Chapter 5
Lorelei
I raised my arms, and his hands slid under them, checking my underarms, my ribcage, the sensitive skin along my sides. Every touch was torture—too professional, too detached, when what I wanted was for him to slam me against this wall the way he had last night, to mark me and claim me and make me forget that we were supposed to be enemies.
Stop it. You need to survive, not seduce.
His hands moved to my breasts, and I couldn't suppress the small gasp that escaped. He paused for just a fraction of a second—the first break in his professional demeanor—before continuing his examination, cupping them, checking underneath, his thumbs brushing over my nipples in a way that made my knees weak despite the clinical nature of the touch.
"Do you recognize me, Miss Caspian?" The question came out of nowhere, catching me completely off guard.
I forced myself to look up, to meet those golden eyes that were now studying my face with intense focus. "I—what?"
"You requested that I conduct this search personally. You seem uncomfortable with the presence of other lycans. But not with me." His head tilted slightly, predatory and curious. "Why is that?"
Because you're mine. Because your pheromones are the only thing keeping me alive. Because I can still feel you inside me and I'm terrified you'll never touch me again. Because even though you're a lycan and I'm a siren and we're supposed to be enemies, my body knows you're my mate.
"I don't know," I whispered instead. "You just... you seem safer than the others. I don't know why."
Something flickered in his expression—confusion, maybe, or the ghost of recognition struggling against whatever had stolen his memories. His hands had stilled on my ribcage, warm through the leather, and I could see his nostrils flare slightly as he breathed in my scent.
Please. Please remember.
But the moment passed, and his professional mask slammed back into place. "Last check," he said, his voice rougher than before. "This will be invasive, but necessary. Spread your legs wider."
My heart hammered as I obeyed, knowing what was coming, dreading it and craving it in equal measure. His hand slid between my thighs, fingers brushing against my entrance, and—
I felt the exact moment he registered the wetness there, the slickness that had nothing to do with last night and everything to do with my body's desperate response to his proximity. His fingers paused, pressed slightly deeper, and I saw his jaw clench.
"You're aroused," he stated flatly. Not a question.
Shame burned through me. "I'm sorry," I whispered. "I can't—I don't mean to—"
"Are you in heat?"
The question made my stomach drop. Lycans knew that sirens had heat cycles, just like they knew we had scales and tails and could sing men to their deaths. It was part of what made us so dangerous, so valuable to capture and study.
If he suspected—
"No," I managed, trying to keep my voice steady. "I'm just... you're very close, and I'm naked, and I'm scared, and sometimes my body just—" I cut myself off, aware that I was rambling.
His hand withdrew, and I felt the loss like a physical ache. He stepped back, putting professional distance between us again, and I watched him pull off the gloves with sharp movements, as if my touch had contaminated them.
"Get dressed," he ordered, not looking at me. "Slowly. Keep your hands visible."
I grabbed the sheet from the bed, wrapping it around myself with shaking hands. The fabric still reeked of him, of us, and I had to resist the urge to bury my face in it.
He was watching me again, those golden eyes tracking my every movement, and I saw the exact moment his gaze landed on my hand. On my palm, specifically, where I'd been clutching something so tightly the edges had cut into my skin.
"Open your hand," he said, his voice gone flat and dangerous.
No. No no no—
But I couldn't refuse. My fingers uncurled slowly, reluctantly, revealing the chromatic heart-scale resting in my palm like a damning confession.
The silence that followed was deafening.
I watched his face as he stared at the scale, watched the color drain from his skin, watched his pupils dilate and his jaw clench and something that might have been recognition—or horror—flash across his expression. The scale caught the morning light, refracting it into impossible rainbows.
He knew what it was. Every lycan knew what a siren heart-scale meant. It was proof of mating, proof of a bond that shouldn't exist between our kinds. Proof that somewhere, a siren had given herself completely to someone.
"Where did you get that?" His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried more threat than any shout.
Lie. You have to lie.
"The man," I said, my voice small and broken. "The man I was with last night. He—he gave it to me. Before he left. I don't know what it is, I just—it's pretty, and he said I should keep it, so I—"
I was babbling, the words tumbling over each other, but I couldn't stop. Because he was staring at that scale like it held answers to questions he didn't want to ask.
"Hands behind your back," he said, and his voice had gone completely cold. "Lorelei Caspian, you are under arrest on suspicion of harboring or conspiring with an enemy of the Lycan state. You will be transported to Bureau headquarters for comprehensive genetic testing and interrogation. Any resistance will be met with lethal force. Do you understand?"
I nodded numbly as he pulled out restraints—actual handcuffs, heavy and cold. They clicked around my wrists with finality.
This is it. They're going to test my blood, and they're going to find out what I am, and then—
"Take her to Interrogation Room Three," he called out, and his soldiers filed back in. "Full genetic scan, blood work, the complete package. I want results in an hour."
"And you, sir?" one of them asked.
He was still staring at the heart-scale, now sealed in an evidence bag. "I'm going to find out who she was with last night," he said quietly. "And then I'm going to find out why she's carrying a siren's heart-scale."
Because it's yours, I thought desperately as they hauled me toward the door. Because you're the one I bound to. Because even though you're a lycan and I'm a siren and we're supposed to be enemies, you're my mate. Please, please remember—
But he didn't look at me again. Didn't watch as they dragged me out into the hallway. He just stood there in that ruined hotel room, staring at the evidence of what we'd done, with the same cold analytical focus he'd probably use to examine any other threat to his kind.
And I realized, with a clarity that cut deeper than any blade, that even if he did remember—even if he somehow recovered those lost hours and knew exactly what had happened between us—it wouldn't matter.
Because I was a siren. And he was the Supreme Commander of the Lycan Defense Bureau.
And our kinds had been at war for centuries. There was no universe in which that ended well for me.
