Villainess Marked For Her Alpha-Chapter 50: La Lune d’Or

As apology for ditching the conference—and that teasing tickle ambush—Hellen whisked Emily to La Lune d’Or, the city’s whisper-only restaurant famed for velvet ropes and impossible reservations; Hellen had locked theirs three weeks prior, pulling strings from supplier dinners and old favours.

Evening draped the sleek black SUV in twilight indigo as they cruised coastal highway, moon swelling fat and silver above crashing waves, city lights twinkling distant like scattered pearls.

"You’ve removed your bandages," Emily noted from passenger seat, floral maxi pooling elegant over her knees, emerald eyes flicking to Hellen’s hands on the wheel—faint pink scars tracing forearms like faded lightning.

"Yes. They were really troubling me." Hellen flexed her fingers subtle on leather grip, drawing a deep steadying breath, calming the storm still simmering from office heat.

"You lied to me then?"

"What lie did I tell you?"

"You told me that you still aren’t healed. But look at you—the injuries are almost healed."

"Are you sad that I healed quickly? Did you want to feed me by your hands?"

Emily blushed, looking away. "Don’t say these kinds of things! Also, yes—I am happy! I am really happy that you healed."

She’d nearly lost control hugging Emily—chests squashed plush through silk and chiffon, breaths mingling jasmine-citrus hot, her trapped beneath like a perfect prey. Utterly cute, eyes wide panic—kiss had teetered on lips’ edge, reined only by iron will.

"Why are you driving?" Emily teased, ponytail swaying as she glanced sideways. "I could’ve handled it."

"I’d be faster, Emily." Hellen’s eyes crinkled smirk, ponytail loose over navy blazer, accelerator dipping smooth.

"Show-off."

Moonlight bathed the garage as Hellen pulled into the valet shadow, engine purring silent. She circled quick, opening Emily’s door with gallant flourish, gloved hand extended. "My lady, please step out."

"You really are a show-off." Emily grinned, bare legs swinging graceful from the maxi, heel clicking pavement as she rose—then halted, Hellen towering close, broad frame eclipsing garage lights. "Where did you buy those gloves from? They really suit you."

"From a mall, I guess. Do you want me to gift these to you?"

"No! It’s fine—I was just admiring it, okay?"

"Wait, Emily." Hellen’s blonde ponytail brushed warm against Emily’s cheek like a golden whisper, her long fingers reaching gentle but sure to comb through the raven waves—taming wild fly-aways with deft strokes, twisting them deftly into a soft chignon that draped elegant over Emily’s nape, secured with a pearl clip from her own pocket.

Moonlight from the garage’s high vents silvered the strands, garage air thick with engine oil and ocean brine. "Your hair’s messy—can’t have you looking less than perfect for La Lune d’Or." She had a teasing smile on her face.

"Whatever," Emily huffed playful, though heat pricked her cheeks already, floral maxi fluttering faint in the confined space as she tilted her chin defiant. "I still look beautiful."

Hellen’s eyes melted molten slow, thumb grazing Emily’s temple feather-light—skin tingling electric under the touch, lingering a breath too long. "You always are." The words landed husky, sincere, blonde ponytail swaying as she stepped back fraction, navy blazer framing her tall silhouette against the SUV’s gleam.

Emily blushed crimson deep, ducking emerald eyes to the pavement, maxi slits parting shy at her calves, pulse fluttering rabbit-fast under chiffon. "Stop with the cheesy lines. People might call you gay."

"I don’t care what they whisper." Hellen’s arm snaked warm and possessive around Emily’s waist, her honey-citrus scent mixed with linen’s scent, flooded close as she pulled her flush—curves yielding plush to firm muscle, breast brushing blazer through thin floral silk. "Besides, we’re friends, right? Close ones."

Emily’s breath hitched soft, warmth blooming traitorous low. "...Yes."

"So, do you like your new hairstyle?"

"It’s ’your’ hairstyle. You forced your hairstyle on me."

"You look good. My hairstyle suits you."

"Will you stop praising me?"

"Okay, if that’s what you want, I will stop. Tell me—that day with Reyes—paparazzi chase you after the park, movies?"

"No," Emily admitted, voice small against Hellen’s side, steps syncing as they emerged from garage shadow toward the restaurant’s gilded doors—velvet ropes shimmering under art-deco spotlights, fountain burble masking distant waves. "It was too late. They didn’t clock me slipping out. Then again, I’m not that famous... yet."

Hellen’s hold tightened protective, broad palm splaying warm across Emily’s hip, guiding her like precious cargo. "Yeah? Just stay close to me, okay?" This woman was really a fool. That day she got lucky, but tonight—she wouldn’t be.

"Why’re you wrapping your arms around me like this?" Emily’s pulse skipped wild against Hellen’s ribs, body leaning instinctive despite the question—maxi fabric rasping soft between them.

"Will you keep quiet?" Hellen rumbled low, pressing Emily’s soft body snug against her taller frame—breasts to breast through silk and chiffon, hips aligned shield-like, blonde ponytail draping Emily’s shoulder like she already had claimed the woman in her arms. "Don’t try to get separate from me. At all." They strode unified toward the entrance, valets scrambling crisp white gloves.

Paparazzi swarmed instant—flashes detonating white-hot like gunfire staccato, chaotic shouts erupting from velvet shadows— "Emily! Hellen! Over here! Helly Paws scoop? Dating rumours? Co-owners or couple? Smile for the tabloids! Hellen, are you gay?!"

Cameras shoved lenses inches from flushed faces, bulbs popping relentless frenzy, elbows jabbing rude as phones thrust high.

"Where did they come from?!" Emily yelped sharp, ducking instinctive into Hellen’s chest—arms flailing half-shield, raven chignon tickling linen, floral maxi tangling at thighs from the crush.

"Didn’t I tell you?" Hellen rumbled calm thunder over the din, free arm batting a swinging mic aside effortless, her hold ironclad as valets muscled ropes wide—blonde ponytail whipping wild like a victory banner amid the storm, eyes daring any lens closer.

Her eyes made the paparazzi scared of her—no one dared to get close to them, much less take the photo of the woman in her arms. No one told them Hellen Jacksen was such a scary alpha. A dominant alpha—yes. But not scary. They instinctively lowered their cameras as they allowed them to walk into the restaurant.