The elevator dropped us straight into the underground garage like a secret handshake between the penthouse and the city's underbelly. Black SUVs lined up like obedient wolves, engines already purring low and hungry. Lucien strode ahead, coat flaring behind him, and I followed two steps back, dressed head-to-toe in black tactical fabric that hugged too well and moved too silently. The clothes fit like they'd been waiting for me. That thought made my stomach flip.
He slid into the middle vehicle without a word. I hesitated for half a heartbeat before climbing in beside him. The door closed with the soft finality of a coffin lid. The driver pulled out smoothly, merging into traffic like we were invisible. I stared out the tinted window, watching the city slide past in muted grays and silvers. My reflection looked like a stranger—sharper jaw, darker eyes, someone who belonged in shadows now.
Lucien didn't speak at first. He scrolled through his phone, thumb moving with lazy precision, replying to messages that made the screen glow briefly red. Every few seconds the necklace at my throat warmed, a subtle pulse that synced with my quickening heartbeat. I wondered if he could see the numbers climbing on whatever app he had open. Probably. The thought made me shift in my seat.
"First rule," he said without looking up. "You don't speak unless I ask you a question. You don't look anyone in the eye unless they're trying to kill me. You stay within arm's reach at all times. Clear?"
I nodded once, sharp.
"Words, puppy."
"Yes," I bit out.
He glanced sideways, mouth twitching. "Better. Second rule: if I say down, you drop. No questions. No hesitation. Bullets don't wait for manners."
My fingers flexed against my thigh. No gun yet. Just the weight of expectation pressing harder than any weapon.
The car slowed outside a nondescript brick building downtown, the kind that looked abandoned until you noticed the cameras tucked under the eaves like watchful birds. A man in a dark suit opened the rear door before we even stopped. Lucien stepped out. I followed, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his back.
Inside, the air smelled of old money and gun oil. We moved through a narrow hallway, past closed doors that leaked low voices and the occasional metallic click. At the end, a heavy oak door swung open into a conference room that could have doubled as a war room. Long table. Twelve chairs. Eleven already filled with men who looked like they ate nails for breakfast. They stood when Lucien entered. Not out of politeness. Out of survival instinct.
I stayed at his shoulder as he took the head of the table. He didn't sit. Neither did I.
"Sit," he told the room.
They sat. Fast.
I remained standing behind his chair like a living shadow. My pulse thrummed in my ears. Every pair of eyes flicked to me once, assessed, then slid away. I was the new thing. The unknown variable. I could feel their curiosity like static on my skin.
Lucien leaned forward, forearms on the table. "Update on the eastern docks."
A man with a scar running from temple to jaw spoke first. Voice gravel. "Shipment arrives Thursday. Customs is greased. But the Moretti crew's sniffing around. Word is they're planning a grab."
Lucien's expression didn't change. "How many?"
"Eight, maybe ten. Armed heavy."
A ripple of tension moved through the room. I felt it in the way shoulders tightened, fingers twitched toward concealed holsters.
Lucien turned his head just enough to look up at me. "Thoughts?"
The question hit like a spotlight. Every head swiveled. I swallowed. "They'll hit the truck before it reaches the warehouse. Ambush on the access road. Fewer cameras. Easier exit."
Silence stretched thin and dangerous.
Scar-face snorted. "Kid's got opinions now?"
Lucien's voice cut through smooth and cold. "The kid took a knife to me last night and lived. He sees angles you miss when you're too busy flexing."
Scar-face shut up. Fast.
Lucien's gaze returned to me. Something flickered in those ice-blue depths—approval, maybe. Or amusement. "Continue."
I spoke before I could overthink it. "If they're coming heavy, they'll have a spotter on the overpass. Take that out first. Then flank the truck from both sides. You'll need at least two vehicles waiting at the turnoff, engines hot, drivers ready to ram if necessary."
More silence. Then a low murmur of grudging agreement from the far end of the table.
Lucien leaned back. "You heard him. Adjust the plan. Dismissed."
Chairs scraped. Men filed out. Scar-face lingered a second longer, gave me one hard look, then left.
The room emptied until it was just us.
Lucien stood slowly, turned, and stepped into my space. Close enough that I could count the tiny flecks of silver in his irises. "You just spoke in my meeting."
"You asked."
"I did." His hand came up, fingers brushing the chain at my throat. "And you didn't freeze. You didn't stutter. You thought like someone who's already bleeding."
My breath caught. "I'm not bleeding."
"Not yet." His thumb traced the pendant once, slow and deliberate. "But you will. And when you do, you'll remember this moment. The first time you stood in my shadow and didn't flinch."
He dropped his hand. Stepped back.
"Come. We have another stop."
I followed him out, legs steady even though my heart was doing acrobatics. The necklace pulsed again, faster now, and I knew he felt every frantic beat.
First shadow.
First taste of the leash.
And god help me, it didn't feel as suffocating as I'd expected.
It felt like direction.
For the first time in months, I wasn't drifting.
I was tethered.
And the tether had a heartbeat that matched mine perfectly.