And then his hands began to move, down her sides, across the curve of her waist. Every touch ignited her skin, sent electricity tangling through her nerves, making it impossible to think. He lingered at the hem of her dress, tugging slightly.
"Mr. Blackwood, listen to me," she said, trying to regain some semblance of control. "I think there's been a big misunderstanding."
But her words barely left her lips before his hands slid higher, brushing over her ribs, tracing the slope of her sides, and drawing an involuntary shiver from her.
"Please," she whispered. Her hand froze halfway as his fingers moved, tracing paths she had never imagined, touching her in ways that made her shiver uncontrollably. Panic clashed with curiosity.
Her eyes darted instinctively toward the locked door. I could scream, she thought. But her mind immediately slammed against reality. One wrong move, one loud cry, and the fragile balance of her life could shatter.
Sera swallowed hard, forcing herself to focus.
Her gaze swept the room, desperate for a distraction, a tool, anything to reclaim a shred of control. But all she could see was him. And then his head dipped, and suddenly his lips were pressed against the thin fabric of her dress on her breast.
"Stop," she gasped, trying to assert herself, to create boundaries in the chaos.
And then, without intending to, she moved against him. Instinct took over—her hips brushed him just slightly, a small, unconscious shift, and she felt the reaction ripple through him. A guttural grunt vibrated against her skin.
"Yeah… like that," he murmured, breath warm against her chest.
"Shit," she muttered, hands shooting up instinctively.
And then she remembered the lamp. The bedside lamp, the one she had barely registered earlier. A surge of desperate clarity hit her.
Her fingers scrambled across the nightstand, searching, grasping, and then—she swung with every ounce of adrenaline, every flicker of panic and resolve.
The impact was solid, brutal. A dull, echoing thud reverberated through the room as the lamp connected with him. Eric let out a soft grunt, a single word leaving his lips: "Mate?"
And then—sudden silence. His body went slack.
Sera froze, her chest tightening, lungs constricting. "Mr. Blackwood?" she whispered. Her mind refused to process what had happened.
"Oh my God," she breathed, eyes wide. Her pulse raced uncontrollably. "I killed him. I actually killed Eric Blackwood!"
Panic clawed its way up her throat, and her hands shook violently as she shoved at him, desperate for movement. "Oh no, no, no," she babbled. "This cannot be happening!"
At first, her attempts were laughably futile. Eric was solid, uncooperative, every push against him met with the immovable weight of his body.
She braced her feet against the bedframe, pressing every ounce of her strength into the effort, muttering under her breath.
"Come on, come on, you infuriating Greek god impersonator, move!" she hissed, teeth clenched, arms trembling.
Gravity, mercifully, chose that moment to intervene. With a loud, heavy thud, Eric rolled off the bed, landing on the floor. Sera staggered back, chest heaving, hair falling into her eyes, trying to catch her ragged breath.
Sera winced, pressing a palm to her forehead. "Great. Just great," she muttered under her breath, staring down at Eric sprawled across the floor. "How many times am I going to kill the man in one morning? Nice going, Sera. Real smooth."
Her eyes flicked toward the door as if escape might somehow solve the problem. She buried her face in her hands, groaning theatrically. "Fantastic. The one time she actually lets me leave the house, I kill a Blackwood."
Despite herself, she leaned closer again, checking for a pulse. Her heart pounded so violently it nearly drowned out the sound of his steady breathing. Relief hit first—thank God, he was alive—but it was quickly replaced by an equally fierce panic.
Alive meant awake. Awake meant confrontation. Alive meant she'd have to explain why she had just assaulted the head of the most dangerous, most influential werewolf family in the city. The Blackwoods were royalty in this part of town.
Werewolf royalty. And I just smashed a lamp over his head.
Sera straightened abruptly, heart hammering, mind racing. Every instinct screamed at her to leave, vanish into the corridors of the estate, pretend the last few minutes hadn't happened.
But even as the thought of running flickered through her, she knew she couldn't. Not yet. She had to wait—for him to wake, for her to apologize, for her life to possibly implode in a single dramatic moment.
She sank to the floor beside him, knees drawn up, biting her lip, trying to imagine a scenario where she could explain herself without her mother's face flashing behind her eyes, or without the looming threat of the Blackwoods retaliating.
She counted silently, willing time to slow, every second stretching.
*****
Delilah's heels clicked against the driveway as she stepped out of the car, her nerves humming. Her aunt's presence was a warm pressure at her side, guiding her, reminding her of the stakes. This was it: Eric Blackwood.
Her pulse quickened at the thought that her aunt had orchestrated this meeting. Every detail had been meticulously planned.
"Behave, Delilah," Vivienne whispered. "Smile, be polite, and remember why we're here."
Delilah rolled her eyes discreetly. "Relax, Aunt Viv," she murmured. "I know how to make a good impression."
Vivienne had spent hours the night before coaching her on subtle flirtation that might charm a man like Eric Blackwood.
The door swung open before them, revealing the maid.
"This is Miss Duvall," Vivienne announced, chin raised. "I'm sure you know who I am."
The maid froze, eyes widening. "Miss… miss Duvall?" she stammered, gaze flicking between Delilah and Vivienne. "Then who…?"
Vivienne's patience thinned visibly. "Will you quit all the mumbling and let us in?" she snapped. "Where is Mrs. Blackwood? I have no patience for this kind of incompetence."
The maid wrung her hands, eyes darting nervously around the hall. "Mrs. Thorne, I—I… there must be a mistake—"