Natasha's fingers trembled above the untouched cup of coffee. The steam curled upward, warm and innocent—yet she recoiled from it as if it were poison itself.
"I… I'm not feeling well," she whispered. "I'll just drink water."
Lucas didn't look at her.
He kept his arms around Mel—who sat perched stiffly on his lap, barely daring to breathe. His thumb slowly traced circles against her waist, an unspoken reminder of ownership.
Only when Natasha tried to push the cup farther away did he finally lift his gaze.
"Drink the coffee, Natasha."
The softness in his voice was deadlier than a shout.
"Lucas, please—"
He leaned back, tightening his grip on Mel as though showcasing what Natasha had threatened.
"Do you remember that your father—Don Hulio—betrothed you to me? Handed you over like a gift?" His smile curved sharply. "And you remember how you repaid that generosity? By touching what belongs to me?"
Natasha's breath shook.
Mel's heart hammered painfully.
"I didn't mean to—"
"Drink," Lucas said.
"This is mercy. You'll take your own life quietly, as respect to your father."
Mel tried to turn away, but Lucas gripped her chin gently—forcing her to witness.
"Eyes open, princesa. Everyone learns."
Natasha reached for the cup with trembling hands.
Mel whispered, "Don't…"
Natasha gave her one broken, apologetic look—then drank.
For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then—
Natasha gasped.
Her body jerked violently.
Blood spilled down her chin, dripping onto the table.
She convulsed on the floor, choking—
until her eyes went dim.
Mel screamed.
Lucas didn't flinch.
"Damien," he said calmly.
Damien stepped forward instantly.
"Burn the body. Send the ashes to Don Hulio."
Mel stared, frozen, her entire world trembling apart.
Blood smeared across the tile. The room smelled of death and coffee.
Lucas lifted a spoon and brought it to Mel's lips.
"Eat."
Mel obeyed—numb, terrified.
"That's my girl," he murmured.
"You're shaking."
She swallowed mechanically, her eyes darting toward the door where Natasha's corpse had disappeared. Lucas noticed—instantly.
He smiled.
"Still bothered by that?"
He stroked her cheek.
"Then maybe a distraction will help."
He lifted Mel from his lap and guided her down the dim hallway to a heavy metal door. The cold lock clicked open. A breath of darkness escaped.
"Welcome," Lucas whispered.
"To my trophy room."
Mel followed despite her trembling legs.
Down the stairs, into a room filled with chains, cages, sharp instruments—torture embodied in steel.
"You collect… these?" Mel whispered.
Lucas's voice warmed disturbingly.
"I collect things that matter to me."
Mel's eyes caught movement.
A woman in a white robe, chained to the wall.
Her breath hitched.
"And her?" Mel whispered.
Lucas smiled, pride gleaming in his eyes.
"One of my most valuable trophies. Apart from Derick, of course."
Mel stiffened at the name—Derick, her stalker, her nightmare.
"You're sick," she whispered.
Lucas stepped closer, his voice melting into something darker, more intimate.
"You make me sick, Mel."
He lifted her trembling face with two fingers.
"I've killed for power, for business… but Natasha?"
His thumb brushed her cheek.
"She was the first person I killed out of emotion. Because she touched you."
Mel's heart pounded painfully.
Lucas pressed her hand to his chest—forcing her to feel the steady, obsessive rhythm of his heartbeat.
"You hear that?"
His voice shook with a heat she didn't understand.
"You make me feel things I shouldn't feel."
His pulse slammed beneath her palm.
"It's dangerous, Mel. For everyone else."
He leaned closer, breathing her fear like it was incense.
"You try to run in your mind," he murmured. "Your eyes betray you."
He tilted her chin higher.
"But even if you ran to the ends of the earth… I'd find you."
Mel swallowed hard, fear and helplessness spiraling.
Lucas's eyes softened—but the softness held a darker truth.
"You are the calm in every storm I create," he whispered.
"The one soft thing I carve my world around."
"And that's why I can't let anything… or anyone… taint you."
He remembers how Natasha had fallen.
His jaw tightened, possessive and cold.
"Not her," he said quietly.
"Not anyone."
When he looked back at Mel, the obsession in his eyes was complete—ferocious and unmasked.
"You were chosen," Lucas breathed.
"Not for a night. Not for a moment."
His fingers slid beneath her jaw, tilting her face toward his.
"Chosen for forever."
Lucas's fingers twitched—an unmistakable sign Damien had learned to fear.
"Get me my black gloves," Lucas said quietly.
His voice wasn't loud.
It didn't need to be.
Damien was already moving.
Mel stood frozen in the doorway of the trophy room, her breath trapped in her throat as Damien returned and placed the gloves into Lucas's open hand.
"Thank you," Lucas murmured, slipping them on with deliberate calm.
Too calm.
Derick, chained to the metal frame behind them, began shaking violently.
"L-Lucas, please—" Derick's voice cracked, panic breaking through every word. "I—I'm sorry—I won't touch her again—I swear—"
Lucas didn't look at him.
He was studying a tool on the tray beside him—cold steel glinting under the dim lights.
Mel's stomach twisted. She didn't know the name of the tool, but the intent in Lucas's eyes was enough.
"I warned you," Lucas said softly.
"You had one chance. One."
Derick thrashed against the restraints. "No—Lucas, I'm begging you—please—please—"
Lucas turned his head slightly, as if Derick's voice bored him.
"Damien," he said.
Damien stepped forward immediately, silent, steady—yet Mel saw the flicker of dread beneath his controlled stare.
Lucas raised the tool.
Derick screamed.
Mel covered her ears.
She didn't see what Lucas did—she only saw Derick's entire body jolt, his voice tearing into a raw, broken cry that echoed through the steel chamber.
Something wet splattered the ground.
Lucas blinked slowly, his breathing unsteady, a different kind of fever in his eyes. Damien offered him a napkin without saying a word.
Lucas wiped his face clean—almost casually—then exhaled, long and satisfied, as if tension had just drained from him.
"Better," he murmured.
Mel's knees nearly gave out.
Lucas turned toward her, smiling with frightening softness.
"See, princesa? This is what happens when someone tries to take you from me."
She didn't answer.
She couldn't.
Lucas dropped the stained napkin into Damien's hand and brushed past both of them.
"We're not done yet," he said, stepping toward the far door.
Damien guided Mel after him, though she sensed he wished she didn't have to witness more.
Lucas unlocked the next prison.
The door groaned open.
Inside, under the cold light, a woman sat chained to a chair.
She was blonde, in her fifties, skin pale and drawn, eyes hollowed by sleepless nights.
She flinched the moment Lucas stepped in.
"Oh God… no… please…"
Lucas smiled—a slow, unraveling smile.
"Mel," he said, gesturing to the trembling, haggard woman, "meet another… souvenir."
Mel felt her world tilt, her breath shattering in her chest.
Lucas's obsession was no longer hidden.
It was consuming him.
And it was pulling her into the darkness with him.