The first thing Amara noticed was that her pulse had finally stopped trying to drum its way out of her throat.
The second thing she noticed was… well—
that she was still standing dangerously close to Lucien Cullen.
Or rather—
in his arms.
Her brain froze like a buffering video.
Lucien's chest was solid and cold—or it should have been cold—but something about him felt… off. Warm, somehow. Not human warm, not vampire cold, just… right in between. The perfect temperature for bad decisions.
Amara blinked up at him, her hand still clutching his sleeve like it was a lifeline.
Then realization struck like a thunderclap.
"Oh my God," she blurted, stepping back so fast she almost tripped on her own shadow. "I—wow. Okay. That… that was a moment. I don't know what kind of moment, but—definitely a moment."
Lucien's golden eyes followed her with that calm, maddening curiosity of someone who found human panic endearing.
His lips curved into a faint, amused smile—the kind of smile that said, I have seen kingdoms rise and fall, but your flustered face is easily my favorite event of the century.
"I—" Amara started, her voice cracking slightly. "I don't usually do that. Like—grab people. Especially not…" she gestured vaguely at him, " people .... with mythological bone structure."
His smile deepened. "Then I'm honored to be your exception."
"Of course you'd say that," she muttered. "You talk like a walking novel. Next thing you'll tell me is you write poetry when it rains."
Lucien's brow arched slightly. "Only when the thunder's particularly dramatic."
Amara groaned. "You're impossible."
He looked genuinely delighted. "So I've been told."
But inside, Amara's mind was a chaotic storm.
Why him?
She could've messaged Charlie. Or a police officer. Or literally anyone who didn't sparkle in the sunlight and probably had a drawer full of 19th-century waistcoats.
Yet somehow, her panicked brain had gone, You know what would make sense right now? Texting a vampire.
"Ugh," she muttered under her breath. "Brain, you traitor."
She shoved the thought aside, telling herself it was adrenaline. That was all. Definitely not because her heart had briefly decided Lucien Cullen was gravitationally superior to logic.
Totally not that.
Then another thought crept in, uninvited.
He'd felt… warm.
Not vampire friction-warm. Not "room temperature marble" warm. Real, steady, almost human warmth.
Which was—scientifically, magically, Twilight-ly—impossible.
Her brows knit together, confusion flickering. But before she could spiral into overthinking, a voice called softly behind her.
"Amara?"
Bella stood a few steps away, her face pale but calm now. Beside her—because the universe had a twisted sense of humor—stood Edward Cullen, looking like someone had just told him jazz music existed.
His face was frozen in that signature "brooding intensity" that was probably supposed to make mortals swoon.
Unfortunately, all it did was make him look like he hadn't pooped since the Industrial Revolution.
Amara sighed. Loudly. "Oh. It's you."
Edward blinked, clearly offended. "You sound disappointed."
"I'm not disappointed," she said sweetly. "Just… underwhelmed. You should try a smile sometime. It might unfreeze your jaw."
Edward's eyes narrowed slightly, his tone dry as frost. "You seem to have a lot of opinions for someone who nearly ran face-first into a wall."
Amara gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. "Wow. Okay. Ice boy's got jokes now. Careful, you might accidentally develop a personality."
Bella made a small choking noise that suspiciously sounded like a stifled laugh.
Edward folded his arms. "And you might accidentally develop a sense of self-preservation."
Amara shot back instantly, "Not when there's entertainment like this around."
For a split second, the two just glared at each other — the kind of petty, sibling-level tension that could power an entire sitcom episode.
Bella looked between them helplessly, like someone stuck in a very awkward family dinner.
Lucien, who had been standing nearby with all the amused patience of a centuries-old saint, finally stepped in.
He let out a quiet cough, his voice soft and teasing. "Play nice, Miss Amara."
Amara froze mid-retort and turned toward him, irritation flickering across her face like lightning.
Her lips parted — clearly ready with a comeback — but she caught herself.
He'd come for her. He'd shown up, no hesitation, no questions.
So instead of saying what she wanted to ("Don't 'Miss Amara' me, Dracula 2.0"), she pressed her mouth into a thin line and looked away.
Fine. He could have his gentleman act.
She'd let it slide — this once.
But only because, a tiny voice in her head whispered, he came for you.
"I am playing nice," she shot back. "If I wasn't, I'd be asking him whether his eyebrows are legally allowed to frown that hard."
Lucien chuckled softly, the sound low and melodic. It did terrible things to her ability to form coherent thoughts.
"Where are those creeps?" Amara asked, forcing her attention back to reality and away from his unfairly good cheekbones. "The ones chasing us two?"
Bella shook her head, confusion wrinkling her brow. "I don't know. They were right behind us, and then—gone. I heard barking, maybe metal falling, and then nothing."
"Barking?" Amara repeated. "Weird."
That definitely wasn't in the script. In the movie, the creeps made it to the corner, got scared, and ran. Not… vanished.
Butterfly effect, maybe. She sighed. "Well, guess the universe decided to improvise tonight."
Of course, she had no idea that the universe was currently being bullied into helping her by her still-dormant luck ability.
But Amara being Amara, she just assumed she was weirdly blessed by coincidence and snacks.
Amara turned back to Lucien, managing a small smile. "Thanks, by the way. For coming to get us."
Lucien inclined his head, every motion deliberate and elegant. "When I received your message, I came immediately. Didn't have time to reply—I was already driving."
"Oh," she said. "So you speed and quote like a Shakespeare extra. Noted."
A faint, genuine laugh escaped him. "Guilty as charged."
Her lips twitched. He made it very hard to maintain a straight face.
Then her gaze slid toward Edward, who was still glaring silently like a caffeinated statue.
She sighed dramatically. "Serious question—why did he come with you?"
Lucien turned his head toward Edward slowly, gracefully, and the air shifted.
No words were spoken, yet the atmosphere changed.
Edward's posture tightened—then loosened, his jaw unclenching slightly as if some invisible weight had pressed down, then eased.
Lucien's tone was calm, velvet-smooth. "I didn't invite him. He tends to appear where he's least expected… and least wanted."
Amara snorted. "That checks out."
Bella made a face, caught between defending Edward and pretending she didn't know either of them.
Edward looked like he wanted to argue, but his "menacing silence" only made him look constipated again.
Amara crossed her arms. "Okay, so for the record, you both need hobbies."
Before Edward could scowl any harder, Bella's phone rang.
"Jessica?" Bella answered, voice soft. "Yeah, we're fine. Long story. We're coming now."
She hung up and looked at Amara. "Jessica and Angela are waiting for us at the restaurant."
Lucien's lips parted, likely to say something charming and slightly archaic, but Edward beat him to it.
"We'll take you," he said quickly, his voice too tight, too sharp.
Lucien didn't even blink. His smile stayed, but the temperature dropped half a degree. That kind of ancient calm that made lesser men rethink their tone.
He looked at Edward again.
No glare. No words. Just… that quiet command that rolled through the air like thunder you felt in your ribs.
Edward blinked once, posture softening, and whatever comeback he had died unspoken.
Lucien turned back to Amara, the charm sliding seamlessly back into place.
"If you would allow me, Miss Amara," he said, voice rich as velvet, "I'd be honored to drive you both to the restaurant."
Amara blinked. Gentleman much?
"Well," she said, trying not to smile. "When you say it like that, refusing would sound rude."
Lucien inclined his head. "Then I'm grateful for your good manners."
Edward made a sound that was either a sigh or a growl—possibly both.
The car parked nearby wasn't Edward's shiny silver Volvo, but something that looked like money, mystery, and power had a baby.
Sleek black, polished, quiet enough to purr.
Lucien tossed Edward the keys lazily. "You drive," he said. "And do take care, Edward. She's more expensive than you."
He turned to her, opened the door with an elegant bow that probably hadn't gone out of fashion since the 1800s.
"After you, my lady."
Amara arched an eyebrow. "You know this isn't the Victorian era, right?"
"Ah," he murmured, amusement glinting in his eyes. "A shame. I rather liked that century."
She climbed in, muttering under her breath, "He's lucky he's pretty."
Lucien chuckled softly. "And yet, here I am."
Bella slid into the front seat. Edward gripped the wheel, the tension in his jaw screaming resentment. The car started with a low, purring hum that made Amara feel like she'd just stepped into a luxury vampire version of Uber.
As they pulled away, the rain began again—gentle, rhythmic. The soft sound wrapped around them like a heartbeat.
Amara leaned her head against the cool window, watching the droplets chase each other down the glass.
Then Lucien's voice broke the quiet. "You were brave tonight."
She laughed softly. "Brave? I panicked and messaged the wrong person."
He tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming. "Maybe you messaged the right one."
Her lips parted, unsure if he was teasing or something more dangerous. "Don't start with the mysterious lines," she warned. "I've had enough near-death and poetic brooding for one evening."
He smiled faintly. "As you wish."
For a moment, silence filled the car again.
And then—just for a heartbeat—Amara swore she felt it. That warmth again, soft and real, bleeding from his side of the car.
But when she looked, Lucien was only gazing out the window, expression unreadable, a hint of mischief playing on his mouth like he knew something she didn't.
Maybe it was her imagination.
Or maybe—just maybe—something ancient had already begun to stir.
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