Chapter 7: Bars and Bait

Selene's POV

The steak sat like a stone in my gut—bloody, forced down by that bastard's growl—and I hated how it lingered, warm and heavy, like his damn presence had sunk claws into me. Three weeks in this gilded hellhole—three weeks of pacing the same damn floorboards, boots scuffing a rut in the rug, walls pressing tighter every night—and I was fraying at the seams. I'd tried everything—windows barred with iron that mocked my fists, unyielding as a wolf's jaw; locks clicking shut like teeth snapping closed; Vira's shadow stalking the halls, a hawk with claws out, waiting for me to twitch wrong. My nails—longer now, jagged as broken blades—scraped the windowsill, gouging deep into the wood, splinters biting my skin. A low hum buzzed in my chest—soft, mean, waking slow—and I froze, staring at the marks—sharp as knives—breath fogging in the dusk chill seeping through the panes. "Clawing's getting me nowhere," I muttered, voice rough as gravel, a laugh ripping out—bitter, sharp—bouncing off the stone walls like a taunt.

I slumped against the bed—silk sheets slick under my palms, cold and mocking—and raked a hand through my tangled brown hair, tugging hard enough to sting. His scent—leather, pine, that sharp, wild bite—still clung from yesterday, from him looming over me, growling "eat," his six-pack flexing under scars I couldn't scrub from my skull. My thighs clenched—damn it, again—heat pooling low, nipples perking against the sweater like they'd staged a mutiny. I shoved it down—hard—nails digging into my palms, blood pricking warm, stinging sharp under my skin. "Not happening, you scarred prick," I snarled—voice low, fierce—but my pulse thudded—wild, loud—his ice-blue eyes cutting through me, that firm ass moving as he'd pinned that blonde, flashing in my head like a brand I couldn't burn out.

I stood—fast—shaking it off, pacing again—bare feet slapping cold marble, breath ragged in the quiet. The room spun—four walls, a cage dressed in luxury—chandelier glinting above, shadows stretching long and thin across the floor like bars of their own. Escape wasn't muscle—I'd busted enough chairs, scratched enough walls to know that game was done. My fist clenched—nails biting deeper—and the hum pulsed—low, a tremor rattling my ribs. "Think, Selene," I hissed—breath fogging—green eyes glaring at the cracked mirror propped by the wall. Wits—something colder, sharper than claws. A grin split my face—slow, feral—teeth bared as the idea sank in, rooting deep. "Make him fall," I whispered—voice scraping my throat—resolve hardening like iron in my gut, cold and unyielding. "Play the smitten pup—smile, simper, get him sloppy—then bolt when he's too dumb to watch me."

My chest tightened—hated him, hated this—but I'd choke down pride like that damn steak if it meant freedom. He'd think he'd won—smirk spreading wide, guard dropping low—and I'd be gone—wind tearing through my hair, his keys jangling in my fist, his growl fading to a yelp behind me. I laughed—low, rough—picturing it: Lucien, all scars and swagger, stumbling over himself, blue eyes blinking dumb as I slipped his grasp. "Yeah, tough guy," I muttered—grin widening—cold, not warm, a blade sharpening in my mind. "Let's see how you like being played." If he wanted a prisoner, I'd give him one—sweet, pliable, close enough to snag a crack in his armor—close enough to smell the leather and feel the heat, but never close enough to lose myself.

I stopped—breath steadying—raking hands through my hair again, tugging strands loose, pacing slowing as the plan took shape. The mirror caught me—green eyes sharp, fierce—hair a wild mess falling past my shoulders, olive skin scratched raw from my last window scrape, a faint bruise blooming on my jaw from some old scuffle. I tilted my head—studying—lips curling slow. Not a beauty queen—too rough, too wolf—but enough to work with. I raided his creepy wardrobe—black jeans, tight enough to hug my hips and thighs, a sweater clinging soft over my chest—nothing flashy, nothing screaming "look at me"—just enough to catch his eye, plant a seed without him sniffing the trap. I yanked them on—fabric cool against my skin—tugging the sweater down, smoothing it over my ribs—snug, subtle. "Good enough," I said—smirking at my reflection—nails glinting as I flexed them—long, sharp, humming soft like a warning I swallowed down.

The hall was quiet—firelight fading from the sconces, shadows pooling thick like spilled blood across the marble floor. I slipped out—barefoot, silent—nails clicking the wall as I moved, hum buzzing low in my ribs—steady, a pulse I couldn't shake, wouldn't let loose. Vira was off—probably snarling at Ragnar over some petty pack crap—and the air hung heavy, waiting—thick with the mansion's musk—stone, wood, the faint tang of iron and dust. I'd scoped this place—every creak, every turn—knew it like a map burned into my skull. The study was his den—maps and growls spilling out nightly like a wolf marking turf—where he'd be, plotting, brooding, hunched over his revenge like it was a bone to gnaw. Perfect to start this game—sink the first hook—see if he'd bite or snap.

I padded down the hall—slow, deliberate—breath shallow, heart thudding cold—not hot, not yet—nails trailing the wall, leaving faint scratches in the paint—little rebellions I couldn't help. The air grew warmer—faint light spilling from under his door—candles or a lamp, cutting through the dark like a blade. I rounded the corner—pulse steady—resolve like steel—and there it was: the study door, heavy oak, ajar just a crack, a sliver of gold slicing the shadows. Lucien was inside—broad back to me, leather stretching tight over his shoulders—rolling maps under one arm, fingers flexing scars that glinted faint under the open shirt, black hair mussed like he'd raked it too hard, too long. My grin twitched—resolve steel—but my gut flipped—damn it—his bulk filling the frame, a wall I'd have to climb or crack, a beast I'd have to tame without breaking myself.

"Hey, big guy," I called—voice light, too light—leaning on the wall, hip cocked casual, arms loose at my sides—easy, like I wasn't plotting his fall. My heart hammered—cold, scheming—but I locked it down—smirking slow—green eyes glinting in the dim. He froze—maps crinkling in his grip—ice-blue eyes flicking up, narrowing sharp as claws—cutting through me like he could smell the lie. "What now?" he grunted—stepping out—boots heavy on marble, shirt half-open—his chest a slab of muscle under those scars, leather creaking as he shifted—closing the door behind him with a thud, maps clutched tight against his side like secrets he wouldn't spill.

"Just stretching," I said—shrugging—breezy, careless—pushing off the wall, closing the gap a hair—bare feet silent on stone, stopping just shy of his shadow. "Legs get twitchy, you know—cooped up in your fancy jail all day." My sweater clung—soft, snug—chest rising slow, and his gaze dropped—fast, subtle—lingering on my hips, my ribs—before snapping back to my face—ice-blue burning cold. Gotcha, I thought—grin tugging—first hook's in, you bastard—resolve flaring bright. The hum buzzed—low, steady—a candle flickered on the wall, flame dancing wild—and I tilted my head, playing it off—light, airy. "Drafty dump, huh? You'd think a tough guy like you'd fix that—keep your prisoner cozy."

He snorted—short, rough—lips twitching, not quite a smirk—air puffing from his nose like a wolf catching a scent. "Live with it," he growled—voice gravel rolling deep—but he didn't bolt—stood there, maps clutched tight—leather creaking as he shifted—weight on one leg, sizing me up—eyes hard, unreadable. "Thought you'd be clawing the walls by now—busting more chairs, smashing my shit." His head cocked—testing me—ice-blue cutting through the dim, scars catching light like old wounds waking up—sharp against his pale skin, a map of fights he'd won or barely walked from.

"Been there, done that," I shot back—light, teasing—stepping closer—slow—bare feet whispering on marble, stopping just shy of his heat—close enough to feel it, not close enough to flinch. "Maybe I'm settling in—your hospitality's growing on me, big guy—silk sheets and all." Lie—bitter as bile, sharp in my throat—but I grinned—green eyes locked on his—daring him to bite, to buy it—voice steady, warm, fake as hell. My nails flexed—sharp, itching—and the hum pulsed—soft, a quill on his desk bending slow through the crack in the door—metal curling like it felt me. His brow twitched—caught it—eyes flicking to my hands, then back—suspicion flaring faint—but I laughed—"Oops, shaky hands"—covering fast—voice light, sweet—mask holding tight.

He grunted—low, skeptical—"Settling, huh?" He stepped in—too close—leather and pine slamming me hard—his chest a wall under that shirt—scars peeking, muscle tight—heat rolling off him like a forge stoked high. "Don't break anything," he growled—half-warning, half-something else—eyes flicking to my nails—lingering—then up to my face—cutting deep—ice-blue burning into me like he could peel the lie back. Heat prickled—damn it, not now—my sweater clung tighter—nipples perking—traitors stirring—and I swallowed it—hard—smirking wider—cold inside—resolve locking tight like a vice around my ribs.

"Wouldn't dream of it," I purred—soft, fake—turning slow—giving him my back—hips swaying just enough—not too much—bare feet silent as I moved—shoulders loose, head high. "Night, tough guy," I tossed over my shoulder—voice steady—walking off—pulse hammering—cold, not hot—resolve like a blade in my gut—sharp, unyielding. He didn't move—felt his stare—heavy, cutting—ice-blue burning into my spine—but I didn't look—kept going—steps measured, grin splitting wide as I hit my room—door slamming shut behind me with a thud that rattled the frame.

I sumped against it—breath ragged—nails digging into the wood—gouging deep—hum buzzing louder—candle flame dancing wild on the dresser—shadows leaping like wolves on the hunt. "Fall for it, you bastard," I muttered—green eyes glaring at nothing—his grunt, his bulk, replaying sharp in my skull—leather creaking, scars flexing. My thighs clenched—damn him—but I shoved it deep—cold, not hot—resolve flaring bright. "Not real," I snarled—voice low, fierce—picturing him smug—then soft—keys dangling—guard down—freedom stretching wide and wild ahead. Step one—hook's in—next, reel him—gut him—watch him squirm. I laughed—low, rough—nails flexing—hum pulsing—and sank to the floor—back to the door—grinning into the dark.