Chapter 1

Catherine's Pov 

"I could f*ck you better than your husband though.” He smirks, swirling his drink lazily in his hand like he’s already won. “All you need is to say yes.”

I tear my gaze away from the stranger and stare down at the crowd below. The music pulses louder, the bass thrumming through the floorboards, vibrating under my feet. My head is fuzzy from the wine, just enough to blur the edges of the room but not enough to drown out the humiliationa festering in my chest.  

It’s stupid, but for a second, I feel like I know him. We’ve been out here for what—twenty minutes? Half an hour? Long enough to share a cigarette, to talk about nothing and everything. Long enough for it to already be more than Evander’s given me in three years of marriage.  

Tonight, Evander’s hosting another one of his stupid galas. This time, it’s to celebrate the return of his long-lost adoptive son—some relic from his first wife, the one who actually mattered. The one who left him. And yet, here I am, the replacement no one wanted, shoved into the background like a stain on the wallpaper.  

I’m not even supposed to be here. Normally, I’m locked away during public events, too human to be paraded around with the rest of his perfect werewolf court. But tonight, he let me stay,only to spend the entire evening ignoring me while Regina, his precious Luna and second bride, hangs off his arm like she owns him. Maybe she does.  

I’m just the debt he collected. The human he married to settle a score with my dead father. Three years of being his trophy, his experiment, his punching bag. Three years of losing pieces of myself every time he looks at me like I’m something he scraped off his shoe.  

That’s why I escaped to the balcony. That’s why I was halfway to drunk when this stranger showed up with a bottle of wine and a smirk. I refused at first, but then he started talking about the weather like it mattered, like I mattered, and suddenly I didn’t want to leave.  

Now, I blink up at him. He’s handsome—annoyingly so. Sharp jaw, dark eyes, a silver hoop glinting in his ear under the dim balcony light. His white shirt is crisp, tucked neatly into black trousers held up by suspenders that match his messy curls. There’s something familiar about his voice, the way it curls around words like he’s laughing at a joke only he gets.  

“It’s not about sex. I hate sex,” I mutter, pushing off the railing and stalking back into the room. The air inside is thick with perfume and sweat, the scent of wolves and wine cloying in my throat.  

“Why?” He follows me without hesitation, setting his glass down on a side table with a quiet clink.

I drop onto the couch, exhaustion weighing me down. “It’s painful. I hate pain. Sometimes he uses paddles, cuffs, chains—like I’m some kind of toy he gets to break.” The words spill out before I can stop them. I’ve never said it out loud before. Never admitted how much it hurts.  

“So you don’t like BDSM, then?” He tilts his head, that damn smirk still playing on his lips.  

“I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed it. The others do, though.” The others. His wives, his concubines, the women who actually want him. “They’re disgusting,” I add with a scoff. “Begging for more, like they’re starving for it.”

“That’s because they enjoy it.” He shrugs like it’s that simple.  

“But I don’t. And he doesn’t care. He’s never even said he loves me. I don’t think that’s how marriage is supposed to be.” The words taste bitter.  

“I don’t know. I’m not married.” His grin widens as he shrugs.

I kick off my heels with a sigh, running a hand through my hair. It’s long, black, falling over my shoulders in waves. I spent hours trying to look good tonight,picked a dress that hugged my curves, did my makeup just right, only for Evander to take one look at me and call me a slut in front of his friends.  

“But I know,” the stranger says, softer now, biting his lower lip like he’s holding back a laugh. “If I had a wife like you, she wouldn’t be able to walk every morning.”

“You’re being nasty. And too soft.” I roll my eyes, tipping my head back against the couch to hide the heat creeping up my neck.  

It’s ridiculous. I’m telling him things I’ve never told anyone. Letting out the ugly, festering thoughts I’ve kept locked away because there’s no one else to listen. No friends, no family, no one who gives a damn.  

“Maybe it’s because you deserve to be treated softly,” he murmurs.  

Softly. The word sticks in my chest. No one’s ever treated me softly. Not my parents, who died before I could remember them. Not the shelter, where I grew up learning how to survive. And definitely not Evander, who took me at eighteen like I was just another transaction.  

I don’t even know how to respond.  

Slowly, he kneels before me, his broad shoulders swallowing the space between us. His hands glide up my thighs with deliberate, featherlight touches, so slow it’s maddening. Every inch of my skin prickles under his fingers, the rough pads of his calloused hands dragging against my softness, igniting something deep and primal inside me.  

I shouldn’t want this. I don’t want this, at least, that’s what I tell myself. But my body betrays me, trembling under his touch like it’s been starved for it.  

When I finally meet his gaze, those blue eyes hold me captive, tender yet hungry, like he wants to savor every second of this. My breath hitches as his thumb brushes over the damp fabric of my panties, the lightest touch sending electric shocks straight to my core.  

“Has he ever touched you like this?” His voice is gravelly, rough with something that makes my stomach tighten. His fingers hook into the waistband, peeling the fabric down with agonizing patience, like he’s unwrapping something precious.  

The cool air hits my heated skin, and I shudder. Then his thumb finds my bare folds, stroking through the slickness already gathering there. A whimper escapes my lips before I can stop it, my hips lifting instinctively toward his touch.  

Pathetic. That’s what Evander would call me if he saw me like this; writhing under a stranger’s hands like some desperate whore. But I can’t help it. This isn’t the harsh, clinical fucking I’m used to. This is slow. This is maddening. This is insatiable.

“Look at you,” he breathes, circling me with just enough pressure to make my thighs shake. “So responsive… so perfect.”

Perfect. The word lodges in my chest. Evander has never called me that. He’s never said anything like this to me in bed. He’s vulgar, harsh, dominant, he takes what he wants while I lay there, silent, waiting for it to be over. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I bite my lip until it bleeds. But this?  

This is different.  

This is soft.

And it’s unraveling me.  

When he finally slips a finger inside, curling it just right, my back arches off the couch as pleasure rips through me. A broken sound tears from my throat—something between a gasp and a sob—as he adds another finger, working me at a relentless, perfect pace. My hands claw at the couch, the fabric bunching under my fingers as the pleasure builds, sharp and overwhelming.  

The music downstairs thrums louder, drowning out my cries just as the wave crashes over me. My body locks up, pleasure coursing through me so violently I see stars. For a second, the world whites out.  

Then I’m collapsing back onto the couch, breathless, ruined.

I’ve never felt this before. Never had an organsm in the most cliche way like this. Evander said I'm a broken woman and his daughters call me a man but now, a stranger was licking off my juices from his hands. It’s terrifyingly addicting. And when I blink up at him, dazed, craving for more. 

He doesn’t wait for the aftershocks to fade. His hands are already on me, helping me pull my dress over my head. I follow his lead, desperate, craving, my skin still buzzing from the high. His fingers make quick work of my bra, freeing my breasts before his palms knead them gently.  

“Has he touched you like this before?”

No. Never. Evander gropes, bites, hurts.

Then his mouth is on me, his tongue circling my nipple before grazing it with his teeth. A moan spills from my lips, my toes curling into the couch as pleasure sparks through me again. His open-mouthed kisses trail up my chest, my throat, before finally capturing my lips in a kiss so soft it aches. 

I brush aside memories of Evander's kisses which are usually  rough demanding, bruising, and empty. But this man kisses me like he’s teaching me how to breathe. His mouth moves against mine in a slow, intoxicating rhythm, his tongue exploring, claiming, until I’m clutching him like he’s the only thing keeping me grounded.  

I can taste the tobacco and red wine on his tongue, the blend heady and intoxicating. My stomach is warm, heat pooling between my legs again, and I can’t stop the needy sounds slipping from my lips.  

“You taste divine,” he groans, his hands cupping my face like I’m something fragile.  

I can feel his growing length pressing against my thigh, hard and insistent, and without thinking, I slide my hands around his neck, pulling him closer.  

I don’t know what this is.  

I don’t care.  

For the first time in years, I feel alive.

The sharp knock makes me jerk away from him so fast I nearly stumble. My heart pounds violently against my ribs as reality comes crashing back.

"Catherine!" Gen's shrill voice cuts through the door, followed by the rattling of the doorknob. The lock holds and let out a sigh of relief just as she curses under her breath, she's the head maid and possibly the head of my hate club.

I stare at the man in front of me as the alcohol haze lifts, leaving cold dread in its place. My fingers fumble with my dress, yanking it down over my hips. The panties take two tries to pull up properly - my hands won't stop shaking. He just watches me with those dark eyes, looking far too amused for the situation.

"You look so hot right now," he smirks, running a hand through his messy hair like we're not seconds from disaster.

"No...please stop," I hiss, scanning the room desperately. "Hide somewhere or something. I don't want her to see you here."

Hide where? The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. I just cheated on Evander. With who? Someone who works for him? Someone who'll tell him? What the hell was I thinking?

"Catherine!" Gen's voice turns sharp, accompanied by louder banging. "Open this door immediately!"

"I'm coming!" My voice cracks. A glance in the mirror shows smeared makeup, swollen lips, hair in complete disarray. I'll say I was crying. Not exactly a lie these days.

The door swings open and pain explodes across my cheek before I can speak. My head snaps to the side from the force of Gen's slap.

"Why would you take so long?" she shrieks, her face twisted in anger. "Do you know how long I've been waiting out here?" 

I press a hand to my stinging cheek, staring at the floor as a throbbing headache starts behind my eyes. "I'm sorry, I-"

"And why would you hit her?" 

That voice in a deep, dangerous form comes from right behind me. His presence fills the doorway, one arm braced against the frame. My blood turns to ice. I'm dead. I'm so completely dead I can already smell the dirt they'll bury me in.

"Y-your Highness!" Gen's voice jumps two octaves. She stumbles back a step. "I didn't...I didn't know you were here. Why are you-"

He cuts her off with a look that could melt steel. The sheer fury in his expression makes even me shrink back.

Your Highness?

"I had no idea it was suddenly a crime to see my stepmother," he says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

Stepmother. 

No. 

Goodness, no.