Page 12 of The Cuddle Clause

Maggie

I stared at my reflection and tried not to overthink it. Which, of course, meant I was absolutely overthinking it.

The new outfit—a fitted skirt in deep plum and a soft, eggshell-cream blouse—actually looked good. Like, good good. Polished but still me. My legs looked longer. My waist existed. Best of all, I didn’t feel like an imposter in someone else’s skin.

I’d pulled my hair into a top knot, because nothing screamed “semi-professional and slightly terrified” like a bun I tried way too hard to make look effortless.

I’d kept the makeup light—just enough blush to look alive, a coat of mascara to make me look awake, and a sheer pink gloss that I told myself came across as approachable and emotionally stable but in reality was the only one I could find in my bag.

I stared at the mirror for another beat, resisting the urge to change everything. Then I turned off the light and stepped out into the living room.

Roman was standing near the window, checking something on his phone.

He was wearing dark jeans and a short-sleeved button-up shirt that fit really well.

The sleeves hugged his arms, and the top button was left undone, revealing just a hint of collarbone that my brain decided to notice without my consent.

He looked up and smiled. It wasn’t the usual smug smirk or mischievous glint. This smile was warm, steady, and a little too sincere.

“Shall we?” he asked.

My feet didn’t move at first. My brain glitched for a full two seconds. Why did he have to look like that? He wasn’t just pulling-it-together handsome. He was steal-your-breath, meet-my-parents, ruin-your-life handsome.

I somehow managed to nod, grab my bag, and follow him out.

We drove in comfortable silence, but occasionally, tension flared between us. I tried to focus on the scenery instead of the way Roman’s forearm brushed against the steering wheel or how the car smelled like cedar and his cologne.

When we hit the tree line just past the edge of town, everything changed.

The pack territory spread out in front of us like something out of a magazine shoot for Rustic Gothic Estate Weekly.

Fenced-in pastures. Rolling green hills.

Impossibly manicured gardens. Gravel crunched under the tires as we wound up the drive, and then I saw it.

The mansion.

Three stories of stone wrapped in ivy and arrogance.

Tall, arched windows that were framed in wrought iron gleamed like mirrors.

Balconies lined the second and third floors, and towering oaks stood like sentinels along the perimeter.

The front doors were double-wide and carved with wolves chasing each other in a circle.

“Okay, wow. This is… not what I was expecting.”

Roman chuckled. “It’s been in the pack for decades. Maybe a century. The outside’s been restored a few times, but the bones are original.”

“Original bones. Great. Love that for us.”

He pulled up to the front, and before I could reach for the door, a man in a fitted black vest stepped forward, opened it, and offered a hand I absolutely did not know how to accept.

Roman walked around the front of the car and held out his arm.

I hesitated just long enough to feel the awkward bloom in my chest. But then I remembered…this was a performance. A show of unity. We were pretending to be together, romantically.

So I looped my arm through his. He gave me a subtle squeeze, then we walked inside.

The place smelled expensive, like citrus and money and something spicy I couldn’t place. The marble floors were polished to a mirror shine, and the ceiling above us stretched so high it could host its own weather system. Crystal chandeliers glittered with a casual opulence that made my throat dry.

A woman in a sleek black suit appeared at our right, her posture so perfect it looked sculpted. “Good evening, Mr. Velasquez. Ms. James.”

I glanced sideways at Roman, raising an eyebrow.

“This is Heather,” he said. “One of Lucien’s personal assistants.”

Heather extended a perfectly manicured hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. James. Welcome.”

I shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, too.”

She gave me a polite smile. “Lucien is expecting you. He’s at the bar. Please follow me.”

As we walked through the house, I felt like I was stepping into a movie I hadn’t auditioned for.

The hallways were long, with dark paneled wood and intricate crown molding.

Massive paintings of wolves—some mid-shift, some full beast—lined the walls.

There were alcoves with velvet seating, antique lamps glowing like fireflies, and doors I suspected led to rooms full of secrets I was not emotionally prepared for.

At the end of one hallway, Heather pressed a button, and sleek elevator doors slid open. We stepped inside, and I caught Roman watching me from the corner of his eye.

“You okay?” he asked.

I nodded, though my hands were clenched around my clutch, and I was pretty sure I’d forgotten how to blink.

The doors opened to a massive bar. Black marble floors. Dozens of flat-screen monitors playing everything from the news to shifter sports leagues I’d never heard of. The back wall was floor-to-ceiling shelves of liquor, bottles glowing under backlighting like stained glass in a chapel of chaos.

And somewhere in the middle of it all was Lucien.

But I hadn’t made it that far yet. I was still standing there, in a too-perfect skirt, beside a man I wasn’t actually dating, about to meet the alpha of a literal werewolf pack.

No pressure.

The click of my heels on the marble echoed just loud enough to make me regret every life choice that led to this moment.

I tried to look calm, but my nerves were strung so tight I felt like one wrong glance would snap me in half.

My stomach was doing that slow, nauseous roll it did right before dentist appointments and emotionally loaded conversations.

I followed Roman’s lead through the bar, but my eyes had already locked on the man sitting alone at the center.

Tall. Chiseled jaw. Crystal tumbler in one hand, the other draped over the back of his barstool like it was a throne.

His legs were crossed. Designer suit, silver cufflinks that probably cost more than my entire car.

“That has to be Lucien,” I whispered.

But before Roman could confirm or deny, there was movement behind him.

Another man stood, rising from a booth like a mirage made of muscle and drama.

He was huge. Like, superhero-level. His platinum-blond hair was slicked back and held in place with a silky black headscarf.

He wore more rings than a Bond villain, and his black shirt plunged down his chest with the kind of confidence I could only aspire to.

His cologne hit the air before he did—citrus, sandalwood, and something that screamed kneel, peasant.

Then he turned.

“Romanus, darling!” he boomed, placing a small black device in his pocket and flinging his arms open. “You left me with the emotional weight of brunch planning all by myself. I’ve been dying.”

Oh. God. He was hot and sparkly. A gay Thor with fashion sense and a flair for dramatics. I was not equipped for this.

Roman gave him a half-hearted glare as he was swept into a hug, his feet lifting an inch off the floor.

“Still not a hugger,” he grunted.

Lucien waved that off with a flick of glittering fingers. “You love it.”

Then his golden eyes landed on me, and I braced myself. He approached like a man strutting to his own theme music, taking both of my hands in his and kissing the air above my knuckles.

“And this,” he said, as if narrating for the room, “must be the woman who finally convinced our Roman to stop emotionally nesting in that sad little apartment of his. Welcome to Casa Del Soulfire, my darling.”

Casa. Del. Soulfire.

I blinked.

Lucien’s smile widened. “You’re radiant.”

He spoke like there was a camera crew just out of frame, and I honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if he turned and addressed them directly.

With a grand sweep of his arm, he gestured for us to sit.

He ordered drinks without consulting a menu, then turned to compliment the waitress’s earrings and offered to send her a crystal recommendation for the blockage in her throat chakra.

I had officially entered another dimension.

Lucien’s drink arrived first. It was glacial and dramatic with a slice of starfruit curling along the rim. He sipped, then leaned forward on a bejeweled fist.

“So,” he said. “How did you two lovebirds meet?”

I froze. Roman and I had not agreed on a story. We’d spent hours talking about what to wear, what to say if I blanked, how to survive the vibe check. But the actual “how we met” part?

We’d decided to wing it in the moment, and I was deeply regretting that now.

Roman cleared his throat. “Funny story, actually. There was a cursed book. Minor explosion. We were at a flea market. Maggie caught me in her arms…like a fireman carry.”

Lucien blinked once. Slowly. One perfectly arched brow rose like a curtain. “Hmm.”

I smiled through the panic. “He… loves flea markets,” I said. “And books. It’s honestly kind of hot.”

Then, trying to sell it, I reached over and grabbed Roman’s hand. He stiffened immediately, like I’d handed him a raccoon instead of a romantic gesture.

I leaned closer and whispered, “You good?”

He nodded quickly, ears going pink, eyes blinking like he forgot how people worked.

Lucien, of course, was already pivoting. “Maggie, darling, what is it you do?”

“Graphic design,” I said quickly, and then panicked harder. “I mean, freelance branding. Mostly supernatural clients. Sigils, ancient symbols, sexy typography, that sort of thing.” I wasn’t sure why the lie came so easily. Maybe impressing Lucien meant more to me than I let on.

Lucien gasped. “Typography is everything.” He leaned back, swirling his drink. “I assume Roman told you about the mandatory mating policy? All eligible shifters twenty-one and older must bond for the sake of pack stability.”