Chapter 5: Wolves at the Door

Selene's POV

I stumbled back to my room, door slamming behind me, heart pounding like I'd sprinted through the damn woods, not just down a hall. Lucien—shirtless, sweaty, that blonde pinned under him—kept flashing in my skull, sharp as a claw to the gut. I leaned against the wall, breath ragged, muttering, "Get a grip, Selene, he's a bastard," but my brain wasn't listening. It was stuck—his firm ass flexing as he moved, those six-pack ridges glinting with sweat, every muscle in his back rolling like he was built to break things—or bodies.

I slid down, ass hitting the floor, and pressed my palms to my eyes, trying to scrub it out. Didn't work. That image burned hotter—his scars crisscrossing that stupidly perfect chest, the way his arms flexed, pinning her like it was nothing. And then—damn it—my mind went lower, picturing what I didn't see. His pants had been tight, zipper straining, and I couldn't stop wondering—how big, how hard, what it'd look like free, thick and ready. My breath hitched, a flush crawling up my neck, and—oh, hell—my nipples tightened, poking against this dumb sweater like they had a mind of their own.

I shifted, thighs clenching, a throb starting low—hot, insistent, totally messed up. Lucien, the scarred prick who'd locked me up, was turning me on, and I hated it. Hated him. My fingers twitched, itching to slide down, ease that ache, imagine his hands—rough, calloused—grabbing me instead of her. I could still smell him—leather, pine, that sharp bite—and it was screwing me up worse, making my skin buzz, that heat in my gut flaring like it'd bust out.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" I snapped, loud enough to echo in the room, yanking my hands to my hair, tugging hard. "He's your jailer, not some damn fantasy." My chest heaved, nipples still hard, and I crossed my arms tight, shoving it all down—lust, heat, that stupid hum rattling my ribs. He'd growled at me—low, hungry—and I'd felt it, right between my legs, but no way. No way I'm letting that bastard win, not like this.

I stood, pacing fast, bare feet slapping the rug. His voice from downstairs—sharp, barking orders—drifted up, and I pictured him pulling that shirt on, slow and smug, knowing I'd seen. "Trouble," he'd called me, leaning too close, and my dumb body had lit up—still was. I stopped, fists clenched, nails digging into my palms—sharp, too sharp—and glared at the window. Locked tight, bars mocking me, but I needed out. Out of this room, this mansion, him.

Escape—yeah, that's it. Focus, Selene. I'd been a wolf my whole life—Ironclaw born, not some swooning idiot—and I wasn't about to let Lucien's abs or whatever he's packing turn me into mush. I raided the wardrobe—black jeans, boots, a jacket—his creepy gift stash, but they'd do. My arm brushed my chest, still sensitive, and I cursed, shoving the jacket on harder. "You're not winning this, Sourface," I muttered, picturing his smirk, those blue eyes cutting through me—damn it, stop.

The door lock was a problem—solid, no key—but the window frame? Wood, old, maybe brittle. I grabbed the chair by the desk—sturdy, heavy—and hauled it over, adrenaline kicking in. One swing—crack—the frame splintered, glass rattling but not breaking. I swung again, harder—wood gave, a shard popping loose—and I froze, listening. No boots, no Vira—just silence, then faint howls outside, far off. Good enough.

I wedged the chair under the bars, testing—wobbly but it'd hold. My nails scraped metal—longer than yesterday, sharp as hell—and that heat pulsed, a low hum vibrating my chest. "Not now," I growled, shoving it down, climbing up. The gap was tight—bars bent, not busted—but I could squeeze, maybe. My jacket snagged, ripping, and I cursed Lucien again—his fault, all of it.

Then footsteps—heavy, fast—hit the hall. Shit. I dropped, chair clattering, and spun as the door flew open. Vira—mossy stink, braid swinging—stood there, claws out, eyes narrow. "Going somewhere?" she said, voice flat but sharp.

"Yeah, your boss's decorating sucks," I shot back, smirking despite the thud in my chest—caught, again. She stepped in, slow, and I tensed, nails flexing—heat flared, the lamp flickering—and she stopped, head tilting like she felt it.

"Lucien won't like this," she said, low, grabbing my arm—not rough, firm—and hauling me back. I yanked, but she held, dragging me to the bed. "Sit. Or I chain you."

I flopped down, glaring, chest buzzing louder. "Tell Sourface I'm not his damn pet," I snapped, but my voice cracked—his naked ass flashed again, six-pack tight, and my thighs clenched, traitor-style. Vira smirked—barely—then bolted the door, leaving me stewing. Escape's still on, I told myself, shoving that heat down deep—but Lucien's body, that growl, wouldn't quit haunting me.