Chapter 61 #2
I lick my lips without meaning to. My mouth is dry.
My body is doing that traitorous thing again; cataloguing him.
The breadth of his shoulders beneath his leather jacket.
The way the silver streak in his hair has multiplied, like time left fingerprints where violence used to live.
The scar at his lip looks softer somehow, not healed, never healed, but no longer angry.
The extra ink decorating his neck suits him.
“You look…” I stop myself, then decide I’m done censoring the truth. “Handsome.”
His brow lifts a fraction. Amusement flickers. “That’s new.”
“No,” I correct quietly. “It’s not. Just newly irresponsible to admit.”
A low sound leaves his throat. Not a laugh. Something closer to approval. “Handsomely evil right?” he asks, referring to that one time he revealed his face to me.
I exhale through my nose. “That was always your brand.”
The flower shop feels too small now. Too intimate. The cashier pretends very hard not to exist. Soil still stains the floor between us like evidence no one bothered to clean up.
Lucan steps closer.
Not fast. Not predatory. He gives me time to move if I want to.
I don’t.
He lifts his hand slowly, deliberately, like he’s offering it rather than taking anything. The pads of his fingers brush my cheek, bare skin to bare skin, and my breath catches so sharply it feels embarrassing. No gloves, his raw raised skin touches mine.
“You cut your hair,” he murmurs again, thumb resting just below my cheekbone. “It suits you.”
My heart is trying to climb out of my ribs. “Thankyou.”
“I missed you.”
The words hit harder than any apology could, and I would be lying my ass off if I said I hadn’t missed him back.
“I tried not to,” he continues quietly. “For a long time. It didn’t work.”
I close my eyes for half a second. When I open them, he’s still there. Still real. Still not asking permission, but not taking it either.
“Did you retire for me,” I ask. It’s filled with hope.
“I stopped because of you,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”
“That’s worse,” I mutter while my cheeks grow red, and my lips slowly turn into a smile.
“Yes.”
Silence stretches again, but this time it’s different. Softer. Charged without being violent. The kind of quiet that doesn’t demand blood.
“I read your article,” he says again.
“I know,” I reply. “You already confessed to being my biggest fan.”
He hums. “You called me a monster.”
“You wanted that.” I remember him.
“You didn’t lie.”
I shrug. “Journalistic integrity.”
A pause. Then, quietly: “You saw me.”
The sentence lands heavy, familiar.
“Yes,” I say. “And I still do.”
His thumb moves slightly, tracing a line along my jaw. “I don’t want to disappear again,” he says. “Not from you.”
My chest tightens painfully. “Lucan—”
“I know,” he interrupts softly. “I know what I am. I know what I’ve done. I know the world would prefer me to stay a myth you survived.”
He lowers his hand, just enough to give me space, but doesn’t step back.
“But I’m choosing something,” he continues. “For the first time without coercion. Without contracts. Without chemical inevitability.”
I hold his gaze. “And that something is…?”
“You.”
The word is simple. Devastating.
“I want you,” he says, no poetry, no drama. “If you’ll still have me.”
My pulse is deafening.
I think of therapy. Of words like agency and reclamation. I think of the way my life rebuilt itself around scars instead of pretending they weren’t there. I think of the art auction. Of the three drawings bought by an invisible hand that knew exactly what they meant.
“You bought my work,” I say quietly.
“Yes.”
“You hung it in your bunker.”
“Yes.”
“You live underground surrounded by my flowers.”
“Yes.”
I shake my head, a smile threatening despite myself. “You’re insane.”
He leans in just enough that his forehead almost touches mine. “And you’re dating a retired hitman. We all have flaws.”
I snort. “Dating?”
“Eventually,” he says calmly. “If you don’t have anyone arrest me first, that be a shame.”
I laugh. I actually laugh, the sound startled and real and loud.
“God,” I mutter. “This is how I die. In a flower shop. Choosing the worst possible man.”
Lucan’s lips brush my temple, not a kiss—just a promise of proximity. “Statistically,” he murmurs, “I’m no longer the worst.”
I pull back just enough to look at him. “You’re not cured.”
“No.”
I nod slowly. “Good.”
His brow furrows. “Good?”
“Yes,” I reply.
He studies me. “And what are you choosing, Elara Vance?”
I inhale.
“I’m choosing you, you freak. And you know that.”
Something like relief crosses his face. Joy, and something steadier. I bend down, pick up the bag of soil, and hand it to him.
“If you’re staying,” I say, “you’re helping me repot my plants.”
He takes it without hesitation. “I’ve disposed of bodies,” he says solemnly. “I can handle soil.”
“Lucan!” I smack his chest playfully.
We walk out of the flower shop together.
Side by side.
Two survivors.
One monster.
One woman who decided monsters don’t get the last word.
And a story to die for—
just not mine.
END