Chapter 2 #2
Lucian follows at his own pace, coat half-unbuttoned, blood still trailing from his hand. He doesn’t bother to wrap it. He just watches me as if trying to decide whether I’m dangerous or just stupid.
“I could’ve had your tongue cut out for that,” he says.
“You still should.” I shoot back, breathless. “You’d have one less problem to deal with.”
For a moment, he says nothing. Then: “You’re not a problem.”
He gestures for one of the men—Vincent, I think—to take me upstairs. We start moving again. The house smells like cedar and clean smoke, faintly expensive. Somewhere above us, music plays—soft piano, the kind that doesn’t belong in a house full of bloodlines and guns.
When we reach the top of the stairs, the man opens a door to a guest suite that’s bigger than my entire apartment downtown. I’m shoved inside.
Vincent lingers in the doorway. “Don’t try anything stupid. There are guards on every floor.”
“Good,” I say. “I’d hate to get lonely.”
He smirks, shuts the door, and leaves me in silence.
The first thing I do is pull the damn ribbon off my neck. It’s slick with melted snow, the knot tight enough that it leaves a faint red mark on my skin. I throw it across the room. It lands on the bed like a threat dressed as a gift.
The room itself is absurd—white sheets, silver lamps, a view of the frozen lake out back. I should be grateful. I should be terrified. Instead, I’m both, which feels worse.
I pace for a while, just to keep from sitting still. My reflection in the window looks like someone else—hair messy, lip split, blood drying at the corner of my mouth.
Lucian’s blood.
The thought shouldn’t make my pulse jump, but it does. It’s not the taste I can’t forget—it’s his reaction. He didn’t hit me. Didn’t even raise his voice. He looked at me like I’d done something interesting. Like I was worth noticing.
I hate that part the most.
Because under all the fury and humiliation, there’s something else crawling in my chest—a curiosity I don’t want. I’ve grown up around men like him, men who kill for profit and call it protection, men who love the sound of their own power. But Lucian isn’t like them.
He’s quieter. Controlled. Dangerous, sure, but not loud about it. That kind of calm scares me more than shouting ever could.
I drop onto the edge of the bed and press the heel of my hand to my forehead. The whole situation feels surreal. Hours ago, I was asleep in my own house. Now I’m in enemy territory, a living message wrapped in a bow.
My father’s words echo in my head. You’ll be treated well if you behave.
Yeah, right.
There’s a knock at the door. My body tenses automatically. It opens before I answer.
Lucian steps inside, no guards this time. He’s changed into a black sweater and slacks, sleeves rolled to his forearms. The cut on his hand has been cleaned, but not bandaged. The faint smear of blood is still there, a reminder.
He closes the door behind him and studies me. “Comfortable?”
I glare. “Depends on your definition.”
“Mine involves not being dead.”
“Then sure. Super comfortable.”
A ghost of a smile touches his mouth. He walks to the small bar at the corner of the room and pours himself a drink. The glass catches the light as he swirls it.
“You think your father sent you here because he hates you,” he says finally.
I don’t answer.
“He didn’t. He sent you because he’s weak.” He turns, eyes meeting mine. “Because he thought giving me something young and loud and full of fight would buy him forgiveness.”
I swallow hard. “And did it?”
Lucian takes a slow sip. “We’ll see.”
He sets the glass down, then crosses to me. Every step he takes feels deliberate, measured, like he’s testing the space between us.
“Stand up,” he says quietly.
For a second, I consider refusing. But something in his tone—calm, unyielding—makes my body move before my brain decides to. I stand.
He’s close enough now that I can smell his cologne, something dark and expensive. His gaze drifts to the faint red mark at my throat from the ribbon.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“I’m cold.”
“Liar.”
His hand lifts, almost like before, but this time he doesn’t touch me. His knuckles hover an inch from my face, the air between us heavy. I can feel his heat even through that small distance.
“You’re going to stay here,” he says. “You’ll have food, clothes, and freedom to walk the grounds if you behave. But you don’t leave the property. Ever.”
“And if I try?”
He finally lets his fingers touch my chin—light, almost careful. “Then I’ll remind you who you belong to.”
The words hit harder than I expect. I slap his hand away, heart pounding. “I don’t belong to anyone.”
Lucian just watches me, unbothered. He turns to leave, pausing at the door. “Dinner’s at eight. Don’t make me send someone to fetch you.”
Then he’s gone.
The silence that follows feels alive.
I sink back onto the bed, exhaling hard. The window still shows the snow falling outside, soft and relentless. The ribbon lies across the sheets like a scarlet question mark.
My jaw aches where I bit him. My tongue still tastes faintly metallic.
I tell myself I don’t care what he thinks. That I’m not afraid of him, that I’m planning my escape already.
But somewhere deep down, beneath the anger and the adrenaline, I know the truth. For the first time in my life, I met someone I can’t read—someone who might actually be worse than the stories.
And I can still taste his blood on my tongue.