BGM Recommendation: "On Our Knees" – Nick Leng
Lucian was in bed.
A woman lay beneath him—moaning, trembling, sin-soft skin wrapped in silk sheets.She was obsessed with his body. He gave her everything.
And just when the moment peaked—
His phone rang.
Lucian stopped. Instantly.
Like a mad dog yanked back by a leash—Cold. Controlled. No hesitation.
If it was her, he always picked up.
Didn't matter what city he was in.
Didn't matter whose bed he was in.
Two rings. No more. Always Lilith.
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Lucian had changed.
He wasn't that wild little boy anymore. Not even close.
Thick eyebrows, sharp eyes, close-cropped hair. The black stud in his ear gleamed under the nightlight. There was a cold, clean violence in the way he moved—a precision carved from training, from blood, from war.
The earring? A gift from Lilith.
"Low maintenance," she'd said. "Suits you."
When he fought or went on missions, he carried the air of a mad dog—eyes black, brutal, and merciless. Except for a few brothers who grew up with him, everyone else kept their distance. No one dared stare too long.
He only listened to one person: Lilith.
If someone insulted her—didn't matter if it was some underworld "boss"—he'd break their teeth.
If someone looked at her the wrong way—he'd gouge out their eyes.
They were both raised by a mercenary battalion. They trained in ruins, slept beside corpses, learned to shoot before they could read.
Together, they rose to power, becoming the most feared and unpredictable duo in the double J-organization.
Lucian never gave his enemies time to breathe.
At one negotiation, the moment the other side tried something slick, he smashed the man's face into the glass table and beat him down—fist after fist after fist.
"What did you say about her?"
Guards flinched and went for their guns—too slow.
His men already had barrels aimed between their eyes.
The room froze. Only the sound of bone against skin and the desperate gasps of a man losing teeth.
Until a calm voice came through the earpiece.
"That's enough."
Lilith.
Lucian licked the blood from his lip, wiped his hand clean, adjusted his ring like nothing happened, and stood.
"You hear that?" he said to the half-conscious man. "She said enough."
He walked out like it was just another Tuesday.
But everyone in that room knew:
If that voice had come half a second later… the man would've died.
—
No one could understand the dynamic between them.
A mad dog, people call him. A man—violent, defiant, untamed. Yet before her, he lowered his head. Followed commands. Put his claws away.
Maybe it was because she was even more dangerous.
Or maybe… because he'd loved her since the day she pulled him out of hell.
—
There was a time he studied abroad. Grew out his hair, let it curl a bit. From a distance, he looked like a soft exchange student.
Lilith told him to smile more. Try living like a normal guy.
He tried.
But the longer you looked at him, the more you'd realize—he never smiled with his heart.
Because the things burned into his bones… never left.
He never lacked female attention.
Lilith once said: "If you're going to date, date someone worth it. Someone high-end."
That's when he started to understand.
There was something beyond survival. Something called desire.
He gave it a shot—relationships, sex, fleeting touches.
But the kind of women he dated… they weren't average.
They were heirs to business empires, daughters of the elite.
Lucian was tall, striking, sharp-edged like a blade. The cold gleam of his earring, the necklace with the tiny talisman at his throat. That dangerous mix of beauty and violence—he was pure animal magnetism.
Even the most polished heiresses blushed when he looked their way.
They chased him, invited him to parties, whispered offers in his ear—
Some of them even begged him to stay the night.
He didn't always say no.
He didn't fear desire.
He embraced it.
Let it take over.
On those nights, his tongue traced collarbones. Fingers slid slow over skin. He was attentive, precise. A machine designed to ruin.
They moaned, gasped, clung to him like he was oxygen.
Sheets crumpled.
Bodies burned.
He moved like it was muscle memory—exact, unforgiving.
But always, always, at the peak—
Her phone call came.
And every time—
He stopped.
Like a mad dog hit with a command.
Eyes clearing.
Breath stilled.
Didn't matter where he was.
Didn't matter who was beneath him.
Didn't matter if the room still reeked of perfume and sweat.
If it was her—
He answered. Two rings. Max.
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The woman under him would go from breathless to shocked to pissed.
"You serious right now?"
"Mm." He'd nod, walk into the bathroom, pull his clothes on. No emotion. No backward glance.
Like everything they'd done was just a warm-up drill.
To him—
One word from Lilith was louder than all the world's moans.
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He could make women scream.
Make them remember his name.
But after he came, he'd lie there, staring at the ceiling like a corpse.
They'd curl against him, ask, "What are you thinking about?"
Eyes closed, he never answered.
But in his head, the thought always came:
If I were on Lilith's couch right now, that'd be enough.
Even hearing her cough… would be better than this.
They didn't get it.
Couldn't fill the void.
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That night, the club lights were dim.
He lounged on a leather sofa, one arm around a woman's waist, the other draped over his knee.
His gaze drifted.
She leaned in, voice sticky with perfume and alcohol.
"You seem… distracted."
Lucian smiled without warmth. Said nothing.
Instead, he grabbed her jaw and kissed her.
It wasn't love.
It was hunger. Ownership. Fire.
His teeth traced her jawline.
His lips scorched her skin.
Every breath was pure violence.
She melted. Thought she had him. Thought she'd won.
She didn't.
Because he never looked at her.
No matter how soft her body was, she'd never be the one who made him drop his shoulders.
Her voice?
Couldn't compare to a single word from the woman he served.
Then—
The phone rang.
He stopped mid-kiss. Let go.
She blinked, confused.
"Where are you going?"
He didn't answer.
Just glanced at the screen:
[Boss]
The name burned into his bones.
Two rings in—he picked up.
His voice, now soft. Gentle.
"…Boss."
On the other end: Lilith.
"Come back."
He whispered, "Okay."
Hung up.
Left nothing but a curt:
"I've got things to do. We'll talk later."
Then he turned.
Grabbed his jacket.
Slid behind the wheel of his silver sports car.
And drove like hell toward the airport.
Didn't look back.
The woman sat on the sofa, still flushed, too stunned to rage.
The gifts he'd given her—expensive, polished, meaningless—sat untouched.
She wasn't the first to be kissed by him, then discarded.
Wouldn't be the last.
But everyone knew:
He only answered to Lilith.
The woman who once pulled him from a pile of corpses, taught him to shoot, taught him to survive—
When she called, he always came.
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"He didn't ask when. He didn't ask where.
She called, and he came.
Because that's what weapons do — when they've found their master."