Chapter 4: Gilded bars and bad ideas

Selene's POV

Three weeks in this damn mansion, and I'm ready to claw my way through the walls—or Lucien's face, whichever's closer. It's all silk sheets and polished floors, chandeliers dripping light like they're mocking me, but it's still a prison.

Big windows show me a forest I can't touch, locked doors remind me I'm not a guest, and every meal—fancy steak, wine I'd kill for back home—tastes like ash when I'm eating it under guard. Vira's my shadow most days, her mossy stink trailing me, silent but watching.

Ragnar's worse—lurking, smirking, like he's waiting for me to snap so he can break me. I'd snap his neck first if I could.

Lucien's rules choke me harder than the shackles did: stay in the mansion, don't touch the doors, don't ask questions. "Obedience," he'd said like I'm some mutt he can train. Screw that. I've been pacing this room—my "suite," he calls it—wearing tracks in the rug, plotting ways out. Smash a window? Too high, and Vira's ears would catch the glass before I hit the ground. Steal a key?

Ragnar's got them, and I'd rather wrestle a bear than get that close. My nails tap the bedpost—longer every day, sharp enough to scratch wood now. Focus, Selene. Escape.

Today's different, though—tension's thick, voices rumbling downstairs. I crack my door and peek out.

Vira's gone—rare slip—and I hear Lucien barking orders, sharp and pissed. Curiosity's a bitch, so I slip into the hall, barefoot on cold marble, and creep toward the noise. Downstairs, he's in the study, maps sprawled across a desk, Ragnar and a dozen Ironclaw wolves glaring at him like he's lost it.

"We hit Ironclaw soon," Lucien says, calm and collected as always. "Dean's weak, scrambling after her. We take their northern ridge—cut their spine."

Ragnar leans in, teeth bared. "You're rushing this, Lucien. Half the pack's still licking wounds from the raid. We move now, we're meat."

"Then grow a backbone," Lucien growls, voice low and lethal. "Dean's father gutted us—I gut him back. She's the bait, and he's biting."

My stomach twists—bait? Me? Ironclaw wolves mutter, some nodding, others shifting uneasily. They're pissed—Lucien's pushing too hard, and they're fraying. I duck back, heart thumping, but not before his blue eyes flick up, catching mine through the crack, and I bolt.

I slam my door shut, chest heaving like I'd run a marathon, not just a staircase. Lucien's voice—"She's the bait, and he's biting"—bounced around my skull, lighting every nerve on fire. Bait. Me. That bastard. I kicked the bedpost, pain shooting up my foot, and growled, "Great job, Selene. From trophy wife to chew toy in three weeks flat." My nails scratch the wood and I yank my hand back, glaring at them like they'd betrayed me.

I flopped onto the bed, staring at the ceiling—fancy plaster swirls, probably worth more than my old life. My brain wouldn't quit, though, spinning like a busted wheel.

Dean's face popped up—golden hair, smug grin—and I waited for the ache, the pull to get back to him. Nothing. Just a blank spot where his stupid alpha act used to sit.

But Mira? That hit different. Her eye-rolls, her snappy "suck it up"—I missed that, bad. My throat got tight, and I laughed, sharp and bitter, to shake it off. "God, she'd love this mess. Probably say I'm the idiot for not clawing Lucien's eyes out yet."

Last summer, we'd snuck into Old Galen's stash and swiped his moonshine. She dared me to chug it, and I did—tasted like fire and regret. I puked it up ten minutes later, right on her boots, and she howled laughing, calling me "Puke face" for a month. I'd chucked a rock at her, missed by a mile, and we'd ended up sprawled in the dirt, giggling like fools.

I hugged a pillow, grinning, then dropped it fast. "Mira'd smack me for getting sappy." But yeah—I'd trade this mansion for her boots in my face any day. Dean? He can choke on his pride. Lucien too, while we're at it.

Lucien's POV:

Lena's pressed into me, her blonde hair spilling over my chest as she straddled my lap on the chair.

One long leg nudged mine apart deliberately, her bare thigh brushing my jeans—hot, too damn hot.

Her stench hit me hard—sex and wolf musk, sharp enough to drown the whiskey lingering in my throat. She hiked her black silk dress up, flimsy as a whisper, and ground against me, her tongue shoving into my mouth, wet and greedy.

"Harder," she growled, biting my lip till it stung, her hips rocking, clit dragging over my zipper.

I barely felt it—my eyes kept flicking to the desk, maps, and a crumpled photo of Selene from the raid, green eyes glaring like she'd claw me apart. Lena licked my ear, teeth grazing, but my head was stuck—Selene's scent, blood, and moonflowers haunt me even now. I yanked my loose tie off, shoving Lena down to the rug. She hit with a yelp, grinning wild as I flipped her, binding her eyes with the silk. Her tongue darted over her lip, legs splaying as she crawled up, bending over the oak desk—nothing under that dress, ass bare and begging.

Lena is pressed against me, her moans filling the room, hot and needy. I had her pinned to the wall, shirt off, hands rough on her hips, chasing a distraction from the mess in my head.

Her nails dug into my back, dragging over old scars, and I growled, thrusting harder to drown it out. The fire popped, and sweat stung my eyes, but it wasn't enough—none of it was.

The door creaked—soft, but it hit like a gunshot. I turned, mid-move, and there she was. Selene. Standing in the frame, arms crossed, green eyes wide then narrowing fast. Lena yelped, scrambling for a sheet, but I freeze—caught, raw, her stare pinning me harder than any claws. My chest tightened, scars prickling under her gaze, and—damn it—I didn't hate it. She shouldn't be here, but seeing her, all fire and fury, lit something I couldn't name.

"Nice show, Sourface," she spat, voice cutting like a blade, laced with that damn smirk.

Lena bolted past, clutching the fabric, but I didn't care—Selene's words burned hotter than the brunette's hands ever did. I growled low—not mad, something deeper—and stepped back, grabbing my shirt slow, letting her see the scars, the sweat, daring her to flinch. She didn't. "You shouldn't be here," I said, rougher than I meant, eyes locked on hers—wild, green, pulling me in.

"Next time, warn me about the live show—I'd bring popcorn," she shot back, smirking wider, but her voice shook, just a hair. She felt it too—this pull, this heat—and it was unraveling me. I stepped closer, close enough to smell her—blood, flowers, defiance—and my hands itched to grab her, not push her away.

"You're a damn thorn," I muttered, voice dropping, jaw tight as her lips caught my eye—too close, too tempting. She bolted, door slamming, and I stand there, chest buzzing, knowing I was screwed