The Romano estate was quiet at night. Too quiet.
Elena stood in her father's study, hands resting on the edge of the desk he once ruled from. The moonlight slanted through the tall windows, casting pale silver shadows across the mahogany floors. Dust floated through the air like memories refusing to settle.
Behind her, the door creaked open.
"Didn't peg you for the sentimental type," Lucien's voice came, smooth and low.
Elena didn't turn. "This room belonged to a man who built an empire. He made enemies. Made sacrifices."
Lucien stepped inside, his boots echoing softly. "And now you carry it."
"I don't carry it," she said bitterly. "I wear it like armor."
He moved beside her, gazing at the portrait of Don Marcello Romano hanging above the fireplace. "He doesn't look like you."
"No. He was crueler."
Lucien studied her. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
"Isn't it?"
Silence fell between them again. A silence heavy with things neither of them wanted to name.
Elena finally turned toward him. "Why are you really here, Lucien? This wasn't about strategy."
He smirked. "Maybe I missed the smell of expensive cigars and old money."
"Cut the sarcasm."
His smirk faded. "Your men are restless. Mine are watching you. Everyone's waiting for us to fail."
Her eyes narrowed. "You think I don't know that?"
"I think you don't care."
She stepped closer, chin high. "I care. I just don't flinch."
Lucien leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. "Good. Because war is coming, Elena. And bloodlines don't protect anyone when the killing starts."
She met his gaze. "Neither does fur."
He chuckled darkly. "Touché."
Their closeness lingered too long. The line between tension and attraction blurred in the stillness. It was dangerous—this electricity. Not just because it made her pulse spike, but because it made her forget.
Forget he was a wolf.
Forget she was raised to hate everything he stood for.
He looked at her lips.
She saw it.
And she stepped back.
"This was a mistake," she said, voice cold again. "Coming here. Pretending we can mix oil and fire."
"You sure?" he asked. "Because fire can be beautiful… if you don't fear the burn."
"I don't fear anything."
"Then you're lying to yourself."
Lucien walked out without another word, leaving only the echo of his presence behind.
Elena turned back to the portrait.
Her father's eyes seemed to follow her.
Bloodlines were everything in this world—Romano or Blackthorn, human or wolf.
But boundaries?
Those were just illusions.
And Elena could feel hers starting to crack