Sleep didn't come. How could it? My mind was a chaotic whirlwind, spinning around a single, impossible word: werewolves.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it. The sickening, unnatural shift of Damien's body. The feral, golden glow in his eyes. And with that image came the more painful one: Julian. Julian, laughing with me on the beach. Julian, kissing me under the stars. Julian, a monster hiding in plain sight for five years. The lies, the disappearances, the flashes of temper—it all clicked into place, a horrifying mosaic of deceit. I had been his pet. His human plaything.
The humiliation burned hotter than the heartbreak.
I must have fallen into an exhausted stupor at some point, because I was startled awake by a soft, insistent ringing. I sat up, disoriented. The sound was coming from a sleek, black phone sitting on the bedside table, a phone that definitely hadn't been there when I went to sleep.
The screen lit up with a name that made my blood run cold. Julian.
My first instinct was to ignore it. To throw the phone against the wall. But a stronger, angrier impulse took over. He didn't get to just call me. He didn't get to pretend like nothing had happened. I snatched the phone and answered, my voice tight. "What do you want?"
"Claire? Finally!" His voice was a mixture of relief and irritation. "Where the hell are you? I've been calling your phone for hours, it just goes straight to voicemail. I've been worried sick."
"Worried?" I laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "Don't lie, Julian. It doesn't suit you. Oh, wait," I corrected myself, venom dripping from every word, "it suits you perfectly."
There was a pause. "Look, about last night," he said, his tone shifting to one of strained patience. "You're overreacting. It was a stupid misunderstanding. Tiffany doesn't mean anything to me, you know that."
"The only misunderstanding was me thinking you were a decent human being for five years," I shot back. "Turns out I was wrong on both counts."
"What is that supposed to mean?" he demanded, his anger flaring. "Don't be so dramatic. Just tell me where you are. Did you go to your grandfather's? I'll come get you and we can talk this out."
"There's nothing to talk about. We're done. Is that simple enough for your tiny, self-obsessed brain to understand?"
"Done?" He scoffed, his voice filled with disbelief, as if I didn't have the right to end things. "You can't be done with me. After everything I've given you? You're throwing it all away over one little mistake? Serafina was right, you're just being insecure."
The mention of another woman's name was the final straw. "You listen to me," I hissed, my voice low and shaking with rage. "You are a liar and a cheater, and I want nothing to do with you ever again. Lose this number. Forget my name. And stay the hell away from me."
Before he could respond, I ended the call and slammed the phone down on the nightstand, my entire body trembling. The nerve of him. The absolute, unmitigated arrogance.
The door opened without a knock. Edgar entered, his expression as placid as ever.
“Mr. Blackwood is having breakfast in the dining room,” he informed me gently. “He requests your presence.”
It wasn’t a request. I knew that. It was a summons.
My stomach was a knot of anxiety as I walked down the sweeping grand staircase. The manor was even more intimidating in the daylight, filled with priceless art and imposing, dark wood furniture. It was a palace, and I was its prisoner.
Damien was at the head of a dining table long enough to seat thirty people. He was reading a newspaper, a cup of black coffee at his elbow. He didn't look up when I entered. The table was laden with a feast—platters of fruit, fresh pastries, eggs, bacon—but only one other place was set. Directly to his right.
I sat down, the silence stretching between us, thick and heavy.
Finally, he folded his newspaper with a crisp snap and fixed his golden eyes on me. They were as cold and unreadable as they had been the night before.
“There are rules, Claire,” he said, his voice a low, even rumble.
I stared back, my hands clenched into fists in my lap.
“You will not leave these grounds. The forest is the boundary. Do not cross it.”
“You will not contact anyone from your old life without my express permission. That phone,” he said, gesturing with his head toward the upper floor, “was a mistake. It will be removed.”
“You will answer to Edgar for your daily needs. He will provide you with anything you require. Books, clothes, art supplies. Anything.”
He paused, taking a deliberate sip of his coffee. The control in his every movement was absolute.
“This is for your protection,” he continued. “The rogue I killed last night was not the only one. There are others. They are drawn to the scent of humans. Outside this manor, you are a target. Inside, you are safe.”
“Safe?” I finally found my voice, and it was laced with bitter irony. “You mean a prisoner.”
A flicker of something—annoyance? amusement?—passed through his eyes. “The alternative was to have your mind wiped, leaving you a drooling vegetable. If you’d prefer that arrangement, it can still be made.”
His bluntness stole the air from my lungs. He was right, and we both knew it. I had no choice. I was utterly, completely at his mercy. The feeling was suffocating. It was humiliating.
He rose from the table, his tall frame casting a long shadow over me. He walked around to stand behind my chair, and I had to fight the urge to flinch when he leaned down, his voice dropping to a low, possessive whisper right beside my ear.
“Remember this, Claire. As long as you are under my protection, in my home, everything about you belongs to me.” His breath was warm against my skin, sending a shiver down my spine that was equal parts fear and something else I refused to name.
“Your safety. Your life.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “And all of your troubles.”