Chapter 9
Lucian
“Elias?” I ask.
I slip out of him and turn his face towards me. He fucking passed out. I check his pulse. His heart seems like it’s trying to jump out of his neck but nothing out of the ordinary.
I chuckle at his blissful sleeping face, before gathering him in my arms and walking through the door that connects my private office with my bedroom. I lay him on my bed gently, careful not to wake him. Bruises in the shape of my hands are starting to bloom around his hips.
I start to wonder if it was too much for him, if I pushed him over the line. If I hurt him.
My heart quivers in my chest. No. No I can’t worry for him. That’s not what this is.
I shrug on my robe and go into the black marble bathroom. I run hot water into the jacuzzi tub, dropping some lavender oil into the water. Do I have anything for bruises? I look in my medicine cabinet digging around the emergency medical supplies.
Nothing. I should probably stock up on some basics if Elias and I are to continue our sexual affairs. I can’t have my guest bearing my marks even if he’s supposedly my prisoner.
I call Mara for some tea before I return to the bedroom. Elias is asleep in a ball on my bed. He looks fragile like this. I trace his cheekbones with my fingertips. His face is always so hard and angry. A mask to protect himself, but here, like this he’s so...
Beautiful.
The thought surprises me. I am not gentle. I do not write poems of my lovers’ names. I leave them marked, bruised, and wanting. But for some reason I don’t want Elias to feel that way.
I carry the young man to the bath dipping his body in gently. He sighs as the water envelops him, rippling along his skin. I take a washcloth and try to clean the mess away. The lube, the come, the violence. I clean it all away until he inhales deeply.
Elias’s eyes flutter open. His eyebrows scrunch in an adorable way as he tries to place himself.
“Lucian?”
“I’m here.”
“Are you...bathing me?” He smiles like he’s drunk from bubbly champagne.
A blush threatens to claw up my neck, but I chalk it up to the steam from the bath. “It’s called after care. I felt bad because you passed out on my desk.”
The red on Elias’s cheeks is unmistakable. “No, I didn’t.”
I laugh, throwing the used washcloth in the hamper. “You most definitely did. I thought I’d killed you.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Not the way I thought you were going to kill me.”
“Ha. Ha,” I say sarcastically.
I pull out a fluffy black towel and offer him a hand. “Be careful.”
Elias rises from the tub. His gorgeous lithe body glistening like Aphrodite as he grabs my hand. “Fuck.”
“Alright?”
“No, I’m sore.” Elias lets me wrap him in the towel, snuggling into my neck. “You killed me.”
“Well, its a good thing we don’t have anything to do today, hm?” I kiss the top of his head.
“Really? I thought you had a meeting downtown?” Elias waits as I pull out another robe and hand it to him.
I shrug. “I’ll have Hartford go. I’m tired.”
I dry him carefully, like he might bruise under my hands if I press too hard.
Which is absurd, considering what I’ve already done to him.
My fingers know the exact weight of his body, the places that make him gasp, the spots that make him tense—but now I move slower, deliberately dulling that instinct.
Control isn’t always about pressure. Sometimes it’s restraint.
I guide him into the robe and tie it for him when his hands fumble. He watches me do it, eyes heavy, lashes still clumped with steam. There’s no defiance in his gaze right now. No sharpness. Just trust, raw and unguarded, and it lands in my chest like a warning shot.
I shouldn’t be seeing this. I shouldn’t be caring for him like a bird fallen from his nest, but I can’t help it. Something stirs violently in my chest every time the thought crosses my mind to leave him be.
I lead him back to the bedroom and Mara’s tea is waiting on the side table, steam curling upward. She knows better than to linger. Elias settles on the bed with a hiss when his muscles protest, and I hand him the cup.
“Drink. It’ll help with the muscle pain,” I tell him.
“Yes, sir,” he says automatically, then freezes like he’s said too much.
His ears turn pink under the low light.
I pretend not to notice, turning away to pour a cup for myself. When I look back, he’s watching me again. Always watching, like he’s trying to memorize the way I move. Like I might disappear if he looks away.
“Movie?” I ask because silence feels dangerous.
His face lights up just a fraction. “You watch movies?”
“I own a television,” I deadpan. “You know I exist out of my profession, don’t you?”
That earns me a soft laugh. Not the sharp, challenging sound he usually gives me. This one is quieter. Real.
I flip the tv on to one of those channels that’s always running movies from the early 2000’s. I don’t care what we watch, I just want to fill the silence.
Why am I doing this? I ought to have put him in his bed sticky and ruined.
I sit back against the headboard and pull him with me without asking. He goes easily, curling into my side like he belongs there. I put on something mindless—old action film, explosions and bad dialogue. The kind of thing you don’t have to feel.
Elias tucks his legs up, careful of his hips, and rests against my chest. I can feel the steady thump of his heart through the thin fabric of the robe. Still fast. Always fast. Like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.
My hand settles on his arm, thumb brushing back and forth in a slow, grounding rhythm before I realize I’m doing it.
This is a mistake.
The movie drones on. His breathing evens out. His head slips from my shoulder to my lap, cheek pressed into my thigh. He sighs—deep, content, unguarded—and my body reacts before my mind does, tension coiling low in my gut, not with want but with something worse.
Attachment.
I look down at him. His mouth is slightly open, lashes dark against flushed cheeks. The defiant man who snaps at me in meetings, who bares his teeth like a cornered animal, is gone. What’s left is young and tired and softer than anyone has ever allowed him to be.
Including me.
I brush his hair back from his forehead. He stirs, frowning, then relaxes when my hand stays where it is.
“Lucian,” he murmurs, half-asleep.
“I’m here,” I say again, and this time it feels like a promise.
“You’re so warm.” He falls fully asleep in my lap. Dead weight. Trusting me to hold him there.
I don’t move.
Warm.
The credits roll. Another movie starts. Hours slip by unnoticed while the world outside my bedroom keeps turning—meetings postponed, orders waiting, blood debts unresolved. The Romano empire doesn’t pause for quiet afternoons or sleeping handsome men. But I do.
I imagine, unbidden, a different version of this room.
Sunlight instead of blackout curtains. No guards posted outside the door.
No names whispered with fear. Elias older, surer of himself, laughing without checking my expression first. A life where my hands aren’t instruments of violence by default.
A life I don’t get to have.
The weight of it settles in my chest, heavy and familiar. This is the cost of the crown. You can want softness. You just can’t keep it.
Elias shifts, nestling closer. My fingers tighten reflexively, like I can hold the moment in place if I don’t let go.
I know better.
Still, I stay exactly where I am, letting him sleep, letting myself pretend—just for this afternoon—that the Devil of the North End can be gentle, and that gentleness doesn’t have to be punished. All I want is to feel normal. To know him.
Elias stirs before the next movie finishes, shifting in my lap with a soft, disgruntled sound. His eyes crack open, unfocused, then flick up to me like he’s checking whether this is still allowed.
“You’re still here,” he murmurs.
“Yes,” I say simply.
He hums, satisfied, and settles again. His brows knit together. “You’re…thinking too loud.”
I snort. “That’s not possible.”
“It is for you,” he says, pushing himself upright with a small wince. He doesn’t pull away, though. He stays close, leaning into my chest, fingers fisting lightly in the fabric of my robe like an anchor.
“You do that thing with your jaw.”
I hadn’t realized I was clenching it.
I reach for the remote and pause the movie. The sudden quiet feels heavier than gunfire. Elias glances at the frozen screen, then back at me.
“What?” he asks.
I hesitate.
This is stupid. I interrogate men for a living. I extract truths with fear and blood and leverage. But the idea of asking Elias anything—of prying something open and finding it fragile—makes my chest tighten.
Still, the questions have been circling since the bath. Since the way he trusted me to touch him gently.
“What do you like to watch?” I ask finally.
He blinks. “Movies?”
“Yes. Movies,” I repeat, like I haven’t just dismantled entire organizations without batting an eye.
A slow smile spreads across his face. Not sharp. Not challenging. Just…fond. Like he finds me amusing.
“That’s what you’re thinking about?” he asks.
I shrug. “Seemed relevant.”
“To what?”
“To you. The situation.” I shrug averting my eyes to glance at the tv.
His smile softens further, something warm blooming behind his eyes. He tilts his head, studying me in a way that feels dangerously close to understanding.
“I like old stuff,” he says after a moment. “Black-and-white movies. Musicals. Things where people sing about their feelings instead of shooting each other.”
I huff. “Sounds unrealistic.”
“That’s the point,” he says easily. “I like stories where things work out. Where people get happy endings.”
My throat tightens. I nod once, committing it to memory like it’s a weapons schematic.
“Any favorites?” I ask.
“Singin’ in the Rain,” he says without hesitation. “And Roman Holiday. Audrey Hepburn is perfect.”
I picture him watching those movies somewhere safe, tucked away from the world that sharpened him into a blade. The image doesn’t sit comfortably beside the reality of what his family handed him over to.
“Do you watch the Oscars?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He laughs outright at that, a bright, surprised sound. “You’re serious?”
I scowl. “I don’t tend to joke, sweetheart.”
“It’s a cute question,” he says, grinning. “Yes. I make a whole thing of it. I predict winners. I get mad when they snub people. My brothers used to pretend they didn’t care, but they always watched with me.”
Used to.
I let that hang between us, then carefully steer away from the edge.
“You dress up?” I ask.
“Obviously,” he says. “At least from the waist up. I critique the fashion like it’s my job.”
I shake my head. “I never would’ve guessed.”
“I know,” he says softly. “That’s why I like that you’re asking.”
That lands harder than I expect.
I shift slightly, and he instinctively adjusts with me, settling back into my lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His fingers trace idle patterns on my chest.
“What about you?” he asks. “What do you like?”
I scoff. “This isn’t about me.”
“Too bad,” he says. “I answered. You’re turn.”
I consider deflecting. It’s what I always do. But something about the way he’s looking at me—open, curious, unafraid—makes lying feel cheap.
“I don’t watch much,” I admit. “When I do, it’s usually whatever is on. Terrible chick flicks. Horror movies. Too many action films with no plot.”
“That explains a lot,” he mutters.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I said Singing in The Rain and you looked clueless.”
I chuckle. “I don’t have much time or tastes for musicals.”
He smiles, then grows thoughtful. “Do you ever wish you could just…be normal?”
The question isn’t accusatory. It’s gentle. Almost hopeful.
I look down at him. At the boy who was traded for peace and still believes in happy endings.
“Sometimes,” I say quietly.
He nods like that’s enough. Like he isn’t trying to fix me. Just understand.
He yawns, the sound small and unguarded, and his head drops back against my chest. I pick up the remote and rent Singin in the Rain. Music hums through my room. My hand finds his hair again without conscious thought, fingers threading through silk-soft strands.
“Lucian?” he murmurs, already drifting.
“Yes?”
“Thank you…for asking.”
I don’t answer. I don’t trust my voice.
He falls asleep a second time, this one deeper than the first, completely at ease.
The memories of the movie lulling him into something I don’t understand.
I stay still, memorizing the weight of him, the sound of his breathing, the dangerous pull of imagining a future where questions like these aren’t rare.
Where gentleness doesn’t feel like a sin.
I know better than to hope.
But for this afternoon, I let myself wonder what kind of man I might have been if someone had asked me these questions first.
And what kind of man Elias is becoming, curled warm and safe in my arms.