The further Lena walked, the more the palace behind her became a half-remembered nightmare. The torches, the chants, the broken chamber smeared with blood—it all faded beneath the thick canopy of ancient trees and creeping mist. Moonlight filtered down in pale, trembling strands, painting the forest floor in silver and shadow.
Each step forward felt heavier than the last.
The gown snagged on brambles, its hem already torn and muddy. Her bare arms were scratched from branches that reached like fingers, clawing at her as if the forest itself wanted to hold her back.
But she didn't stop. She couldn't.
The tower lay ahead—hidden deep within the cursed woodlands, past the river of bone-white stones and the ruins of the old chapel. She knew the way. Of course she knew the way.
She wrote it.
Unfortunately, she hadn't written a shortcut.
Lena stopped and exhaled, bracing her hands on her knees as she caught her breath. "God, why couldn't Selene have left behind a broomstick or a teleportation circle or—I don't know—a conveniently placed magical carriage with brooding spectral horses?"
Nothing but silence and the whisper of wind through the trees.
Worth a shot.
Her fingers twitched, and for a second, she remembered that moment in the palace—how her panic had summoned something. Magic had surged through her then, untrained but powerful, reacting on instinct. Maybe… maybe she could do it again.
She straightened, lifted her hand toward the shadows ahead, and closed her eyes.
"Take me to the tower," she muttered.
Nothing.
She tried again. Louder this time. "Selene's Tower. The prison with the four very angry ex-boyfriends. Preferably before I get eaten by wolves or die of exposure. Please and thank you."
Still nothing.
Not even a spark.
Her eyes snapped open. "Okay, rude."
She kept walking, muttering under her breath. "Figures. I get thrown into a fantasy world as a powerful witch-queen and I don't even get basic teleportation. Ten out of ten stars for immersion. Zero for functionality."
But the bitterness didn't fully mask the fear curling inside her.
She knew who waited at the end of this path. And she knew exactly what she'd done to them.
"Ronan first," her thoughts whispered.
The Alpha. The king. The one who trusted her… once.
She had chained him in silver. Broken him in front of his pack. Watched him burn.
"Then Dante," she thought, jaw tight.
The vampire with a voice like velvet and a heart carved out of ice. He had knelt for her, bled for her, and Selene repaid him by enslaving his will. A living puppet, strung up with a blood curse Lena could still recite in her sleep.
"Kael…"
Unpredictable, wild, gleaming with Fae magic before Selene bled him dry of it. She stripped him of everything and left him to rot in silence.
"And Elias."
The human hunter. The man who never once faltered. Who stood in the dark and vowed to end her. He was the only one who chose to resist her completely—and still, she made him hers.
She didn't need to imagine the fury waiting behind that door.
She'd written it.
When the tower finally came into view—its black stone rising from the ground like a claw—it took everything in her not to turn around and bolt. A chill threaded through her bones, the air here older, heavier. Steeped in ancient spells and whispered screams.
The tower knew her.
Or at least, it knew Selene.
She pressed her palm to the iron door. Cold radiated from it—colder than snow, colder than silver. Her breath fogged the air as she whispered the unlocking spell, her voice shaking just enough to betray her.
The lock groaned.
Chains stirred behind the stone walls.
And then—a low, animalistic growl split the silence.
Lena froze.
They knew.
She was here.
The air around the tower thrummed. Magic pulsed beneath her skin like a warning. It wasn't hostile—yet—but it recognized her. Or rather, it recognized Selene. The tower still thought she was its queen.
"Honestly, I'm just relieved something in this world is buying the act," she muttered, brushing hair out of her face. "Now if only it could teach me how to use the stupid magic that's apparently in this body."
She paused, glanced back toward the path she came from, and sighed.
"I could still turn around. Head for the hills. Start a new life. Change my name. Open a bakery. Villain-turned-breadmaker. People love redemption arcs."
The wind didn't answer.
Lena wrinkled her nose. "Fine. In we go. Who knows, maybe they're asleep," she said, voice hopeful. "Or unconscious. Or… I don't know, in a magical coma?"
But as she stepped in, another growl echoed around the place—louder than the first.
"Definitely awake," she whispered. "So awake. And very not comatose."
Her hand hovered over the door handle.
"Okay, Lena. You can do this. You're smart. You're adaptable. You—" her voice cracked slightly, "—you've seen all five seasons of Game of Thrones. You know how to handle emotionally unstable men with power complexes."
She closed her eyes and took a breath.
"You survived the publishing industry. You can survive this."
Then, quieter: "Hopefully."
Her footsteps echoed too loudly as she stepped inside.
Just walk. You're Selene Ravencourt. They don't know you're not.
Easy enough to think. Harder when the growl came again—closer this time. No words. Just that low, primal warning rumbling up from the darkness like the sound of a storm held in chains.
Ronan.
He didn't speak.
Didn't need to.
She could feel him. His presence filled the space like smoke—heavy, suffocating, waiting.
Her fingers itched to light a torch, but she didn't dare. Showing weakness now would be a mistake.
Eyes forward. Shoulders back. Channel your inner bitch-queen.
She moved deeper into the corridor, heart hammering. The path spiraled downward, carved into black stone. She remembered writing this staircase. Remembered thinking it felt biblical—like descending into the underworld.
Fitting, now that she was the one walking it.
Another sound.
A chain dragging.
Then a second—rattling, resisting.
Someone was straining against their bindings.
Or preparing to.
Lena kept her face still, impassive. But inside, her thoughts spiraled.
Just don't make eye contact. Don't flinch. Pretend you're still the nightmare that ruined their lives. Easy.
She reached the final step.
Four figures stood in the shadows—chained in opposite corners of the room, the magical bindings gleaming with cruel, runic light.
And they were all awake.
Lena felt their gazes hit her like blows but no one spoke.
That was worse than screaming.
She stepped forward, careful not to trip on her hem. The floor beneath her feet was cracked stone, slick in places with moisture—or blood. She didn't look too closely.
The silence stretched.
She could feel their hate pressing against her skin, curling around her throat like a noose.
Say something. Anything. They're waiting.
Her voice came out cool. Measured. A mimicry of the queen they remembered.
"I see none of you escaped. Pity."
Three sets of chains snapped taut as their owners lunged.
Only one didn't move—Dante. Of course. The vampire remained where he was, posture relaxed, eyes glowing faintly red in the dark. But even from here, Lena could see it: the tension in his jaw, the way his hands were curled just slightly into fists.
He wants to kill me too. He's just more polite about it.
The others strained against their bonds—Ronan most of all. His breath came in snarls, low and dangerous. She didn't need to see his eyes to know they were glowing gold with rage.
Still, none of them spoke.
They didn't have to.
Their silence said it all.
And yet… none of them had called her bluff.
Not yet.
She drew in a breath, just enough to keep her mask in place.
Keep it together. You're not the girl who wrote the story. You're the villain who survived it.
She looked at Ronan last.
And that's when it happened.
The heat.
The pulse.
The sudden, dizzying rush of awareness that nearly buckled her knees.
Lena blinked once—twice—her mouth dry, heartbeat stuttering for a fraction of a second too long.
No. No, this wasn't supposed to happen. Selene didn't feel the bond. She controlled it. She was never touched by it.
But Lena wasn't Selene.
And whatever this was—whatever ancient force stitched them together—it wasn't something she knew how to suppress.
The scent of him hit her. Warm cedar, smoke, lightning on the horizon.
She looked away fast, jaw tight, every inch of her buzzing with unwanted heat.
None of them moved. But she felt it—the subtle shift in the air. A spark of something not quite confusion, not quite hunger.
She knew they've always felt it. That was how Selene had been able to control them.
She straightened, forcing her voice to stay sharp, and cold.
"Well. I'm here. And I imagine you have questions."