Page 3 of His Temptation

The headmistress continued, not waiting for a response. “I’ve been against your placement here from the beginning. You are nothing but a disruption, an unruly girl who refuses to adhere to the standards expected of a proper young woman.”

Siobhan arched an eyebrow, her amusement cutting through the fading remnants of exhilaration. “Is that so?”

“You will not ruin this institution’s reputation with your… escapades.” Wright’s lips curled in disdain. “I don’t care whose name you carry. One more incident like this, and I willpersonallyensure your expulsion.

Siobhan held the woman’s gaze, her pulse still steady from the night’s run. Expulsion. The threat should have rattled her, but it didn’t. Because she knew the truth.

She would never belong here. She never had.

But for now, she lowered her gaze just enough to give the illusion of obedience. “Understood, Headmistress.”

Wright sniffed, clearly dissatisfied, but she pivoted on her heel, marching back toward the building.

Siobhan watched her go, lips curling slightly as she whispered under her breath, “If you only knew.”

CHAPTER 1

SIOBHAN

Dublin, Ireland

Present Day

The grandeur of the O'Reilly Estate was nothing short of breathtaking. Chandeliers dripped with crystal, refracting the warm glow of candlelight across gilded walls, and a quartet played soft violin strains that threaded through the murmur of conversation and the clink of champagne flutes. The elite of Dublin moved through the space with practiced ease, the men in sharp tuxedos, the women wrapped in silks and diamonds, every word spoken layered with meaning.

Siobhan lingered at the periphery, a shadow against the opulence, exactly as she intended.

She had no desire to mingle with Dublin’s elite beyond what was necessary. Attending the gala was a calculated move; she sought to quietly evaluate the art on display and acquire pieces for her gallery. The O’Reillys held one of the most exclusive private collections in the city, and tonight’s charity event had been the perfect opportunity to glimpse what might soon find its way onto the market.

Still, it was a risk.

Slipping unnoticed through the city’s most powerful circles was an art form in itself, one she had perfected over the years. She had built a life on invisibility, on staying just out of reach, never leaving a trace. Even now, she had taken precautions—her dark auburn hair pulled into a sleek chignon, the emerald silk of her gown understated, elegant, and unmemorable. She was just another patron, another woman in a sea of wealth and status, no different from the rest.

Except she was different. And there were men here who knew it.

She scanned the room with casual precision, eyes flicking past familiar faces without betraying recognition. A politician from London, speaking too close to a woman who wasn’t his wife. A French businessman she had once overheard discussing offshore accounts with a Russian who’d later disappeared. And—there—near the grand staircase, a man she knew all too well.

Sebastian Wolfe—the wolf-shifter whose family had bastardized their kind into a surname.

The name curled in her gut like acid.

He hadn’t seen her. Not yet. But she recognized the way he moved—an arrogance that came naturally to men who believed themselves untouchable. He wore his wealth like armor, his tailored black tuxedo a perfect fit for his broad frame, his golden hair meticulously styled. MI5 had polished him to perfection, but Siobhan knew what lurked beneath the surface.

He had once vowed to protect her. Had promised forever. Siobhan had soon learned there was a difference between love and possession, and the latter was what Wolfe had promised. But he had turned on her without hesitation to save himself

Her heartbeat remained steady, her breath controlled, but a distant awareness coiled low in her belly. She had been careful—so damn careful. She had buried her name under layers of forged documents and misdirection. If he was here, it wasn’t by chance.

Someone had noticed her.

Turning sharply, she wove through the crowd, slipping past waitstaff and guests alike, her movements fluid and effortless. She needed to leave before he saw her, before he realized that the dead woman he had once claimed as his fiancée was very much alive.

A tray of champagne flutes passed, and she plucked one from the surface without breaking stride, bringing it to her lips just for something to do with her hands. Keep moving. Keep blending.

Another step, another body between them, another inch of safety.

Then, just as she neared the arched doorway leading toward the terrace, a photographer raised his camera. The lens pointed in her direction—not at her, but at the woman beside her, a socialite laughing at something her escort whispered in her ear.

The camera clicked.

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