Selene Jameson has always been the family stain, unwanted daughter, shadow to the golden children. The night her mother dies saving her life, Selene loses the only person who ever loved her. When Atlas D'Angelo, the boy she gave everything to, betrays her in the cruelest way possible, she vows never to beg for love again.

But fate has darker plans.
On the night Selene finally tastes freedom, fame, money, a future of her own her family sells her to a supernatural auction. She's thrust into a hidden world ruled by lycans who see humans as nothing more than commodity. 

Then he buys her.

Mikhail Morozov, Wintercrest Alpha and High Alpha of the Onyx Concord. Feared across Nocturna, Lycan Realm. With a shattered past, a missing sister, and a throne built on blood and betrayal, the last thing he needs is a defiant human girl with a sharp tongue and darker humor than his sins.

But Selene isn't human.

She bears the Crescent, a  mark of ancient power that could save the Nocturna or destroy it.

 When Kustav Volkov, a rival ruthless Alpha, is revealed to be Selene's father, he lays his claim on her.

Mikhail offers Selene a choice: marry him in a blood-bound pact that grants her protection under lycan law. 

But this marriage of convenience will be anything but convenient.

***

"And you smell good," I interrupted, words tumbling out before I could stop them. "Really good. Like winter but not the terrifying kind. The beautiful kind. With snow and—" I scrunched my nose, grasping for the description. "Those delicate frost patterns that appear on glass."

Mikhail produced a sound deep in his chest that could've been a growl or a chuckle or something caught between.
"Why are there two staircases?" I blurted suddenly, fixating on the duplicated grand stairway looming before us. "Is this intentional? Seems ridiculously excessive."

"There's only one staircase, moya."

"Are you certain? Because I'm definitely seeing two. Perhaps you require vision correction. Do lycans need glasses? That would be hilarious. Tiny spectacles perched on a massive terrifying wolf—"

"Selene." His voice emerged strained, taut in a manner that penetrated even through my fog. "You need to stop talking."

I peered up at him, hurt piercing through the pleasant haze. "Why? Am I irritating you? I'm sorry. I'll stay quiet."

"No." The word escaped sharp, nearly anguished. "You're not irritating me. You're—" He severed the sentence, jaw clenching so viciously I witnessed the muscle twitch. "Just... rest."

But I didn't want rest. I wanted to comprehend why his expression appeared like that—all rigid and ravenous and something else I couldn't identify.

"Are you alright?" I asked, raising my hand toward his jaw.

He intercepted my wrist before contact, his hold gentle yet unyielding. "Don't."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm barely maintaining control as it is, and if you touch me right now—" He halted abruptly, eyes compressing shut momentarily. "Just don't."

That should've frightened me. The ferocity in his tone, the way his restraint appeared to unravel at the seams.

But intoxicated-me simply smiled, inexplicably pleased.
Then I caught the way his gaze dropped. Just for a fraction of a heartbeat. To my mouth.
Heat bloomed through my chest, spreading like wildfire.

"You want to kiss me," I breathed, the revelation making me giddy.
His eyes snapped back to mine, glacial blue turned predatory. 

"Kissing," he said slowly, voice dropping an octave, "doesn't even begin to scratch the surface of what I want to do to you."

The air left my lungs.

His grip on my wrist shifted, thumb finding my pulse point. Pressing there. Feeling the frantic rhythm he'd caused.
"Kissing is gentle," he continued, leaning in just enough that his breath ghosted across my lips. Close enough to take. Close enough to claim. But he didn't. "Kissing is sweet. What I want?" His eyes dragged down my face, my throat, lower then back up with deliberate slowness. "There's nothing gentle about it."

​Ilya's eyes darkened, returning to their normal deep blue as that strange, prophetic quality vanished, replaced instantly by his usual controlled composure. He straightened slightly, the subtle shift in his posture suggesting he realized he had said—or perhaps revealed—too much.


​"I apologize, High Alpha," he said. "I got carried away."


​My eyes narrowed as I attempted to decipher exactly what was happening behind that calm facade. "Is there something you want to share, Ilya?" My voice was sharp, a warning in itself.


​"No, High Alpha," he replied, his expression remaining unreadable. "It is merely fatigue, and I assure you it won't affect my duties."


​I held his gaze for a long moment, but he didn't flinch or offer any further elaboration. Whatever he was hiding, he clearly had no intention of sharing it now. I would have to watch him closely—very closely.


​"See that it doesn't," I said finally, breaking the silence.


Chapter 64 - Arts