Chapter 10
Elias
Isleep in Lucian’s bed now.
It isn’t something we discussed. There was no order, no negotiation, no sharp look that said this is how it will be. It just…happened. Quietly. Like most things that matter.
The first night, I wake up tangled in black sheets that smell like him—clean soap under something darker, something iron-sharp that never quite leaves. I panic for half a second, muscles tightening, brain scrambling to remember where I am and what I might have done wrong.
Then I feel the weight of his arm across my waist.
Heavy. Certain. Possessive in a way that doesn’t make me feel safe. I go back to sleep.
After that, it becomes routine. I leave my room untouched; the bed made every morning by staff who don’t comment on the fact that no one has slept in it. I keep a few things in Lucian’s bathroom now. A toothbrush. A hoodie I like. The book I pretend to read but mostly just hold when I can’t sleep.
Lucian doesn’t say anything about it. He never has to. His room swallows me whole, and somehow, I fit.
There are nights he isn’t there when I fall asleep.
Those are the hardest. I lie in his bed anyway, staring at the ceiling, listening to the sounds of the house shift around me.
Distant doors. Footsteps. The low hum of a place that never truly rests.
I tell myself I’m not waiting. That I’m just used to this room now.
That’s a lie.
One night, after he works especially late, I try to be good. For some reason I felt the need to test if we could survive with space between us. I take myself back to my assigned room, lie down in a bed that feels too wide and too unfamiliar, and stare at the wall until my chest feels tight.
I don’t sleep. I feel like the walls are closing in. A prison cell coated in a layer of paint and gold finishings.
I must drift eventually, because the next thing I know, strong arms slide beneath me. I gasp, instinct flaring, but it dies the moment I register the scent.
“Lucian?”
“Yes.” He says only one word, but I can hear the hundreds of things racing through his mind.
He doesn’t speak further. He never does on nights like this. He lifts me like 185 pounds of muscle is nothing, my face pressed against his chest, his heartbeat hard and fast beneath my ear. He carries me down the hall and back into his room like this is where I belong.
I don’t argue. I never try to leave his room again.
After that, I stop pretending. I leave my things where they are. Curl up in his bed even when he isn’t there yet. Sometimes I fall asleep clutching his pillow, which is humiliating and I refuse to think about it too deeply.
When Lucian comes home late, I hear him before I feel him.
The door opens quietly. The room changes. The air goes taut, like it knows he’s arrived.
He smells different on those nights.
Metal. Blood. Smoke. Something raw and violent that crawls into my lungs and settles there. I wake up every time, no matter how deep I was sleeping. My body recognizes him before my mind does.
He moves slowly, deliberately, like he’s holding himself together by force. He strips out of his clothes piece by piece, each item discarded with careful precision, like he’s afraid of what might happen if he rushes.
I don’t speak. I’ve learned better.
He slides into bed behind me, bare skin to bare skin, and for a moment he just…hesitates. Like he’s unsure. Like he doesn’t deserve to touch me when he smells like this.
Then his arms wrap around me.
Tight. Almost desperate.
He presses his face into the back of my neck, breath shuddering, and I feel him shake. Just once. A single crack in the armor.
He doesn’t relax until I turn.
I roll onto my back and guide him without words, hands on his shoulders, until he’s half on top of me, head tucked against my chest. He exhales like he’s been holding his breath all night.
I run my fingers through his hair.
It’s softer than it looks. Always surprises me.
His ear rests over my heart, and I can feel the moment it steadies him. Like he needs proof. Like the sound of me alive and warm and real anchors him back in his body.
He smells like sin on these nights. Like everything he’s done and everything he refuses to regret. I don’t ask questions. I don’t want the answers.
I just hold him.
Sometimes his hands grip me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear. Sometimes he murmurs my name so quietly I almost miss it. Sometimes he just breathes, deep and slow, until the tension bleeds out of him.
Then there are the times where his hands drift, and moans slip from my mouth. He’s never rough in the night.
He passes his hands over me gently. Presses me into the mattress as he whispers praise in my ear. And I take him. I take all of him because I can feel that he needs me. That he wants to feel grounded in me.
I think, distantly, that this must be what aftercare looks like for men like him. Not softness. Not words. Just contact. Just proof that the world hasn’t taken everything.
I don’t mind being that proof.
In the mornings, he’s back to himself. Sharp. Controlled. Fully dressed before I even open my eyes. He presses a kiss to my temple like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t undo me every time, and tells me to sleep in.
I do.
I’m learning his rhythms. The way he holds his coffee mug. The way he goes quiet before a bad day. The way his thumb strokes my wrist when he thinks I’m asleep.
I make myself at home in his room because he’s already made himself at home in me.
I know better than to think this means safety. Or permanence. Or love.
But at night, when the Devil comes home smelling like blood and fear and buries his face against my chest like a sinner begging for absolution, I let myself believe—just a little—that I am something good he doesn’t want to lose.
??? ??? ???
The kitchen is warm in a way the rest of the house never quite is.
Sunlight spills through the tall windows, catching on the polished counters and turning the dust motes into something almost soft. It smells like bread and coffee and whatever Mara has simmering on the stove. Normal smells. Domestic ones. The kind that make it easy to forget where I am.
Mara stands at the island, dark hair pulled into a loose braid, sleeves rolled up as she kneads dough with practiced ease. She’s humming under her breath, something old and familiar, and I sit on one of the stools nearby with my chin in my hands, watching her work.
This is how most of our mornings go when Lucian is out.
When he’s gone, the house exhales. Not because it’s afraid of him—if anything, it’s built around his presence—but because everything feels…paused. Like the world beyond the gates can’t quite reach us here.
Mara glances up and catches me staring.
“What?” she asks, amused. “Is your coffee burnt? I ordered new beans from this place in Seattle, but I hadn’t tried it myself.”
“No, no it’s great actually,” I say quickly. “Nothings on my mind.”
Then, because she knows me too well to let that slide, I sigh. “Okay, fine. Something.”
She arches a brow. “And what is that?”
I smile despite myself. “How long have you worked for Lucian?”
Her hands slow, just a little.
It’s subtle. If I didn’t spend most of my life watching people for signs of danger, I might’ve missed it. She looks down at the dough, folding it over itself with care, like she’s choosing how much to give me.
“Long time,” she says eventually.
“That’s not an answer,” I point out.
She snorts. “You’re picking up bad habits.”
“Living with Lucian does that.”
That earns me a quiet laugh. She wipes her hands on a towel and leans back against the counter, studying me in that calm, assessing way she has. Not suspicious. Just…present.
“Seven years,” she says. “Give or take.”
My eyes widen. “You’re only twenty-six.”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “I was young.”
I hesitate, then ask softly, “Did you…know him before?”
“Before?”
“Before he was...” I trail off trying to find the right words.
“The devil?” She raises her eyebrows and smiles.
“Well, yes.”
Mara sighs and folds her arms, gaze drifting toward the window like the answer might be written out there somewhere. “I grew up in the south side. Different family. Different rules.”
I know what that means. I don’t interrupt.
“My father owed money,” she continues. “A lot of it. To people who don’t forgive debt easily. When he died, the debt didn’t.”
My stomach tightens.
“They decided the easiest way to settle it was to marry me off,” she says, tone light, almost casual. “One of their men. Older. Mean. Already had a reputation of leaving his women blue and purple.” She hugs herself.
I swallow. “You didn’t have a choice.”
“Nope.”
She shrugs, like it’s ancient history. Like it didn’t nearly ruin her life.
“And Lucian?” I ask quietly.
Her mouth curves into something softer. “He was young, then. New. Angry. Terrifying in that very controlled way of his.”
I can picture it too easily.
“Riley and I…we were dating at the time,” She pauses, then laughs under her breath. “We were stupid. Careless. We thought we were hiding it.”
“Riley as in Lucian’s brother?” I ask, just to make sure I understand.
“His baby brother,” she confirms. “We went to the same private school And Lucian knew. He always knows when something is happening under his nose.”
I brace myself for the rest of the story. Violence. Punishment. Something ugly.
Instead, Mara says, “He bought my contract.”
I blink. “Your…what?”
“The marriage agreement,” she explains. “He paid my father’s debt. Paid extra, actually. Enough that they couldn’t argue. Told them I belonged to his household now.”
My heart thuds. “Just like that?”
“Just like that,” she says. “No conditions. No threats. Just a signature and a wire transfer. Riley was about ready to kill for me. Lucian couldn’t handle his brother being in that kind of shit. He never wanted this life for him.”
“That’s…” I trail off, searching for the right word. It feels too small. “That’s huge.”
“It was,” she agrees. “I thought there’d be strings. I waited for them. They never came.”