she had never seen before—the lingering shadows of pain, the relief of survival, a flicker of disbelief, and… something faint, almost like disorientation, perhaps even unknown to himself.
"You…" His voice was a ragged scrape. "What did you do?"
She withdrew her hand, flexing the painful wrist. "Nothing. I just… touched you."
She didn't know what to call it. It wasn't her blood, nor merely her scent. It was… contact? A deliberate, soothing physical connection?
Lysander watched her in silence, his gaze probing, as if trying to see past her skin to the secret hidden within. The cursed shackles within him remained, but the violent power that had nearly torn him apart had, under the touch of her fingers, quieted like a tamed stallion. The effect was more direct, more temperate, than her blood.
It defied logic, upending all his understanding of her as a mere "calming agent."
"Go to sleep," he said finally, turning away from her to lie back down, his voice resuming its customary hardness, though a thread of undeniable weakness laced the edges.
Selene watched his back, not leaving immediately. Standing there, she could hear her own racing heartbeat and the gradual, steadying rhythm of his breath. The pain in her wrist was a stark reminder of the danger, yet a strange new certainty bloomed within her—she had seemingly found a more effective, and less self-destructive, way to navigate his turmoil.
She was no longer just a passive resource. She held a fragment of agency.
She returned silently to her divan but found no sleep. In the darkness, she could hear Lysander's breathing from the other bed—no longer labored, but long and weary.
It seemed he, too, lay awake.
An immeasurable time later, just as she thought he had finally succumbed, his low voice cut through the silence, unexpected and raw.
"Does it still hurt? The wrist."
Selene stilled, her heart giving a peculiar, soft lurch. She curled the bruised wrist against her chest. "...It's manageable."
No further sound came from his side.
But that simple, almost gruff inquiry was a stone dropped into the frozen lake of her heart, sending out ripples that subtly shifted the landscape within.
That night, in the silent darkness, the prisoner at the edge of the lair and the beast within it both glimpsed a faint, unfamiliar light—something entirely distinct from the cold mechanics of their contract and transaction.