Between the lines and lies

The bed was soft. Familiar. A little too soft, actually—like expensive silk, the kind she always told herself she'd splurge on after she finished her next draft.

A soft breeze whispered through the room, brushing against her bare arms, and somewhere in the fog between dream and waking, Lena made a mental note to turn the damn AC off when she got up. Too cold. Way too cold.

Still half-asleep, Lena shifted, rolling onto her side. The stiff weight of the villainess gown was gone. No corset, no blood crusted on her sleeves. 

Her body felt light. Normal. Familiar.

Safe.

A sigh slipped out of her as tension drained from her limbs.

Maybe it really had been a dream. The palace. The battle. The tower full of angry, too-handsome men. Maybe her brain had finally snapped from all the late nights and caffeine and thrown her into some twisted hallucination. It wouldn't be the first time she'd passed out at her laptop and woken up thinking she was in a war zone.

She felt at home now. 

Just her body. Her bed. Her world.

She turned again, a sleepy smile tugging at her lips.

Still… they had been hot. Ronan with those wild eyes. Dante with that voice. Kael's smirk. Elias's sharp stare.

God, she'd written them way too well.

Her smile deepened as her thoughts wandered—not to the chains or the hatred or the blood, but to the what ifs. What if they hadn't been enemies? What if they'd wanted her? Claimed her? She pressed her thighs together, a slow heat building low in her belly.

She clenched.

Okay. That was not appropriate for a dream you're trying to wake up from.

But she couldn't stop imagining it—Ronan dragging his claws down her spine, Dante's mouth teasing her neck, Kael whispering filthy promises in her ear while Elias just watched with those unblinking eyes.

She shifted again, her breath catching.

And then— a low growl reverberated in the room.

Not in her head.

Not imagined.

Real.

And she knew her cat— cray cray don't growl.

Her eyes flew open.

And the first thing she saw was a canopy.

Crimson silk. Draped above her like royalty.

She blinked. Frowned.

What the…?

She didn't own a canopy. She definitely didn't remember installing one in her room. And her sheets had never been this smooth, or this dark.

Lena shot upright, her heart hammering in her chest, eyes darting around the room. The first thing that caught her attention was them. The four men.

Unchained.

They stood in the shadows, looking as dangerous and breathtaking as ever. Ronan was leaning against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, his muscles straining beneath his dark shirt, eyes glowing with restrained fury. Kael stood near the doorway, his stance casual but his smirk was gone—replaced with a cold calculation as he watched her, every inch of him poised to spring into action if needed.

Dante was just as imposing, his tall figure looming near the edge of the room, fingers tapping slowly against the hilt of a sword that Lena hadn't noticed before. His cold gaze flicked over her with an unreadable expression, and Lena couldn't tell if he was sizing her up or if he was simply waiting for her to make the first move.

But it was Elias who truly caught her attention.

He was standing closest to her, dagger in hand, spinning it casually between his fingers as his eyes traced her every movement. There was a quiet, deadly thrill in the way he handled the weapon, and his sharp gaze never left her face. He might as well have been toying with her life, and Lena could almost feel the weight of the threat in the air.

Despite their obvious animosity, despite the scathing looks they threw her way, they were all undeniably… beautiful. Dangerously so.

Her stomach clenched, and she forced herself to look away, suddenly very aware of how exposed she felt.

So this wasn't all a dream after all.

Lena's heart raced as she glanced down at herself. The thick, dark garment she'd worn before—Selene's gown, bloodstained and heavy—was gone. In its place was something much lighter, much softer. 

A silk robe, the color of midnight, clung to her body in a way that felt almost… luxurious. She could feel the delicate fabric shift with her every movement, its smoothness at odds with the tension tightening in the room.

Her mind spun, trying to piece together what had happened. The last thing she remembered was passing out, but beyond that, there was a blur. Had they changed her? The thought made her stomach twist, and she shot an accusatory look at the men.

Just as her gaze flicked from one to the other, the hunter closest to her—Elias—spoke.

"Ronan couldn't carry you with all of that, so he stripped you. Luckily for you, you had that on."

She opened her mouth to say something—anything—but nothing came out. Her lips parted, then closed again. What was she supposed to say? Thank you for not killing me? For changing my clothes? For not snapping my neck the second I woke up?

They were watching her too closely. Waiting. Measuring. It wasn't just suspicion in their eyes—it was calculation. Like they were holding off for one reason only: to see if she slipped. To see if she'd say something Selene would say.

That's why they hadn't struck yet.

The realization settled heavily on her. They were unchained. Free. That should've terrified her more, but in truth, she hadn't even considered the logistics of it when she wrote the story. She'd never cared enough about the villainess to give her depth. No backstory. No daily tower routines. No security. Just chains, shadows, and rage.

Now she was living in the gaps.

Lena's throat felt tight. This was a test, even if no one had said it out loud. A puzzle she had no clues for. And the worst part? She had the sinking feeling that whatever move she made next—whatever word she said—might decide whether she lived or died.

Lena stared at the sheet and slowly wrapped it around her chest, shuddering a little.

Not from the cold. From them. From the silence. From the weight of all the things unsaid.

But the motion—that small, deliberate act—was meant to give them something to think about. Maybe distract them. Maybe buy her time.

She glanced down again. Sheets. A bed. A silk robe.

She never wrote any of that into the tower.

Then it clicked.

How exactly had the men survived this long? And looked that good? Strong. Healthy. Not broken or feral or filthy. They were chained. Supposedly starved of sunlight, of freedom, of everything. But their bodies said otherwise. Like they'd been fed. Cleaned. Maintained.

There were gaps in the story. Parts she never wrote. Details she skimmed over because Selene didn't care—and Lena, as the writer, didn't bother. She didn't build the day-to-day life of the tower, didn't map out who brought food, where they slept, how they healed. She hadn't given it a second thought.

But the story filled in the blanks.

The tower filled in the blanks.

There was intelligence here. Routine. Order. The sheets. The robe. The silence. All of it pointed to something else pulling strings while Selene was away.

And then she remembered: Selene never stayed past midnight.

Not once.

Lena hadn't questioned that when she wrote it. Just wrote it as a line of behavior—villain comes, monologues, tortures, leaves. But now, sitting here, it made sense. That was the limit. That was when the tower let them go. Set them free.

Let the real monsters out.

And yet Selene had always been untouched. Untouched—because she never stayed too long.

The tower didn't just hold them.

It controlled them.

It returned them to their chains before morning. Hid the truth. Kept up the illusion.

And they knew.

They had to know.

That's why they weren't attacking now. That's why they stood there, still, quiet, waiting. Because Selene never woke up in the tower. Nor would she ever sleep there. 

They were watching her now, not with certainty, but with suspicion. With hope.

Hope that she was Selene.

So they could justify killing her.

But her hesitation—her confusion—had given them pause.

And that made them wait. Watching for a crack. Waiting for proof.

This was their one chance.

And Lena finally understood why she was still alive.

"Please, stop staring at me like that," Lena suddenly blurted. Her voice was deliberately light, even teasing, as she tried subtly but naturally to derail their thoughts from thinking she was Selene. 

She wrapped the sheet tighter around her, trying to regain some semblance of control over her body and the situation.

"My body… you make me—" she hesitated, blinking as the words tumbled out, unbidden. "You make me horny."

The moment the words left her mouth, she froze, realizing how absurd and inappropriate they were. Her face flushed crimson, and before any of them could respond, she quickly yanked the sheet up to cover her face.

Her emotions were real—so was her arousal.

But that didn't mean she was truly embarrassed. She just wanted them to believe she was. And with the sound of their footsteps retreating, she knew they had.

As she slowly let the bed sheet slip from her fingers, a bitter truth settled in her chest.

She wasn't different from Selene. 

No—she was worse.

 Selene had been created by her to do what she does, but Lena… Lena had been born with this.