The shower scalded my skin until it turned pink, but it couldn't burn away the memory of Lucien's mouth on mine. I stood under the spray longer than necessary, letting the water pound against my shoulders while I tried to scrub the taste of whiskey and possession from my tongue. It didn't work. The flavor lingered, stubborn and intoxicating, like smoke that had settled deep in my lungs.
When I finally stepped out, steam curling around me like a shroud, I found fresh clothes laid out on the bed: another black shirt, fitted enough to show every line of tension in my body, and dark jeans that hugged without restricting. No belt this time. No reminder of leather around my wrists. Just fabric that felt too expensive, too intentional.
I dressed quickly, avoiding my reflection in the full-length mirror. I already knew what I'd see: a man who looked more like Lucien's creation than the desperate stray who'd tried to rob him forty-eight hours ago.
Downstairs, the dining room glowed soft amber. A long ebony table set for two. Candles flickering in silver holders. Plates already waiting under domes. The smell hit me first—roasted garlic, fresh herbs, something rich and meaty that made my mouth water despite the knot in my stomach.
Lucien stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, back to me, glass of red wine in hand. The city sprawled below like a glittering trap. He didn't turn when I entered, but the necklace warmed against my chest, a silent acknowledgment.
"Sit," he said.
I did. The chair was heavy, upholstered in velvet that felt obscene against my thighs.
He finally turned. His eyes swept over me once, slow and deliberate, like he was checking for cracks. "You look good in black."
I didn't answer. Words felt dangerous tonight.
He took the seat opposite me, lifted the dome from my plate. Steak, perfectly seared, asparagus glistening with butter, a small mountain of truffle risotto. My stomach growled loud enough to betray me.
"Eat," he ordered softly. "You'll need the strength."
I picked up the knife and fork. The metal felt cold and foreign. I cut into the steak. Blood pooled on the plate, dark and glossy.
We ate in silence for a while. The only sounds were silverware clinking, the faint crackle of candles, and the distant hum of the city far below. Every bite tasted better than the last, and I hated how grateful I felt.
Halfway through, he spoke. "You kissed me back."
My fork froze. Heat rushed to my face. I stared at my plate, watching juice spread across porcelain.
"Look at me."
I forced my eyes up. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze burned.
"Say it."
I swallowed. "I kissed you back."
"Why?"
The question hung between us like a blade. I could lie. I could deflect. But something in the way he watched me made honesty feel inevitable.
"Because I wanted to," I said quietly. "And because I hate that I wanted to."
A slow smile curved his mouth. Not mocking. Almost… satisfied. "Honesty. Good."
He reached across the table, took my right hand in his. I let him. His thumb brushed over my knuckles, gentle in a way that felt more threatening than any grip he'd used before.
"You have a cut here," he murmured, turning my hand palm-up. A thin line of red sliced across the base of my thumb—from the alley fight, or maybe the warehouse scuffle. I hadn't even noticed.
He stood, walked around the table, and knelt beside my chair. The sight of Lucien Varkis on his knees should have been ridiculous. It wasn't. It was terrifyingly intimate.
From his pocket he pulled a small black case. Opened it. Inside: antiseptic wipes, gauze, surgical tape, a tiny tube of ointment. He worked in silence, cleaning the cut with careful strokes, pressing a pad over it, taping it down with precision.
His head was bowed. Dark hair falling slightly over his forehead. The candlelight painted gold along the sharp line of his jaw.
I should have pulled away. I didn't.
When he finished, he didn't let go. Just held my hand between both of his, thumb stroking over the tape in slow circles.
"You're bleeding for me already," he said, voice low. "And you didn't even complain."
"It's just a scratch."
"It's mine." He looked up then, eyes locking with mine. "Every drop. Every scar. Every breath you take while you're under my roof. Mine."
The words sank into me like hooks. I felt them catch, felt the pull.
He rose slowly, leaned down, and pressed his lips to the taped bandage. Soft. Reverent. A kiss that felt more like a brand than affection.
Then he straightened, released my hand, and returned to his seat as if nothing had happened.
"Finish your meal," he said calmly. "We have an early start tomorrow. More meetings. More plans. And you'll be standing at my shoulder the entire time."
I stared at the bandage on my thumb. It looked small. Insignificant. But it throbbed in time with my heartbeat.
I picked up my fork again.
The steak tasted like iron now.
Like blood.
Like surrender.
And when I finally looked up at him across the table, he was watching me with that same quiet intensity, like he could already see every crack forming in the walls I'd tried to keep standing.
I didn't look away this time.
I let him see.
Because maybe the truth was worse than any lie I could tell myself.
Maybe I was already bleeding for him willingly.
And maybe—just maybe—I liked the way it felt.