THE LYCAN'S GOLD DIGGER WIFE

Lacy's POV

Anger boils in my veins at how they are not giving up on making my life a living hell here.

I wasn't the one who asked their psycho Lycan to choose me.

I huff and walk towards the door, hesitating before yanking the door open.

"Please, leave me alone. You've-" I finally look up and it's...

Vincent.

He leans against the doorframe.

Like he owns the world.

Those broad shoulders fill the space, arms crossed over his chest.

His dark eyes sweep over me, lingering just a little too long on my robe.

He takes a while before staring at me. I'm glaring at him.

What is he doing here?

My breath catches for half a second, then my anger shoves it down.

"You finally remembered you have a wife?" I snap, my voice sharp enough to cut.

He smirks, his head tilting slightly. "Wife?" he echoes, as if the word is a joke. "I don't recall a wedding."

"Yes, there was no wedding, but there's a contract, and on that contract, I am your WIFE!"

Something inside me cracks. I clench my fists; my fingernails digging into my palm.

"Your pack treats me like a joke," I say, my voice shaking, but I'm not afraid. It's humiliation -a deep-seated shame.

"They think you regret bringing me here. They think I'm-"

"A mistake?" he supplies smoothly.

I flinch.

His smirk deepens.

"You abandoned me here," I hiss. "Without a word, without a single explanation. Just threw me into a pack that hates me."

"And yet," he says, pushing off the doorframe, and attempts to step into the room, but I block him, "you're still here. You're not dead, so you're good."

"Is that supposed to be a good thing?" I throw my hands up in the air in frustration, and he takes that as a chance to fully enter the room.

"They haven't torn you to shreds or given you to our enemies, so yes. It's a good thing."

His presence feels suffocating. His scent fills the space, and it's all I can breathe in.

Maybe I should leave?

I absolutely cannot be in the same room with him.

I take a step back, but he follows, immediately closing the door and then steps away from me as if being close to me would burn him.

"You haven't been struggling too much, have you?" he murmurs, his eyes flicking to my still-damp hair. "I assume the money's been useful."

My stomach twists. "That's all I am to you? A transaction?"

"Did you expect something else?" His tone is mocking, amused. "A fairytale? A doting husband?"

I hate the way my throat tightens.

"Your pack thinks I'm a joke," I whisper, hating that my voice wavers. "That you don't even want me."

He steps closer.

"Do you want me to prove them wrong? Do you want me to shut them all up and respect you? Do you even deserve that respect?"

My breath stutters. I am left gaping at him and his hurtful words. Just because I signed myself to him doesn't mean I am any less human.

Tears prickle my eyes, but I refuse to let them drop. Not in front of this monster.

"You're, you're- I hate you!" I scream at him.

His eyes darken for one second.

Then he laughs; it's a deep mocking chuckle that sends me shivering.

"Stay away from me."

There is no amusement in his eyes, and he starts to stalk towards me.

"Stay away from me!"

My shouts fall on deaf ears as he continues to move closer.

With each step he takes forward, I take another backwards.

With such speed, I find myself held up against the wall, and my hands are above my head in his tight grip.

His left thumb strokes once, a slow, lazy drag against my pulse.

Is he going to kill me for speaking back? I broke one of the rules.

I jerk back. "Don't, please, I-"

"Don't what?" he murmurs. "Touch my wife?"

The way he says it, taunting me the more, frightens me. I try to press back, but there isn't anywhere else for me to go. His vast body presses into me, and the wall presses into my back.

"You've been waiting for me to show up, haven't you?" His fingers retrace my wrist before trailing up, brushing the inside of my arm. "Maybe you like the attention, even if it's just mockery."

"You're disgusting," I spit.

He chuckles and stares at me, grounding me in place.

His right hand lifts, and before I can stop him, not like I could with the position I was in, his fingers are on my chin, tilting my head up. His thumb traces my jaw. My pulse pounds in my ears.

"I could make them stop," he murmurs. "If you beg me to."

His nose grazes the curve of my neck, inhaling deeply. My entire body locks up.

His breath is warm against my skin.

My heart pounds.

I should shove him away. Tell him to leave. Demand my dignity back.

"Do you want me to?" He inhales again. He must be able to hear how fast my heart is beating.

But then his hand skims lower, his knuckles grazing the edge of my robe, barely touching me, but enough to make my skin burn.

Slowly, so slowly, he lifts his head, his lips near my ear.

When I finally meet his gaze, I see it-

A heated stare, A hunger I recognize.

One I was too familiar with, especially from all the men I had met.

Lust.

He presses himself closer to me as though he wants to join us together, skin to skin.

He glances from my eyes to my lips and over and over.

I know what is coming, but I need to stop it before it happens.

But as he leans in and is about an inch from my lips, I find myself closing my eyes and accepting his mouth on mine.