Chapter 22
Lirael
The silence stretched between us, thick with unspoken suspicion. Then Isabella's voice shattered it, high and disbelieving.
"How is this possible?" She pushed past Sebastian, her carefully maintained composure fracturing. "I just checked this entire greenhouse myself. Every room. There was no one here!"
Sebastian didn't look at her. His eyes stayed fixed on me with that predatory focus that made my pulse spike despite my best efforts to remain calm.
"She's so calculating, Alpha!" Isabella's voice rose, desperation bleeding through her professional mask. Her finger pointed at me like a weapon. "Look at her standing there all innocent. She must have hidden somewhere, just to make me look foolish. She should be severely punished for this manipulation!"
The words hung in the air for exactly three seconds. Then Sebastian turned to face Isabella fully, and I watched her face drain of all color.
"She?" His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of a death sentence.
Isabella's mouth opened and closed like a fish drowning in air.
"Who is 'she'?" Sebastian took a single step toward her. "You're referring to my property. My possession." Another step. "Who are you to use such familiar terms?"
"I—I didn't mean—" Isabella stumbled backward, her spine hitting the doorframe.
"You didn't mean what?" Sebastian's tone remained conversational, which somehow made it infinitely more terrifying. "You didn't mean to suggest you have any right to an opinion about how I manage my belongings?"
I stood frozen in the tub, recognizing this particular flavor of Sebastian's rage—the cold, calculated kind that didn't explode but rather compressed into something diamond-hard and infinitely more dangerous.
"Alpha, please—" Isabella's voice cracked.
"You are staff," Sebastian cut her off. "She is—" He paused, seemed to savor the next words. "My lady."
The title hit the room like a physical blow. Isabella's face crumbled, tears beginning to track down her cheeks.
"On your knees," Sebastian said quietly.
Isabella dropped like her strings had been cut, her knees hitting the tile with a crack that made me wince internally.
"Look at her," Sebastian commanded.
Isabella's head came up slowly, her tear-streaked face turning toward me. I kept my expression neutral, channeling every ounce of cold indifference. Her pain meant nothing. She'd been ready to see me punished moments ago.
"Apologize," Sebastian said. "To your mistress."
"My lady," Isabella forced out, each syllable clearly costing her. "I apologize for my disrespectful attitude toward you."
I didn't respond. Didn't even acknowledge her apology with a nod. Just stood there in the steaming water, looking past her as if she were furniture.
"Marcus," Sebastian called without raising his voice.
The door opened within seconds, Marcus taking in the scene with his professional mask firmly in place.
"Yes, Alpha?"
"Isabella has forgotten her place," Sebastian said simply. "Level One Discipline. Immediate implementation."
Isabella made a sound like a wounded animal. "No—please, Alpha—"
But Marcus was already moving, his hand closing around her upper arm with professional efficiency, hauling her toward the door as her protests faded down the hallway.
The door clicked shut behind them.
Suddenly the bathroom was very quiet. Just me and Sebastian, steam curling between us.
Sebastian turned back to me, and I felt my breath catch. His eyes traveled over me with the leisure of someone who had all the time in the world. The wet silk clung to every curve, transparent in the bright lights.
"Now then," he said softly, beginning to unbutton his jacket. "Where were we?"
My heart hammered against my ribs, but I kept my face neutral, curious rather than alarmed. This was another test. Everything with Sebastian was a test.
He shrugged out of the jacket and let it fall to the floor, then began working on his shirt buttons. One by one, they came undone, revealing pale skin inch by careful inch. His chest was that distinctive cold-white of the alpha bloodline, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, every muscle defined with brutal precision. Scars crisscrossed his torso—some thin and surgical, others thick and ragged like claw marks.
My ears burned despite the steam's heat. I felt the urge to look away, to show feminine modesty. But that would be a mistake.
Christ, I thought, forcing myself to keep staring. It's just a man's body. A ridiculously perfect man's body, but still. I've seen worse things than some asshole's abs.
The shirt joined the jacket on the floor. His hands moved to his belt.
Okay, fuck. This is happening. He's actually doing this.
I made myself tilt my head like I was examining an interesting specimen. Let my gaze trace the lines of muscle and scar tissue with what I hoped looked like clinical interest rather than the screaming panic currently ricocheting through my skull.
Just a body. Top-tier genetics, sure. Prime breeding stock, as the Foundation assholes would say. But I'm not going to lose my shit over some dick with good bone structure.
His belt hit the floor with a soft thud. His hands moved to the waistband of his trousers, and I had to actively stop myself from taking a step back in the tub.
The trousers slid down his hips.
Oh, fuck me.
The man was built like violence made flesh. His thighs were thick with muscle, the kind you got from years of combat training and hunting things that could kill you back. His legs were long, perfectly proportioned, and led up to—
Don't look don't look don't fucking look—
But I was looking. Couldn't help it. The black boxer briefs left absolutely nothing to imagination, the fabric molded to him with obscene faithfulness. I could see the clear outline of everything, the heavy weight of his cock pressing against the thin material, and Jesus Christ, the man was either half-hard already or just naturally blessed in a way that should be illegal.
It's not fair, some hysterical part of my brain supplied. Evil bastards aren't supposed to look like that. Aren't supposed to have bodies that make you want to—
I cut that thought off hard.
Get it together. You're supposed to be a clueless animal. Animals don't understand the concept of a perfect dick print. Animals don't know that those hip bones are sharp enough to cut and that V-line pointing down like an arrow to—
Fuck.
I reached up with one wet hand as if to touch, pure curiosity, because that's what an animal would do. Just investigate without understanding the implications.
His hand shot out and caught my wrist, grip firm. "Little thing," he said softly, frustration beneath the amusement. "Your acting has certainly improved."
You have no fucking idea, I thought, maintaining the guileless expression even as my heart tried to hammer its way out of my chest.
He released my wrist and stepped back, his hands moving to the waistband of his boxer briefs.
No. No no no. He's not actually going to—