Chapter 6: Eat or be Eaten

Lucien's POV

She hadn't eaten—three days of Vira hauling trays back untouched, meat going cold, bread stale. "She's starving herself," Vira had growled last night, mossy eyes narrow, like it was my damn fault. Maybe it was—snatched her, locked her up, and now she's pulling this stunt, digging under my skin worse than her damn "Sourface" crack after catching me with Lena. Those green eyes, slicing through me mid-thrust, wouldn't quit—her scent—blood, flowers, wild—clinging like a burr I couldn't shake. Revenge was supposed to be clean—use her, break Dean—but she's a splinter, and I'm the fool itching to yank her out or shove her deeper.

I'd had it—stormed the kitchen, grabbed a steak—rare, bloody, dripping on my hand—no plate, no fuss. She wants to play stubborn? Fine. I'd make her eat, shove it down her smart mouth if I had to. Upstairs, her door loomed—busted window frame still mocking me from Vira's report—and I kicked it open, hinges groaning. There she was, slumped on the bed, legs kicked out, sweater stretched tight—nipples poking through, damn it, sharp as her glare. Her hair was a tangle, face pale but fierce, and she smirked—slow, cutting—when she saw me.

"What, Sourface, room service now?" she rasped, voice rough—hunger or hate, couldn't tell—but it hit me low, a jab I felt in my gut.

"Eat," I growled, tossing the steak on the bed—juice splattered, red streaking silk—and stepped closer, leather creaking as I loomed. "You're not starving on my watch." My arms crossed—shirt tight, sweat from pacing sticking—and her eyes flicked up, green fire daring me.

She laughed—sharp, dry, a bark that scraped my nerves raw. "Oh, big hero, huh? Gonna force-feed me like some pup?" She didn't move—stayed sprawled, one hand twitching near her nails—long, glinting—and my jaw clenched, picturing those claws on me, not the damn bedpost she'd scratched to hell.

"Move, or I will," I snapped, voice rough—stepped right to the edge, close enough to smell her, that wild mix hitting me hard. "You're eating, Selene. End of story." My hand flexed—wanted to grab her, shake her, anything—and she grinned, slow and mean, sitting up—sweater riding, a sliver of stomach flashing.

"Make me, tough guy," she said, leaning forward—breath hot, eyes locked—and my dick twitched, instant and brutal, jeans straining. She knew—damn her—and tilted her head, taunting, "What's the plan? Pin me down, shove it in?" Her smirk widened—teeth bared—and I growled, low and ragged, heat roaring up my spine.

"Keep talking," I rasped, leaning in—too close, her lips inches away—"and I'll do worse." Her chest rose fast—nipples still hard, mocking me—and I pictured it: pinning her, steak forgotten, her thighs clamping, that mouth on mine. My hand shot out—grabbed the meat, not her—shoved it at her face. "Take it."

She snatched it—fingers brushing mine, electric—and tore in, teeth sinking deep, blood smearing her lips. She chewed—loud, messy—eyes never leaving mine, daring me to blink. Juice dripped—chin, neck—and her tongue flicked out, catching it, slow and wet. My mouth went dry—her eating was a damn show, lips glistening, and I shifted—hard as hell, stuck watching. "Messy little wolf," I muttered, voice thick—wanted to lick that blood off, taste her instead—and she grinned, tearing another bite.

"Your fault," she shot back, sucking a finger clean—slow, deliberate—and my growl rumbled, not pissed—hungry. "Should've nabbed someone who plays nice." She leaned back—elbows propping, sweater tight—and chewed louder, juice on her chin now, a smear I could've wiped with my thumb—or my mouth.

"You don't play nice," I said, stepping closer—bed creaking under my weight—and her scent flooded me—wild, meaty, her. "You'd bite my damn hand off." My eyes dropped—lips, neck, that damn curve—and my hand twitched—hovering over her shoulder, scars pulling tight. She froze—eyes widening—but not scared—lit up, green cutting me open.

"Try me," she purred, licking her lips—blood gone, shine left—and tossed the steak aside—half-eaten, red on silk. "Bet I'd enjoy it." Her voice was rough—hunger cracking through—and my control frayed—imagined grabbing her, ripping that sweater, her nails digging in. I leaned in—breath on her cheek, leather mixing with her—and she didn't pull back—chest rising, nipples taunting me still.

"You're pushing it," I rasped, voice gravel—her mouth was right there, parted, and I could've taken it—hard, fast—felt her growl back. My hand flexed—almost grabbed her—and her hum hit—low, weird, vibrating. The fork on the bed bent—metal curling—and she flinched, yanking back fast. "What the—" she muttered, staring at her hands—nails sharp, trembling—and I stepped off, gut twisting—lust slamming into something sharper.

"Eat the rest," I growled, cold now—her power, that howl, rattled me—and bolted—door slamming, chest heaving. She's trouble—damn right—and I'm screwed, wanting her more than I should.

Selene's POV

He stormed out—door banging shut—and I slumped back, steak blood sticky on my fingers, heart hammering like I'd fought, not ate. That bastard—barging in, all muscle and growl, forcing meat on me like I'm his damn pet. I wiped my mouth—smearing more—and muttered, "Nice try, jerk," but my thighs clenched—heat pooling low—his bulge, his snarl, stuck in my head. The fork was warped—bent from that hum—and I glared at it, nails digging into the sheets—sharp, too sharp.

"Not caving," I snarled, but my nipples ached—damn him—and escape was still on. He'd be back, and I'd be gone—next time, no steak's stopping me.