Chapter 12
Lirael
"Let me tell you something," he continued, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "When I was twenty-three, I killed my brother. We were competing for leadership of the clan—it's tradition. Only one Alpha can rule, so we fought, and I won." He took another sip. "But before that final fight, he did something that showed me exactly who he was. I had a white wolf I'd rescued from one of the training exercises. Kept it hidden, fed it, cared for it. He found out, killed it, and had it skinned. Wore the pelt to my coming-of-age ceremony like a trophy."
His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "So when we fought, I made sure he knew why he was dying. Made sure he understood that cruelty has consequences."
He leaned forward slightly. "I'm telling you this so you understand something about me. I'm not a good man. I've done terrible things, and I'll do more terrible things before I'm done. But I have rules. Lines I don't cross." His eyes locked onto mine. "Betray me, and I'll make you regret it in ways you can't imagine. But prove yourself useful, prove yourself loyal..." He paused. "Well. I can be generous to those who earn it."
The offer hung in the air between us, and I realized with a jolt what he was doing. He was trying to recruit me. Trying to make me complicit in my own captivity by dangling the possibility of rewards.
Manipulation, I thought coldly. But also information about what he values.
Before I could process this further, he stood and drained his glass. "Come on. You're sleeping here tonight."
Panic surged through me, and he must have seen it on my face because he held up a hand. "I told you—I'm not interested in forcing myself on a terrified prisoner. That's not my style." He moved to the bed and pulled back the covers. "But you're staying where I can see you. Get in."
I stood on shaking legs, every muscle coiled to flee even though there was nowhere to run on this yacht. He waited patiently, and finally I forced myself to move to the far side of the bed, as far from him as possible, and climbed in with my clothes still on.
He slid in on his side, keeping a deliberate space between us, and reached over to turn off the lamp. Darkness flooded the cabin, broken only by the faint glow of moonlight through the porthole.
"Sleep," he said quietly. "Tomorrow we dock, and your new life begins. Tonight, at least, you're safe."
I lay there in the dark, every nerve screaming, listening to his breathing gradually even out and the gentle rocking of the yacht beneath us. The bed was large enough that we weren't touching, but I could feel the warmth of his body across the space between us.
My hand crept toward the heavy lamp on the nightstand. One good swing—
"Your heart's racing," his voice came out of the darkness, calm and almost amused. "And I can hear you reaching for that lamp. Trust me when I say it won't work. You'd be unconscious before it got anywhere near me."
My hand froze.
"Go to sleep, little beast," he murmured. "Save your energy for fights you can actually win."
I lay there for what felt like hours, trying to convince myself to move, to do something. But exhaustion was a physical weight, and eventually—inevitably—my eyes grew heavy.
Just for a moment, I told myself. Just rest...
The last thing I remembered was the steady rhythm of his breathing, the gentle sway of the yacht, and the terrible, traitorous warmth of not being alone.
---
I woke to the sound of the yacht's engines changing pitch, signaling our approach to dock. For a moment I was disoriented, and then I felt the weight of Sebastian's arm draped loosely over my waist and everything came rushing back.
Sometime during the night, the distance between us had disappeared. We were pressed together now, his chest against my back, his arm holding me in a loose embrace that felt almost protective. The position should have terrified me, but my body—exhausted and touch-starved after three years of isolation—had apparently decided this was comfortable.
I tried to pull away carefully, but the moment I moved his arm tightened reflexively and his eyes opened, those golden eyes focusing on me with startling clarity.
We stared at each other for a long moment, and I watched confusion flicker across his face as he registered our position. He glanced at the clock on the cabin wall—9:47 AM—and his eyebrows rose.
"Huh," he said, his voice rough with sleep. "That's new."
He sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair, and I scrambled to put distance between us. He seemed to be doing some kind of internal assessment, his hand pressing against his chest as if checking something.
Then his eyes snapped to me with sudden focus. Before I could react, he reached out and caught my wrist—not roughly, but firmly enough that I couldn't pull away. His other hand went to my forehead, then my neck, his touch clinical.
"Your temperature," he said slowly. "It's changing." His gaze moved to the portholes, where morning sunlight filtered through. "You were warmer last night. But now..." He pressed his fingers against my pulse point. "Now you're cooling down as the sun rises."
He's figured something out, I thought with rising panic.
His hand moved to cup my face, and there was something almost wondering in his expression. "I slept six hours straight," he said quietly. "I haven't done that in years. Not since..." He trailed off, his thumb stroking my cheek. "You did something. Your presence. Whatever you are—it helped."
He pulled me closer, wrapping his arms around me in a way that would have seemed protective if it weren't so possessive. "I thought you were just a rare specimen," he murmured against my hair. "Something valuable to own. But you might be something I actually need."
His grip tightened. "Which means I really can't let you go now."
I felt terror rising in my throat, but he seemed to sense it because he loosened his hold slightly and pressed a kiss—surprisingly gentle—to the top of my head.
"Don't look so scared," he said, pulling back to meet my eyes. "This is good news for you. It means you're too valuable to damage. It means I have a reason to keep you comfortable." His expression softened fractionally. "I protect what's mine, little beast. And you're definitely mine now."
The intercom crackled—ten minutes to docking—and he released me, sliding out of bed with fluid grace. "Get dressed. There should be clothes that fit you in the bathroom. We're going home."
I sat there on the gently rocking bed, my mind reeling, trying to process this shift. Did that mean it was even more difficult for me to escape?
Fuck.