The night had barely settled when a soft knock echoed on Selara's chamber door. She froze, muscles tense, her mind instantly calculating. Who could it be? Another guard delivering orders? A fellow pack member?
"Selara?" The voice was low, deliberate, and it sent a chill down her spine. She didn't need to see who it was to know.
Draven.
Her pulse quickened, but she forced herself to rise from the bed, smoothing her nightgown with careful precision. Calm. Neutral. Controlled. That was the key. She could not allow him to see hesitation, fear, or weakness.
"Yes?" she asked, her voice steady despite the thrum of tension racing through her veins.
The door creaked open, and he stepped inside without waiting for invitation. His presence filled the room instantly, commanding, overwhelming, suffocating. The lantern's flicker caught in his gray eyes, turning them into storms, dark and relentless.
"You should not be wandering alone at this hour," he said, voice low, almost teasing, almost a warning. "But then… you are no ordinary girl."
Selara's jaw tightened. "I am not wandering," she said. "I am… surveying."
He tilted his head, studying her with that unnerving intensity. "Surveying," he echoed, lips twitching in a faint, dangerous smile. "A noble way of saying plotting, perhaps?"
Selara's stomach twisted. He read her too easily, as if he could see straight through her thoughts. She refused to flinch. "And if I am?" she asked, keeping her tone sharp, defiant.
"Then you are dangerous," he said simply. "And that… makes things… interesting."
Her pulse stuttered at the weight of the words. Dangerous. That word again. Twice yesterday, now tonight. Every repetition was a thread, weaving tension through her chest and mind. She hated it. Hated the way it made her body respond despite her mind screaming for control.
Draven stepped closer, each movement deliberate, measured, as if he was testing her boundaries. The air between them crackled, charged with unspoken challenges. Selara's mind raced, calculating every possible outcome. She could not afford a mistake not when he was this close, not when his attention was this focused.
"You will eat with the pack tomorrow," he said, changing the subject with a subtle threat masked as instruction. "But tonight… I want to see your focus. Your strategy. Your patience."
"And what if I refuse?" Selara asked, her voice steady, but her heartbeat betrayed her.
He stopped inches from her, the heat of his body pressing subtly into hers, though he did not touch. "Refusal is not advisable," he murmured. "But I would be lying if I said I did not want to see what you are capable of."
Selara's mind flared with defiance. "I am capable enough to survive this," she said.
Draven's lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile. "Survival is not the same as victory."
The tension between them was suffocating. She could feel the pull of his presence, a magnetic force that teased, threatened, and obsessed over her in equal measure. Her hands twitched at her sides, craving action, craving escape, yet rooted to the floor by the intensity of his gaze.
"You are clever," he said finally, his voice almost a whisper. "And cleverness… is a dangerous weapon."
Selara swallowed, forcing herself to meet his gaze evenly. "Then I suppose we are both dangerous," she said, her tone steady, unflinching.
A flicker of amusement or was it something darker? crossed his features. "Perhaps," he admitted. "But cleverness must be tempered with patience. And you… will learn, or you will suffer the consequences."
Selara's pulse raced. Consequences. Every instinct screamed warning, yet another part of her mind the part that thrived on strategy, challenge, and revenge rejoiced. She would not falter. She would not give in. Not yet. Not to him. Not to anyone.
The night stretched on in a silent battle of wills. Draven did not leave; he remained a shadow in her room, a storm she could neither touch nor avoid. Every movement he made, every word, every subtle shift of his stance, was a calculated probe, testing her limits, assessing her reactions.
"You think you are in control," he said suddenly, stepping closer, so close she could feel the heat radiating from him. "But you are not. Not here. Not now. And certainly… not over me."
Selara's breath caught, a flicker of heat and irritation battling inside her. She stepped back slightly, maintaining her composure, but the pull of his presence was undeniable. "I am in control of myself," she said, voice steady despite the flutter in her chest.
Draven tilted his head, gray eyes glinting with amusement and challenge. "For now," he said, voice low, dangerous, "but control… is temporary."
Her mind raced. He was testing her. Probing her limits. Seeing how far he could push without breaking her completely. And she calm, calculating would meet each challenge with patience, strategy, and defiance.
Hours passed like this, each minute stretching, electric, suffused with tension. Selara learned quickly: Draven's obsession was subtle, insidious, and growing. Every glance, every word, every slight proximity was calculated to pull her into his orbit, to make her respond, to make her feel powerless and intrigued at the same time.
By the time he finally left, a small, faint smirk played on his lips, but his gray eyes lingered in her mind long after the door closed. Selara's body ached from tension and adrenaline, but her mind was sharper than ever. She had survived the night. She had learned, observed, and calculated.
And she had a plan.
Tomorrow, she would continue her battle not just in training, but in the subtle games of observation, strategy, and manipulation. She would push, test, and tease. She would learn the limits of his obsession. She would find every weakness, every secret, every thread she could use to strike.
Selara's fingers brushed against the edge of her desk, tracing the lines of a map she had drawn secretly, marking patrol routes, pack member tendencies, and possible opportunities. Her revenge would not be rushed; it would be precise, calculated, inevitable.
Yet, even as she plotted, she could not ignore the undeniable thrill that pulsed through her whenever she thought of him Draven, the Alpha who dominated everything he touched, yet could not seem to release his obsession with her. Hate and fascination battled inside her, each fueling the other.
She lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, mind racing with strategy, calculations, and the dangerous pull of a man she hated yet could not deny. Tomorrow, the game would continue. And she would win.
Because she was Selara, last heir of a fallen royal bloodline.
Because she was clever, patient, and unyielding.
And because Draven… would never, ever see her coming.