chapter 3

After walking me safely to the front door, Lucian turned to leave.

I didn’t fully understand the sudden emptiness that washed over me, or why the thought of him walking away made my chest tighten.

“Lucian,” I called.

He stopped and looked back. Those stunning eyes found mine again, steady and warm in the bright afternoon light.

“Yes, Eleanor?”

“Would you… like a glass of water? As a thank-you. Before you go.”

A soft smile curved his mouth. “Yes, please.”

He followed me inside. I gestured toward the living-room couch, and he sat while I poured him a glass from the kitchen. When I handed it to him, his fingers brushed mine for the briefest second—warm, steady, almost reassuring.

“Thank you,” he said. “You’re very sweet.”

“You’re welcome.”

He glanced around the room, taking in the soft light spilling through the windows and the quiet order of our home. “You have a beautiful house.”

“Thank you.” I hesitated, then added quickly, almost shyly, “Don’t leave just yet. I’ll be right back.”

I was so happy to finally have someone to talk to—someone who had shown me genuine kindness—that everything else seemed to fade away. All I wanted was to give him something in return for making me feel a little less alone.

I hurried upstairs to my room, grabbed the little bunny key holder I kept on my desk, and rushed back downstairs.

I held it out to him with both hands. “This is for you. For taking me home safely. Thank you. I won’t forget it.”

He turned the small keychain over in his palm, studying the soft fabric ears and the tiny stitched smile. “It’s beautiful,” he said quietly. Then he looked up and smiled again. “Indeed.”

Just then the front door opened.

My father stepped inside, grocery bags heavy in his arms. He stopped mid-stride, nose wrinkling as if something foul had hit him the moment the door closed.

“Eleanor—what’s that smell?” His voice was sharp, almost disgusted. Then his eyes landed on Lucian.

The bags slipped from his hands and hit the floor with a dull thud. Apples and cans rolled across the entryway.

“So you’re the smelly thing in my house,” my father said coldly, staring at the man on our couch.

I turned toward Lucian.

He was already on his feet. The easy warmth I had seen in him only moments earlier was gone. His breathing had deepened, each inhale controlled and heavy. Thick, dark claws pushed slowly from his fingertips with a soft, wet sound. The veins along his hands and forearms stood out hard beneath his skin. His expression had changed completely—sharp, controlled, dangerous.

My stomach dropped. I nearly staggered.

“You’re the only one who smells rotten in here, traitor,” Lucian answered, voice low and rough.

“Eleanor.” My father’s tone left no room for argument. “Go upstairs. Now.”

I nodded automatically, but my eyes stayed locked on Lucian. His irises had shifted—no longer the soft blue I remembered, but a molten gold that glowed even in the daylight. His brow had grown heavier, more pronounced. The transformation was only partial, yet it was enough to steal the breath from my lungs.

Disbelief crashed through me. My father had always been strict about strangers. How could I have invited this… this monster into our home?

Something flickered across Lucian’s face when our eyes met—almost like regret, or pain—before it hardened again. He turned fully toward my father.

I bolted up the stairs, heart hammering against my ribs. Halfway up I stopped, one hand gripping the banister so tightly my knuckles ached. No. This was my fault. I had brought him into our house. I couldn’t just hide.

I spun and ran back down, then straight into the kitchen. My hands shook so hard I almost dropped the first knife I found. The metal felt cold and wrong against my palm. I moved toward the living room and stopped just inside the doorway.

I froze.

My father stood facing Lucian, his own transformation already underway. Thick, curved claws had forced their way from his fingers. His eyes burned a deep, furious red. His brows had grown heavier, his breathing ragged and animal. The man who had raised me, who had always smelled of soap and old books, stood there barely human.

“Leave,” my father growled, the word rough and strained. “I’ve lived in peace here. I do no harm to anyone.”

Lucian’s voice was ice. “You’re still a traitor. You tried to kill your Alpha. Do I need to remind you what the consequence is?”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

“Death.”

Lucian launched himself forward without hesitation.

I remained frozen in the doorway, the knife trembling in my grip as I watched the two of them collide.

I couldn’t breathe.

Before my eyes, they had both finished transforming into something no longer human. Something wild and terrifying.

The knife slipped from my numb fingers and clattered against the floor, but I barely heard the sound.

They crashed into each other with a force that shook the room—snarling, biting, tearing. Claws raked across flesh. Teeth sank deep. Blood sprayed across the walls and the furniture I had grown up with. The soft living room that once smelled of books and laundry now reeked of iron and animal rage.

I couldn’t believe it.

My father was a werewolf.

Just like Lucian.

I had heard stories once or twice, the kind adults told to frighten children, and I had always brushed them aside. Things like that couldn’t possibly be real, just as my father had always told me.

Yet here they were.

Two monsters, locked in a brutal fight right before my eyes.

The sweetest man I knew—the one who read me stories every night and played with me whenever I was bored—had become something else entirely. The sight alone nearly dropped me to my knees. I clutched my chest as if I could hold my heart in place. It felt ready to explode from the pain and the betrayal.

Lucian was stronger. Faster. More ruthless.

He drove my father to the floor and sank his teeth into his throat one final time. My father’s scream tore through the house—raw, human, and agonizing—as his body began to shift back. The claws receded. The red faded from his eyes. He lay there broken and still, blood pooling beneath him.

Lucian straightened. His own transformation reversed more slowly. Blood covered his chest and arms. His clothes hung in ruined strips. When he turned toward me, the golden glow was already fading from his eyes, but the look that replaced it was worse.

He walked up to me, still breathing hard, and smiled—a wicked, satisfied curve of the mouth.

“We will meet again, Eleanor.”

---

I jolted awake with a sharp gasp, lungs burning, heart slamming against my ribs.

The nightmare still clung to me like wet cloth—but the weight on the couch was real.

Lucian was there.

He was on me, one knee braced between my legs, his body caging mine against the cushions. His eyes were dark with something that looked like lust and something colder that looked like possession. His lips were slightly parted, faintly wet. His arms were strong and unyielding around me, holding me in place as if I already belonged to him.

My pulse raced so hard I could feel it in my throat.

“Dreaming about me?” he asked, voice low and almost amused.

“Lucian—” I whispered, the name escaping before I could stop it.

He smiled.

Before I could say another word he pressed a white handkerchief firmly over my mouth and nose. The sweet, chemical scent flooded my senses. I tried to turn my head, tried to push him away, but his grip was iron. My vision swam. The edges of the room began to blur.

I could only watch him as he looked down at me, that same cruel, patient smile on his face.

“What I want,” he said softly, “I get.”

Then darkness swallowed me whole