Chapter 2 Settling In #2
After breakfast, I left Selene to whatever mysterious witch business she had to attend to and set out to explore the manor on my own.
The common areas were easy enough to find—the library was a cathedral of books, with floor-to-ceiling shelves and rolling ladders and cozy reading nooks tucked into every corner.
I spotted Azrael in one of them, a massive leather-bound tome open in his lap, his white hair catching the light like spun silver.
He glanced up as I passed, and our eyes met for a fraction of a second.
Something flickered in his golden gaze—recognition, curiosity, maybe even warmth—before he returned to his reading.
I didn't interrupt him. Something told me Azrael was best approached slowly, like a wild animal that might spook if you moved too fast.
The greenhouse was next, a sprawling glass structure attached to the south wing.
Inside, the air was warm and humid and thick with the scent of living things.
Rows of plants stretched in every direction—some ordinary, some distinctly not.
I recognized rosemary and lavender and mint, but there were also flowers that glowed faintly blue, vines that seemed to sway without any breeze, and a small tree with silver bark and leaves that chimed softly when I brushed against them.
A woman I didn't recognize was tending to a bed of blood-red flowers near the back. She looked up and gave me a polite nod, but didn't speak. Staff, probably. Selene had mentioned that the manor employed a number of people—some human, some not—who kept things running smoothly.
I wandered back inside and found myself in a sitting room off the main hall.
It was dark and heavy, furnished with black leather sofas and dark wood tables, the curtains drawn tight against the morning sun.
A massive ashtray on the coffee table held the remnants of what looked like burned paperwork.
The air smelled faintly of smoke and old magic.
It was, in short, depressing as hell.
"This place needs help," I muttered, looking around. "It's like a vampire's man cave. Which, I guess, it literally is."
An idea sparked. A terrible, wonderful, absolutely chaotic idea.
I spent the next hour raiding every storage closet I could find.
Selene had said the manor's common areas were mine to explore, and I took that as permission to improve.
I found soft blankets in rich jewel tones, dusty but salvageable.
I found throw pillows in burgundy and navy and gold, abandoned in a trunk in a forgotten corner.
I found a set of airy cream curtains in a linen closet, still wrapped in paper, and I dragged them to the sitting room along with everything else.
By the time I was done, the room was transformed.
The heavy drapes were tied back, letting sunlight stream through the windows.
The black leather sofas were softened with colorful blankets and plush pillows.
I'd found a few candles—normal ones, not the magical kind—and arranged them on the coffee table and mantelpiece.
I even managed to wrestle a vase of fresh flowers from the greenhouse (the staff woman had given me a bemused look but hadn't stopped me) and placed it on a side table.
It wasn't perfect. It was mismatched and slightly chaotic and definitely not what the original decorator had intended. But it felt warm. It felt lived-in. It felt like someone actually gave a damn about the space.
I was standing back, admiring my handiwork, when a voice behind me said, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
I spun around. Lucien stood in the doorway, arms crossed, scowl firmly in place.
He was wearing a black t-shirt that clung to every ridge of muscle and dark jeans that sat low on his hips.
His hair was damp, like he'd just showered, and the scent of him—leather and steel and that wild, rain-soaked forest smell—hit me like a physical wave.
"Decorating," I said, refusing to let him see how much he affected me. "This room was depressing. Now it's cozy. You're welcome."
His amber eyes swept over the room, taking in the pastel pillows, the floral blanket, the cheerful candles. His scowl deepened. "You're making it ugly."
"I'm making it livable. You guys act like you enjoy living in a crypt."
"Darius didn't authorize this."
"Darius didn't forbid it, either." I crossed my arms, mirroring his posture. "Selene said I could explore the common areas. This is a common area. I'm exploring it. Creatively."
He took a step into the room, and the air shifted. It was subtle—a thickening of the atmosphere, a charge that made the hair on my arms stand up. His eyes never left mine, and there was something in them now that hadn't been there a moment ago. Something dark and hungry and barely leashed.
"You think you can just waltz in here and change everything," he said, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "Rearrange our home like you belong here."
"I was told I'm staying indefinitely. That makes this my home too, at least for now." I lifted my chin. "I'm not going to apologize for making it feel less like a funeral parlor."
He moved then—fast, too fast, that supernatural speed that blurred the line between standing still and being right there. Before I could react, he had me backed against the wall, one hand braced beside my head, his body a wall of heat inches from mine.
"You don't belong here," he growled, and the sound vibrated through my chest, settled low in my belly. "You're human. Fragile. Breakable. This world will chew you up and spit you out, and you're standing here putting pastel pillows on my furniture like it's a game."
My heart was pounding. My breath was coming fast. And beneath the fear—because yes, there was fear, he was a werewolf and he could kill me without breaking a sweat—there was something else. Something hot and liquid and utterly infuriating.
"Make me stop," I whispered.
His eyes flared. His nostrils flared. I watched him scent me, watched his pupils dilate as he caught the evidence of my arousal—because yes, I was aroused, God help me, I was soaked and aching and he could probably smell every drop of it.
"You don't know what you're asking for," he rasped.
"I know exactly what I'm asking for." I held his gaze, refusing to look away. "You've been looking at me like you want to devour me since last night. So do it. Or stop posturing and let me decorate in peace."
Something snapped.
His hand came up and wrapped around my throat.
His thumb traced the line of my jaw, and I felt the sharp edge of a claw barely sheathed.
One wrong move and he could open my artery.
Instead, he pressed closer, his hips pinning mine to the wall, and I felt the hard ridge of his erection through his jeans.
"This is what you do to me," he snarled, grinding against me once, twice. The friction sent sparks shooting through my core, and I gasped, my hands flying up to grip his shoulders. "I can smell how wet you are. I can hear your heart racing. You want this."
"Yes," I breathed, because there was no point denying it. "I want this."
He made a sound—half growl, half groan—and rutted against me with a desperate, feral rhythm.
His hips rolled into mine, the rough denim scraping against the thin fabric of my leggings, and I could feel every inch of him, hot and hard and big.
His hand tightened on my throat, just enough to make my head spin, and his other hand gripped my hip hard enough to bruise.
"Look at you," he rasped, his lips brushing my ear. "So desperate for it. So eager. You'd let me take you right here against this wall, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," I gasped again, because I would. God help me, I absolutely would.
He thrust against me harder, faster, his breathing ragged. I could feel the tension coiling in his body, the barely contained violence of his need. He was holding back—I could sense it, the way his muscles trembled with the effort of not simply tearing my clothes off and taking—
And then, as suddenly as it started, he stopped.
He pulled back, his hand dropping from my throat, his body retreating until there was a foot of cold air between us.
His chest was heaving. His eyes were wild, amber bleeding into something darker.
And his jeans were visibly tented, a damp spot forming where his arousal had pressed against the denim.
"This was a mistake," he said, his voice rough and broken. "You're a mistake."
Before I could respond—before I could even catch my breath—he turned and stalked out of the room, leaving me slumped against the wall, my body trembling, my core aching, my leggings absolutely soaked.
I stood there for a long moment, trying to remember how to breathe. My throat felt warm where his hand had been. My hips throbbed where his fingers had dug in. And between my legs, I was a mess of unfulfilled need and furious frustration.
He left me like this, I thought, anger rising to mix with the arousal. He ground against me like an animal in heat and then just... walked away.
I pushed off the wall, my legs unsteady. My reflection in a nearby mirror showed a woman with flushed cheeks and eyes that were too bright, too wild. I looked thoroughly debauched, and he hadn't even touched me properly.
I was going to kill him.
Or kiss him.
Or both.
Probably both.
I made my way back to the kitchen on autopilot, needing something—anything—to ground me.
The manor was quiet, the other residents apparently occupied elsewhere.
I found a tin of cookies in the pantry—oatmeal raisin, surprisingly normal—and was warming a few in the oven when I heard footsteps behind me.
I didn't turn around. I knew who it was. I could smell him—leather and steel and that wild forest scent, now layered with something muskier, something that made my thighs clench.
"You're still here," he said flatly.
"Where else would I be?" I pulled the cookies out of the oven and placed them on a plate. "You made it very clear I can't leave."
Silence. I could feel his gaze on my back, heavy and hot.
Finally, I turned and held out a cookie. "Here. You look like you need it."
He stared at the cookie like I was offering him poison. "What is this?"
"Oatmeal raisin. I found them in the pantry. They're good, actually—I had one earlier." When he didn't move, I stepped closer and pressed the cookie into his hand. "Every time you threaten me, I feel compelled to feed you. I don't know why. Maybe it's a defense mechanism."
He looked down at the cookie, then back at me. The wildness in his eyes had faded slightly, replaced by something that might have been confusion. Or maybe exhaustion. "You're insane."
"Probably." I picked up my own cookie and took a bite. "But I'm also stuck here, and I refuse to spend my days cowering in fear. So if you're going to keep cornering me and grinding against me and then running away, the least you can do is accept a cookie as payment for the emotional whiplash."
He made a sound that might have been a laugh—cut off so quickly I almost missed it. Then, slowly, he lifted the cookie and took a bite. His expression shifted as he chewed, surprise flickering across his features before he schooled them back into neutrality.
"It's not poisoned," I said. "I'm not that creative."
He finished the cookie in two more bites, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
His eyes met mine, and for a moment, the tension between us shifted.
It was still there—the heat, the hunger, the dangerous edge—but underneath it, something else was stirring.
Something that felt almost like... recognition.
"You confuse me," he said finally, his voice low. "I don't like being confused."
"Then figure me out." I shrugged. "I'm not going anywhere."
He held my gaze for a long, breathless moment. Then he turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.
I watched him go, my heart pounding, my body still aching from his touch, my mind spinning with the impossibility of everything that had just happened.
I'd been in this manor for less than a day, and I'd already been threatened with a knife, pinned to a wall, dry-humped by a werewolf, and abandoned mid-foreplay. And somehow, impossibly, I wanted more.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I didn't have an answer. But as I finished my cookie and stared at the empty doorway where Lucien had disappeared, I realized I didn't particularly care.
I was in over my head, surrounded by monsters, and absolutely, catastrophically turned on.
And tomorrow, I was going to find out just how far I could push them all.