Chapter 2 – Touch of the Enemy
1626 Words
Celina’s POV
LUCIEN THORNE’s estate was less of a mansion and more of a fortress built for gods with control issues.
I stood on the marble threshold, clutching my overnight bag like a bomb about to detonate. A butler in an immaculate suit opened the door with a nod that said “I serve monsters” and stepped aside.
I didn’t even get the chance to admire the vaulted ceilings or floor-to-ceiling glass before Lucien himself appeared at the top of the grand staircase—shirt rolled to the elbows, jaw like carved stone, and expression unreadable.
He took one look at me and said,
“You’re late.”
“I didn’t realize fake fiancées ran on Alpha Standard Time,” I said, lifting my chin.
One brow arched. “Be grateful I’m not billing you by the second.”
I followed him silently up the stairs, resisting the urge to throw my bag at his sculpted back. His scent lingered in the hallway—earthy, smoky, something darker underneath. He walked with the lethal confidence of a man used to being obeyed. Or feared.
He led me to a guest suite that was somehow larger than my entire apartment. Mahogany wood, slate walls, a four-poster bed draped in shadow-gray silk sheets. Regal. Imposing. Cold.
“You’ll stay here,” he said. “You don’t enter my wing without invitation.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He glanced back at me, eyes flicking down my body with a calculating edge. “Wear something red tonight. Cameras love red.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re dining with me in front of the press. First public appearance. Time to convince the world we’re madly in love.”
I barely managed not to gag.
HOURS LATER, I stood in front of the mirror, tugging down the hem of the red silk dress that Lucien’s assistant had “conveniently” left on the bed. It hugged every curve and dipped dangerously low in the back. I looked like something a wolf might stalk.
Which, apparently, was the point.
Outside, the sun dipped behind the estate’s iron gates, and spotlights lit up the circular drive like a red carpet. The dining patio had been transformed into a PR battlefield—string lights, a live jazz trio, and a dozen strategically positioned press photographers pretending not to eavesdrop.
Lucien met me at the stairs, dressed in black tailored to perfection, the top button undone just enough to draw the eye to his collarbone. When his gaze landed on me, it flickered—almost imperceptibly—but I saw it.
Good.
He offered his arm like a prince, all polished charm and no soul.
I took it like a queen with a knife under her gown.
THE DINNER was a performance.
Lucien played the perfect doting fiancé—brushing hair from my cheek, whispering inside jokes we didn’t have, resting a possessive hand on my lower back. His touch burned. My smile was poison-sweet.
I matched him, lie for lie.
“Yes, we met through a private charity auction,” I told one reporter with wide, innocent eyes.
Lucien’s smirk was subtle and infuriating.
“She was bidding on a bottle of wine,” he added, “I was bidding on her.”
Laughter. Flashes. Wolves pretending to be human.
And then—
Just before dessert, as a lull fell across the table and the photographers hovered for the perfect shot, Lucien leaned in. His lips brushed mine—soft, warm, barely there.
And yet, it landed like a hit to the chest.
The kiss was meant to be for show. I knew it. He knew it.
But it lingered.
Longer than necessary. Deeper than safe.
His hand settled lightly on my hip. My breath caught. The world blurred. I hated him. I wanted him. I hated that I wanted him.
When he finally pulled away, his voice was low enough that only I could hear.
“Smile, little fox. They’re watching.”
THAT NIGHT, I stood in front of the bedroom mirror, brushing imaginary dust from my dress, trying to forget the way his lips had felt. I was here for revenge. For the truth. For my sister.
Not for the man who kissed like he owned every inch of me.
Then I heard it.
Muffled voices through the air vent near the closet. My fingers froze.
I moved quietly, crouched near the grate, heart thudding.
Lucien’s voice came through—calm and clipped.
“She’s cleverer than I expected.”
Another male voice—Rhys, maybe. “You sure this is smart?”
Lucien replied, voice low. Lethal.
“The girl is dangerous. I’ll use her… then discard her.”
THE DRESS was too much. Scarlet silk clung to my body like a second skin, dipping too low in the front, hugging too high up my thighs. I was no stranger to tight gowns—I’d worn a few in the name of undercover journalism—but this one felt like wearing danger itself.
Exactly what Lucien Thorne wanted.
I stood at the top of the sweeping staircase in his mansion-turned-ballroom, heart stammering in my chest. The chandeliers glittered like glass fangs. Dozens of elites gathered below: sleek, powerful, wolf-blooded royalty in tuxedos and diamonds. Their power hummed like static against my skin.
I descended, each step deliberate, praying I wouldn’t trip.
And then I saw him.
Lucien stood at the base of the stairs, all broad shoulders and tailored black. His obsidian eyes fixed on me—not just with that usual cool calculation, but with heat. Sharp. Dangerous.
He didn’t say a word as I reached him, but his jaw ticked once. His gaze dipped to the curve of my hips and dragged back up, like a slow threat.
“You’re late,” he murmured, offering his arm.
“You didn’t say there’d be a fashion show,” I replied sweetly, slipping my hand into the crook of his elbow.
“You didn’t say you’d come dressed for blood.”
He guided me through the sea of wolves, nodding politely to elders and socialites. To them, I was the Cinderella of his carefully manufactured fairytale. But every time he leaned down to whisper a cue in my ear—“Smile at the duchess,” or “Don’t touch the minister”—his voice scraped like gravel across my spine.
We were selling the lie. I just didn’t know which of us believed it more.
The event was meant to celebrate the Lunar Pact—a peace treaty Lucien’s father brokered decades ago. The press was everywhere. Which meant I had to play the perfect fiancée. Sweet. Submissive. Marked.
Halfway through the evening, I felt someone watching me.
I turned—and met a pair of green eyes.
Rhys.
Lucien’s Beta. The second-in-command. Just as tall, but easier on the edges. While Lucien was stone and fire, Rhys was steel wrapped in velvet.
He approached with a drink in each hand.
“You look like trouble in that dress,” he said, handing me a flute of champagne.
“And you look like you enjoy it.”
Rhys laughed, soft and low. “Careful. You’re starting to sound like one of us.”
“God forbid.”
His smile didn’t fade. He stood close—too close. The heat between us was different. Less dangerous, more… teasing. Like he was trying to read the pieces of me Lucien hadn’t cracked yet.
But the tension snapped like a rubber band when Lucien returned.
His eyes flicked between us. “Enjoying yourself, Beta?”
“Just making sure your fiancée doesn’t faint from dehydration.”
Lucien didn’t smile. He reached for my hand, interlaced our fingers like a brand.
“She doesn’t need your attention.”
I should’ve pulled away. I should’ve said something. But instead, I smiled at Rhys and let Lucien lead me toward the back of the room.
“Do you growl at everyone who looks at me?” I asked.
“No. Just the ones who don’t know what’s mine.”
The hallway behind the ballroom was empty, dimly lit, smelling faintly of old stone and wild herbs. He pressed me against the wall before I could respond, his body towering, eyes dark.
“You’re playing too well,” he murmured. “Flirting with Rhys? Laughing like this is a game?”
His breath hit my throat. I froze.
“It is a game,” I whispered.
“Not for me.” He leaned closer, mouth brushing my ear. “You’re mine in public. Don’t make me remind you who owns this act.”
My hands fisted in my gown, nails biting into my palms. “You don’t own me, Thorne.”
“Then why are you trembling?”
I wasn’t, at least not from fear.
I hated how close he was. Hated how good it felt to have his weight pinning me, his breath curling against my skin, the scent of dark spice and pine fogging my brain.
“I can make this easy for both of us,” he said, pulling back an inch. “But if you want to make it hard—keep testing me.”
My voice came out low, defiant. “Go to hell.”
His smirk cut across his face. “Already live there, sweetheart.”
Then footsteps echoed from the corridor’s far end.
We broke apart just in time as Rhys rounded the corner, his gaze lingering too long on our proximity.
“I see the party’s moved,” he said coolly.
Lucien didn’t speak. I brushed past them both, head high, fury boiling in my chest.
This wasn’t just a game anymore.
It was war.
- Writer
