My Billionaire Husband's Secret

Elena's POV

"Elena, the wind off the Seine gets cold at night — make sure you're dressed warm!"

I was standing at my own front door, staring at the locked entrance and the pale amber glow leaking through the second-floor bedroom window.

Lucas's voice came through the phone, low and gentle as always, and I tightened my grip on the handset as the unease I'd been carrying all day grew a little heavier.

I kept my tone deliberately bright. "Lucas, the Seine is so beautiful at night — are you really sure you won't come join me on this trip?"

"Elena, you know how much I have on my plate right now. I'm working late tonight."

A thread of impatience ran just beneath his words. He didn't wait for me to reply — he said something had come up and hung up.

I stood there staring at his number on the screen, my thoughts spinning.

Was he lying to me? Or was I reading too much into things? In the year we'd been married, Lucas had been nothing but gentle and attentive, never once wavering. From the outside, people said I must have been blessed by God to marry such a perfect husband.

What they didn't know was that my husband had a strange habit: every single month, without fail, he arranged a trip for me. I used to think it was his way of showing he loved me — that because work kept him so busy, he didn't want me sitting at home alone and bored, so he sent me out to enjoy myself.

I believed that right up until this morning, when a message arrived on my phone.

Elena — do you really know your husband?

Below the text was a photograph. A woman in a white spaghetti-strap top and denim cutoffs, her figure on full display, leaning into a man's arm as they sat along a riverbank watching the sunrise. The woman had been cropped at the neck — no face — but the man's face was sharp and clear. It was Lucas.

I told myself it couldn't be real, that it was almost certainly edited, digitally composited. I thought things would go the same as always: I'd enjoy a few days away and then go home to our happy little world, just the two of us.

But in the end the message and that photograph got to me, and I decided to come home early. I wanted to talk to my husband.

The screen went dark. I slid the phone into my pocket, took out my keys, unlocked the villa door, and stepped inside.

The house was pitch-black. I set my suitcase down and switched on the light. The living room was completely quiet. Whenever Lucas arranged these trips for me, he always gave the housekeeper and the rest of the staff time off.

Bang.

A sound from upstairs.

My mind went straight to the light I'd seen in the bedroom window, and my chest tightened.

The front door had been locked — so who was up there? Had someone broken in?

I went to the kitchen, took a paring knife, steeled myself, and climbed the stairs as quietly as I could. In the hallway I could see that the bedroom door was open, light spilling out from inside. I pressed myself against the wall, held my breath, and slowly peered around the doorframe.

Lucas was walking out of the en suite bathroom, a towel wrapped low around his hips, his dark hair still wet, droplets of water sliding down over his chest and abs.

My throat went dry. Desire stirred in me before I could stop it — Lucas had a powerful appetite, and every time I came home from one of these trips, he would make love to me for hours before he'd let me rest, saying he'd missed me so much he couldn't bear to stop.

If he were really cheating on me, could he still want me that much?

Probably not. Half of my suspicion dissolved right then, though not all of it. I looked carefully around the bedroom — it was just him, no one else. I let out a quiet breath, my eyes tracing the appealing lines of his back, and felt heat rise in my cheeks. I wanted to go to him.

I set the knife down on the hallway floor and padded toward him on silent feet, meaning to cover his eyes and make him guess who was there.

"Who's there?"

I hadn't even raised my hands yet when he spun around with a shout, one hand closing around my throat, slamming me down onto the floor. My body hit the ground hard. It hurt.

"Lucas — it's me."

His eyes were red. His handsome face had twisted into something fierce and frightening, almost unrecognizable. Then he saw who it was, and his grip released instantly. The familiar warm smile returned.

"Elena? Weren't you in Paris?"

He pulled me up off the floor and into his arms in one motion. I caught the movement of his throat — his Adam's apple shifting — the small tell I'd learned to read as desire. I reached up deliberately and traced it with my fingers, pressing my cheek against his chest with a little pout.

"Lucas, I missed you so much I came home early. Don't you miss me?"

"I do." He pulled me against him suddenly, so tightly it hurt, as though he meant to press my bones straight into his body.

"Lucas — that hurts, that hurts!"

He heard me and loosened his arms, then carried me gently to the bed and set me down.

"Elena, I have a meeting at the office. I need to go."

I could feel it clearly — he was deliberately pulling away from me.

Was he hiding something? It was the middle of the night and he'd just stepped out of the shower, and now he needed to go to a meeting?

I didn't believe it. My stomach clenched. Was he really going to see the woman in that photograph? When he moved toward the wardrobe to get dressed, I jumped off the bed and grabbed his arm.

"Lucas, don't go! Are you trying to go see—"

Before I could finish, he shook my hand off sharply and cut me off.

"Don't touch me."

His voice was rough with irritation and impatience. His reaction startled me badly, because in my eyes, in my heart, he had always been a kind and gentle husband — he had never once raised his voice at me.

"Lucas." I called his name softly.

He frowned, turned to look out the window, and then turned back. The gentle smile was there again. He pulled me into his arms and soothed me quietly. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. You know I love you."

"I know. I love you too, Lucas."

I thought he was going to kiss me then, the way he always had — that we'd fall into bed together the way we always did. Instead he turned to the nightstand and came back with a glass of red wine.

"Elena, I'm glad you came home early. Drink this — let's call it a celebration."

"Thank you, Lucas."

I smiled and took the glass and drank it all at once, because I was happy. It was strange — I've always had a decent tolerance for wine, so I couldn't explain why a single glass hit me so hard. The room tilted.

I swayed and sank back onto the bed. My head was spinning, but I could feel Lucas pulling my dress off and drawing the covers up around me. When he moved to leave, I remembered the message and the photograph from that morning, and I grabbed his wrist as hard as I could.

"Lucas — is there someone else? Do you still love me?"

I could feel him wanting to pull free, but for some reason he didn't. He let me hold his wrist.

"Baby, what are you talking about? You're drunk. I've always loved you."

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to my forehead. I got my arms up around his neck.

"I love you. Don't go tonight — stay with me. Please, my love."

"Baby, I can't — fiery little thing, what am I supposed to do with you?"

He let out something like a sigh.

Then, suddenly, he caught both my wrists in one hand and pinned them above my head. His other hand yanked my bra open roughly and closed over my breasts, kneading them back and forth. I started to say his name, but he kissed me before I could finish, his tongue pushing against mine, insistent and deep. I loved the taste of mint in his mouth, cool and clean. He released my wrists, pulled my underwear off, and pushed two hot fingers inside me.

It hurt at first. But quickly, with the practiced rhythm of his strokes, I grew wet, and the ache dissolved into a tingling, spreading pleasure. He lifted his mouth from mine and dragged his teeth along my throat and into the hollow of my neck, rough like an animal, a little painful — and yet, strangely, I found myself enjoying it.

"Good girl. Relax. Open your legs a little more."

"Mmh — ah—"

His fingers sped up suddenly, and I couldn't stop myself from trembling all over. But I wanted more — I wanted Lucas to fill me with his cock.

"My love, I want—"

"Beg me." He bit down on my breast, his voice low and hoarse and devastatingly attractive.

"Please — please, love, I want you inside me."

Lucas pushed my thighs apart with both hands and drove his cock into me hard, forcing his way in. I cried out. He didn't slow down — he only moved faster, harder, pounding into me until he let out a low growl and finally stilled.

"Lucas—"

I was barely conscious, drifting at the edge of sleep, when I realized he hadn't gone soft at all. If anything he was harder than before — bigger, in a way I couldn't account for, a size that didn't seem like anything a human man should be capable of. I felt unbearably stretched, like I was about to split open.

"Lucas, stop—"

He was too strong.

I had no way to resist.

He pressed down over me again and drove into me without a word, over and over, and my consciousness began to blur — whether from the pain or the wine I couldn't tell. I couldn't get my eyes open. And then I heard it: a low, guttural sound, like an animal, like a dog.

My heart seized. I reached for Lucas — he had frightened me — but what my hands found was not skin.

It was fur. A thick, dense expanse of it.

I startled badly and tried to open my eyes, but consciousness slipped away from me entirely before I could.

Morning light fell across my face and pulled me awake.

I opened my eyes. Lucas was sitting at the writing desk by the bed, working through what looked like a stack of documents. He hadn't left. He'd stayed beside me all night — so had he really had an urgent meeting after all?

Most of my suspicion melted away, and I felt a private flash of shame for ever doubting such a good husband. I should trust him, not some anonymous message from a stranger.

I smiled and moved to get up, planning to wrap my arms around him from behind and say good morning. But when I pushed the covers back, I stopped.

There on the sheet, scattered across the white linen, were several long black hairs. Not the coarse, curling kind of body hair — these were straight and glossy, with a sheen that was distinctly animal. The memory from just before I'd lost consciousness came rushing back, and cold sweat broke out across my skin.

There had been an animal in our bed last night. It wasn't a hallucination.