3

Imogen Adjusting to life in the Draven Palace felt less like joining a family and more like enlisting in an elite military regiment. Within a week, I realized every breath I took was governed by protocol. If I stepped onto the terrace, two armored guards silently fell into lockstep three paces behind me. If I walked the gallery, servants bowed so low their foreheads nearly grazed the velvet rugs. Worse, as the new daughter of the royal household, I was thrown into an exhaustive schedule: court etiquette lessons, royal event preparations, and mandatory formal dinners where I was expected to sit, look pleasant, and keep my opinions to myself. I hated every single second of it. "I feel like a prized pony in a gold cage," I grumbled to my mother as she straightened the lace collar of my dress in my bedchamber. Victoria chuckled softly, smoothing my hair. "No one is trying to cage you, Imogen. I’m not asking you to change who you are. I only want you to understand the world you live in now. It’s high society, sweetheart—and Lycan court politics are lethal." "It isn't society, Mom, it's Lucian," I snapped, pulling back slightly. "He’s obsessed with control. He dictates where I walk, who I speak to, even what time I eat. He wants to rule every second of my life." To my annoyance, my mother just laughed—a bright, genuine sound. "Lucian controls everything because he has to. Thousands of lives depend on his decisions every day. It’s not personal, Imogen. It’s just who he is." Well, it feels personal, I thought bitterly. That afternoon, driven by pure, reckless spite, I decided I had submitted to enough rules. I slipped past my designated guards while they were distracted in the grand foyer and slipped down a winding, sunlit corridor I had been explicitly warned to avoid. The sound of clashing steel and heavy grunts drew me toward an archway leading to an outdoor training courtyard. Concealing myself behind a high stone pillar, I peeked out. Dozens of hulking Lycan warriors were sparred in the sun, their bare torsos glistening with sweat as wooden and iron blades clashed. They moved with terrifying speed and lethal fluidity, their instincts sharper than any human soldier's. I leaned against the warm stone, utterly fascinated despite myself. "I distinctly remember telling you this courtyard was off-limits," a deep, dark voice rumbled directly behind my ear. I jumped, spinning around so fast my heel caught on the hem of my skirt. Lucian was standing mere inches from me. He had stripped off his usual tailored jacket, wearing only a black tunic rolled up at the elbows, revealing muscular forearms crossed tightly over his chest. His silver eyes gleamed down at me, unreadable and intense. Before I could speak, the guards who had been supervising the training floor noticed us and immediately dropped to one knee. "Leave us," Lucian commanded without looking away from me. His voice carried an absolute weight that sent every warrior filing out of the courtyard within seconds, leaving the two of us in heavy, echoing silence. "I was just looking," I said, lifting my chin and trying to ignore how fast my heart was hammering. "I was curious." "Curiosity in this palace will get you killed, Imogen," Lucian replied, taking a slow, deliberate step closer. "This isn't a museum. My men train with live steel and wild instincts." "Or maybe you just hate anyone seeing what you really do here," I countered, crossing my arms to mimic his posture. "You use fear to control everyone in this castle, don't you? You make sure they’re too terrified to cross a line." "Fear has kept this kingdom alive through three wars and a dozen rebellions," he said, his silver eyes narrowing. "It keeps order." "Well, I’m not one of your soldiers," I snapped, stepping closer to him, refusing to back down. "You don't own me, and you can't order me around." "While you live beneath my roof, you will follow my rules," Lucian said, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that vibrated straight through the flagstones. "It is not a debate." I let out a harsh laugh. "Then maybe I'll just pack my bags and move out into the lower city. At least then I won't have to look at your arrogant face every day." I expected anger. I expected him to bark an order or flash his fangs. Instead, the harsh line of Lucian's mouth softened. A faint, slow smile tugged at the corner of his lips—a sudden, stunning flash of warmth that entirely transformed his dangerous features. It wasn't cold or mocking. It was real. My brain completely short-circuited. For a dizzying second, the courtyard, our argument, and my self-righteous anger vanished. All I could focus on was how incredibly handsome he looked when he wasn't scowling, and how the sunlight caught the faint silver flecks in his dark hair. I stood there, completely breathless, staring at his lips like an i***t. Lucian caught me looking. His smile vanished as fast as it had appeared. The warmth in his eyes locked down, replaced instantly by that familiar, guarded intensity. He cleared his throat, stepping back into the formal shade of the archway. "I am escorting you back to the residential wing," he said smoothly, his voice returning to a cold, matter-of-fact tone. "Now." He turned and began walking down the corridor. I swallowed hard, forcing my stupid, betraying legs to follow him. We walked side by side down the vaulted hallway in tense silence. The corridor was narrow, and as we turned a tight corner near the royal gallery, my arm brushed against his. The contact was brief—just bare skin meeting the rolled-up fabric of his sleeve—but it felt like a jolt of raw electricity. A sharp, burning heat shot up my arm, sending a gasp straight into the back of my throat. Lucian visibly stiffened, his entire body freezing for a fraction of a second before he pulled away, setting a faster pace down the hall. He didn't say another word. He escorted me straight to the heavy doors of my quarters, gave me a curt, formal bow, and turned on his heel, striding away down the hall without looking back. I stood in the doorway, my fingers trembling slightly as I touched the arm that had brushed his. My chest was heaving, my heart wildly out of rhythm. Why did touching my stepfather feel like that?