Lucas reached her door minutes later, breathing hard, still riding the remnants of his temper. He lifted his fist to knock—
Then froze.
He heard it.
Her cries.
Not soft.Not controlled.Not dramatic.
Raw.Broken.Heart-wrenching.
He lowered his hand, stunned.
A strange heaviness pulled at his chest, something unfamiliar and unwelcome. Guilt? Regret? He wasn't sure—he had never felt it like this before.
He leaned closer unintentionally, trying to understand.Tears.Gasps.Pain.
His jaw clenched.
"Damn it…" he muttered under his breath.
How did he lose control so easily?Why did he say that?Why did he shake her?
He didn't usually let anger win like that. Not with her.
He turned away abruptly, unable to stand outside her door any longer. The sound of her crying was like needles in his skin—pricking, pushing, forcing him to confront what he'd done.
Lucas Watches Through the Camera
He entered his room in the east wing with stiff steps. The silence there felt colder than usual. He walked directly to the panel on the wall and tapped it awake.
Cameras displayed different angles of the house.
He found hers instantly.
The moment the feed loaded, he stopped breathing.
Amara was curled under the small table in her room, arms wrapped tightly around her legs, trembling. Her shoulders shook violently with every sob. She wasn't even wiping her tears anymore—they just kept falling endlessly.
He noticed the bruise on her arm.
A deep, dark imprint of his fingers.
His own handiwork.
Lucas swallowed hard. His chest tightened.
He didn't blink as he stared at the screen—eyes tracing the bruise, her posture, the way she hid in the corner like she was trying to disappear.
Slowly, painfully, realization sank in.
He did this.
Not her fear.Not her silence.Not her past.
Him.
His words rang in his own ears now, harsh and cruel.
"You're the girl whose parents sold her."
He shut his eyes briefly, jaw tightening so hard it almost hurt.He hadn't meant—He hadn't thought—He just—
Lost it.
For a long moment he stood there, staring at her small, shaking form on the screen. He wasn't used to seeing someone crumble because of him. Wasn't used to feeling… responsible for it.
His breath came out uneven.
He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated—at himself, at her reaction, at everything.
He didn't know how to fix this.He wasn't even sure he knew how to apologize—he'd never had to.
But something inside him shifted, uncomfortably.
He couldn't look away from the screen.
And for the first time in a very long time, Lucas felt something close to remorse.
******************************
Lucas didn't move for a long time. He sat there, frozen in front of the surveillance screen, watching Amara cry until her body physically couldn't take any more. Eventually, the sobs faded into silence. She stopped shaking. Her head drooped forward, resting on her knees.
No movement.
No sound.
Lucas's fingers curled tightly around the edge of the desk. For a moment, a strange panic flashed through him—sharp, cold, and unfamiliar. He leaned closer to the screen and tapped the zoom. Stillness. Her small frame looked even smaller curled up under the table.
"Did she… pass out?" he murmured under his breath.
He didn't like how the thought made his chest tighten.
Standing abruptly, he left his room and walked down the hallway toward hers. His strides were controlled, but the hesitation in his body betrayed him. When he reached her door, he froze.
This was the second time that night he found himself standing outside her room, unsure of his own actions.
He reached for the doorknob—then stopped again.
Why was he hesitating?He never hesitated.
After a few seconds, he exhaled slowly, turned the knob, and opened the door as quietly as possible. The room was dim. The air felt heavy, thick with leftover grief. He stepped inside, his footsteps barely audible on the carpet.
It didn't take long to find her.
She was huddled in the same corner beneath the table, body limp with exhaustion, as if she had cried herself into unconsciousness. A few strands of her hair had fallen across her face, sticking to her damp cheek.
Lucas approached her slowly and crouched down. From up close, she looked even more fragile. Her breathing was soft, uneven, and her eyelashes were still wet.
He reached out—hesitated again—and then gently brushed the strand of hair away from her face.
Her skin was still warm.Her eyes were puffy.Her cheeks were streaked with dried tears.
He stared at her for a few seconds longer than he intended.
Then his eyes drifted lower—toward her arm.
He saw it.
The bruise.
Not a faint mark.Not a slight redness.
A deep, unmistakable, ugly imprint of his fingers wrapping around her delicate skin.
Lucas's expression changed instantly. His eyes narrowed, and a subtle shock flickered across his face. He touched the bruise lightly, almost in disbelief.
"Did I really grab her this hard…?" he whispered, barely audible.
He wasn't used to seeing proof of his own strength on someone so small. So soft. He had never needed to restrain his force before. He was a man used to violence, to bloodshed, to breaking bones when necessary. But this—this bruise—looked wrong on her. Wrong in a way that made something jolt inside him.
His jaw clenched as he exhaled heavily.
He slipped one arm under her knees and the other behind her back, lifting her effortlessly. She didn't stir, only let out a faint, tired sigh as her head fell against his chest.
Lucas carried her to the bed and laid her down gently, adjusting her so she wouldn't wake with pain. He took a long moment to look at her face again—peaceful now, but stained with the grief he caused.
He didn't like the feeling that stirred in him.Not guilt.Not remorse.Something else.Something he didn't want to understand.
He turned away sharply and walked to the dresser. Inside the top drawer, he retrieved a small first-aid box. Sitting beside her, he opened the lid and picked up an ointment bottle. He squeezed a bit onto his fingers and touched the bruise as lightly as possible.
Even unconscious, her muscles flinched.
His hands stilled immediately.
He waited for her breathing to settle again before continuing. Slow, careful, controlled motions. Not the violent hands he had used earlier. These were steady, gentle strokes—unfamiliar to him but strangely natural.
When he finished, he placed the ointment back in the box, closed it, and reached for the quilt. He pulled it up over her shoulders, tucking her in as if she were something fragile that needed shielding.
He stared at her for a moment longer, and something tightened in his chest again.
Without another word, he turned off the light and left the room.
************************************************
Back in his own room, he shut the door behind him with more force than necessary. He loosened his tie and walked toward the small bar counter. He grabbed a bottle of deep red wine—something he usually drank only during negotiations or after a successful strike—and poured it into a crystal glass.
His hand paused midpour.
Today hadn't been successful.Not fully.Not emotionally.
He finished pouring and lifted the glass, sipping slowly.
Scenes from the day replayed in his mind with brutal clarity.
Her flinching.Her silence.Her trembling voice.Her bruised arm.Her eyes filled with tears when he'd shouted at her.
He had dealt with blood, betrayal, gunfire, and death without blinking, but watching her cry had unsettled him in a way he wasn't prepared for.
He took a long gulp, letting the wine burn down his throat.
What was she doing to him?
Why did she affect him like this?
Why did he care that she was hurt?
He set the glass down with a soft clink and leaned back against the counter, rubbing his forehead in frustration.
"She is making me lose control," he muttered.
But the truth—uncomfortable as it was—sat heavy in the back of his mind:
He wasn't angry at her.
He was angry at himself.
And for the first time in a long time, Lucas couldn't decide which feeling he hated more.