Chapter 3 – Psychopath (Ivy's POV)
My skull is pounding when I awake. I groan softly and force my heavy eyelids open. Dark wood ceiling beams swim into focus overhead. Where the hell am I?
I sit up too fast. The room tilts and a wave of nausea grips me. I suck in a breath, pressing a hand to my forehead until the dizziness passes. My heart jolts and I jerk fully awake. I scramble to my feet—then stumble as unfamiliar fabric tangles around my legs.
“What the—?” I gasp, stepping back to see better. I’m wearing a dress. A flowing gown of deep crimson satin drapes to the floor, cinched at my waist with a gold cord. It’s slit high on one thigh, allowing me to move, but still—definitely not mine. It looks like something out of a gothic wedding… or cult ceremony.
A chill shudders through me.
Someone undressed me—changed me—while I was unconscious. The thought makes my skin crawl. I clutch the low neckline of the gown, scanning the room for my clothes or belongings. Nothing. My jeans, shirt, gun, phone, even my necklace—they’re all gone.
Then I heard something
I push up to my knees, my hair falling in my face. Furious and breathing hard, I brush it back—and freeze.
It’s him.
Standing at the base of the grand staircase is the man who kidnapped me from the bar. The one who tore through Matteo’s thugs like paper. The one with the eyes.
He's changed clothes since last night—if it was last night. Now he wears a crisp black button-down shirt open at the throat and dark slacks, looking every bit an aristocratic devil. A faint bruise mars his jaw, the only sign that any of the scuffle affected him at all. His raven hair is tousled but somehow only adds to his imposing aura.
And those eyes... They’re fixed on me, burning molten amber in the dim light. Not literally glowing like before, but still unnervingly intense.
I break the tense silence. “Are you in charge here? You gonna tell me why the hell I've been kidnapped? Where are my things?!” My voice echoes off the vaulted ceiling. The bravado is mostly to cover my trembling.
He considers me for a moment, eyes flicking over the red gown, the disheveled hair, my defiant stance. When he speaks, his tone is deep and calm, with that faint Cajun French lilt: “You’ve caused quite a fuss, Ivy.”
Hearing my name on his lips sends a jolt through me. “Damn right. Let me go, or I swear—”
“You swear?” He interrupts, one dark eyebrow arching as if amused. “Careful now.”
My face burns. “I'm a detective with NOPD. If you think you can just—”
He raises a hand negligently, silencing me. The audacity makes me want to scream, but something in his stern gaze clamps my mouth shut.
He steps closer, and the guards at my sides move back deferentially. In that moment, it feels like it’s just him and me in a bubble of tension.
His voice drops. “I am in charge, yes. You want answers, cher? You'll get them soon, Isabella.”
The way he says my full name sends ice down my spine. Nobody calls me Isabella except in old memories. How much does he know about me? Who is he?
“Don't call me that,” I snap.
He ignores that. “As for kidnapping... some would call it necessary relocation. For your own safety, I might add.”
I bark a bitter laugh. “My safety? You drugged and dragged me away from my home! Forgive me if I don't feel particularly safe, cher.” I spit the Cajun term of endearment back at him with venom.
A flicker of irritation crosses his face. Good, I got under that cool skin a bit.
I grit my teeth. “Who are you?”
He steps closer until he's nearly looming over me. I refuse to back away, though every nerve in me is screaming danger.
“I'm the one who saved your life last night,” he says.
I blink. “Saved? You call abducting me saving? I didn't ask for your help,” I say coldly. “I was handling it.”
He gives a low chuckle. “Handling it? You were one heartbeat away from a bullet to the skull, Ivy.”
I flinch—mostly because he's right. I remembered Eddie. But I won't give him the satisfaction. “Better a bullet than being held prisoner by a psycho.”
At that, he moves with alarming speed. In a blink he's right in front of me, seizing my chin between his thumb and forefinger. Not painfully, but firmly enough to halt my breath.
“Psycho?” he repeats, his face inches from mine. Those golden eyes bore into me. “If I were the monster you think, you'd already be dead. Or worse. Remember that.”
My pulse skyrockets. He's so close I catch a subtle scent on him—something like pine and smoky spice. It twists my stomach in knots for no reason I can name. I swallow, my throat dry.
He releases my chin with a small push. I stagger back a step, angry at myself for the flicker of fear he surely saw.
He regards me in tense silence for a moment. Then he seems to collect himself, squaring his shoulders. “Enough of this. You want answers. Fine.”
I consider bolting for the front door one more time, but a quick glance confirms multiple locks...and I'm sure more guards outside. I'm deep in the bayou, in their territory. Running now would likely end worse than before.
For now, I'll go along until I understand what I'm dealing with. Gather intel, like any good detective.
He closes the double doors behind us with a definitive click. My gut tenses.
He walks to the far end of the table and turns to face me, arms crossing loosely over his chest. “Sit,” he says, nodding to a chair opposite him.
I remain standing, hugging my arms (suddenly self-conscious about the low neckline of this dress under his gaze). “No thanks. I'd rather stand.”
His expression hardens a fraction. “Suit yourself.”
A beat of silence. The air feels thick with anticipation.
He tilts his head, studying me as if weighing how to begin. Finally, he speaks with a quiet gravity: “Isabella Romano, do you know who I am?”
I lift my chin. “The guy who violently kidnapped me? Beyond that, no. You haven't exactly introduced yourself.”
He nods slightly, as if acknowledging the oversight. “My name is Damian Lucenti.”
Lucenti. My mind immediately flashes to that word—where have I heard it? Suddenly, my mouth goes dry.
“Lucenti...” I repeat. “Like—” No, it can't be. I recall whispers, a half-remembered news story from years ago: the Lucenti pack.
My stomach knots. My father’s terrified face swims up again. The word pack echoes with it.
I stare at Damian, suddenly seeing him in a new light. Those eyes... that strength...
It hits me like a punch: Werewolf.