The second stop was colder, darker, and smelled faintly of rust and old cigarettes. An abandoned textile warehouse on the edge of the industrial district, windows boarded up like blind eyes, only one side door propped open with a brick. Lucien walked in first, coat unbuttoned, hands loose at his sides. I stayed close, the black tactical gear making me feel like a ghost trailing a storm cloud.
Inside, the space opened into a cavern of concrete and steel beams. Three men waited near the center, lit by a single hanging work light that swung gently, throwing long shadows across the floor. They straightened when they saw Lucien, but their eyes kept sliding to me—measuring, curious, a little hungry. One of them, broad-shouldered with knuckles scarred white, cracked his neck like he was warming up for something fun.
Lucien stopped ten feet away. "You said you had information."
The broad one stepped forward, smirking. "We do. But we want to know who the fresh meat is first."
Lucien didn't blink. "He's mine."
The words landed heavy, possessive, final. Heat crawled up my neck. I felt the necklace pulse once, sharp and quick, like it approved.
Broad-guy laughed, low and rough. "Yours, huh? Looks like he just rolled off the street. What's he do besides stand pretty?"
I opened my mouth—instinct, stupid instinct—but Lucien's hand shot out, fingers curling around my wrist in a grip that was iron wrapped in velvet. Not painful. Just immovable. A warning.
"Careful," Lucien said softly. "He bites when provoked."
The man's smirk faltered. He glanced at my face, then at Lucien's hand on me, then back again. Something shifted in his expression—respect, maybe, or fear dressed up as caution. "Fine. Information's yours. Moretti's moving product through the docks Thursday. Eight men. Two vans. They're planning to hit your truck at the turnoff, just like the kid said earlier."
Lucien's thumb brushed the inside of my wrist once, a single slow stroke, before he released me. "Anything else?"
"They've got a sniper on the overpass. Russian. Expensive. They're paying him double to make sure no one walks away."
Silence stretched, thick and electric. Lucien tilted his head. "You've been very helpful."
Broad-guy shrugged. "We like getting paid."
Lucien reached into his coat, pulled out an envelope thick with cash, and tossed it at the man's feet. It landed with a satisfying slap. "Then enjoy."
The three of them bent to pick it up, distracted for half a second.
That was all it took.
One of the other men—skinny, twitchy—lunged, knife flashing in the dim light. Not at Lucien. At me.
I didn't think. I just moved.
I caught his wrist mid-swing, twisted hard the way Lucien had twisted mine in the alley. The knife clattered. I drove my knee into his gut, felt the air punch out of him, then shoved him back into a stack of old crates. Wood splintered. He went down gasping.
The other two froze.
Lucien hadn't moved an inch.
He turned to me slowly, eyes bright with something dark and delighted. "Well," he murmured. "Look at that."
My chest heaved. Adrenaline sang in my veins, hot and bright. I stared at my own hands like they belonged to someone else.
Broad-guy raised both palms. "We're done here. We're out."
Lucien smiled, slow and predatory. "You are."
They scrambled for the door. The skinny one crawled after them, wheezing.
When the warehouse was empty except for us, Lucien stepped closer. He reached out, cupped my jaw with one hand, thumb pressing lightly against my lower lip. "You moved like you were born for it."
I tried to pull away. He didn't let me.
"You disobeyed the first rule," he said softly. "You spoke without being asked. You acted without my order."
My heart slammed against my ribs. The necklace was practically vibrating now. "He was going to—"
"I know." His voice dropped lower, almost intimate. "And you protected what's mine. That deserves reward."
He leaned in until his breath ghosted my ear. "But it also deserves correction."
Before I could process the words, he spun me around, pushed me forward until my chest hit one of the steel support beams. Cold metal bit through the fabric. His body pressed against my back, solid, unyielding.
"Hands on the beam," he ordered.
I obeyed. Fingers curled around the rough steel.
He reached around, unbuckled my belt with slow, deliberate movements. Leather whispered free. Then he looped it around my wrists, binding them together in front of me, securing them to the beam. Not tight enough to bruise. Tight enough to remind.
I could break free if I tried. I didn't try.
His mouth brushed the back of my neck. "This is for forgetting who gives the orders."
A pause. Then his hand slid down my spine, slow, possessive. "And this… is for being so fucking perfect when you do."
He stepped back.
The warehouse felt colder without him pressed against me.
"Stay," he said. "Think about why you're here. About who you answer to now."
Then he walked away, footsteps echoing until they faded.
I stood there, bound to steel, heart racing, body buzzing with leftover adrenaline and something far more dangerous.
Humiliation burned hot in my cheeks.
But underneath it—god, underneath it—something else bloomed.
Pride.
Because I'd moved.
Because I'd fought.
Because when it mattered, I'd chosen to protect him.
The necklace pulsed again, steady now, like a heartbeat syncing to mine.
And in the silence, I realized the scariest truth of all.
I wasn't just wearing his leash anymore.
I was starting to like the weight.