Chapter 6
JULIAN
The jungle closes around us like a held breath.
Green upon green upon green—too dense, too alive, swallowing the road as if it resents our intrusion. The tires crunch over gravel and wet leaves, the sound muted by humidity so thick it feels like it’s pressing against my skin, listening. I don’t like this place.
I glance sideways at Iris. She’s silent now, which worries me more than the questions did. Her knees are drawn up slightly, hands clenched in the fabric of her dress, gaze fixed out the window as the city disappears behind us.
San Isidro burns tonight.
Coups rarely announce themselves the way films suggest. No grand speeches.
No immediate broadcasts. Just power sliding sideways, control snapping into place behind closed doors.
A military faction aligned with corporate interests and old-money-families terrified of losing their grip on land that’s suddenly worth fortunes because of rare earth metals needed for technology and biopharmaceutical compounds hidden in vines no one bothered to catalog until now.
The signs were there. I noted them, flagged them, and filed reports that said, this is reaching critical levels of tension. But as usual, politics muddled things and delayed anyone taking action.
Despite the chatter, I didn’t think the rebels would attack tonight. I didn’t predict that.
Or the speed with which they moved.
Or Iris.
I tighten my hands on the steering wheel as the road narrows to something barely worthy of the name. This is where the maps are no longer accurate. This is where Lucien’s territory begins.
I shouldn’t have brought her.
That thought comes unbidden—and useless.
Leaving her behind wasn’t an option. Not after the elevator. Not after the violence in the hotel. Not after the safe house was compromised before we even finished sweeping it.
Someone knew where we were going.
Which means someone knows who I am.
I don’t look at Iris when I think that, because I don’t want to see the moment the truth clicks for her. I will protect her, and for just a little longer, I want to remain the Julian she met last night. The Julian she fucked with abandonment in the elevator, just a few hours ago.
The road dips, then climbs. The canopy parts just enough for moonlight to spill through, illuminating the villa as it emerges from the jungle like it grew there rather than being built.
Glass and stone. Open terraces. Low, sprawling lines that follow the slope of the land instead of fighting it. Warm light spills from within, golden against the dark, as if the jungle itself has decided this place may exist in its midst.
I swear under my breath.
“Wow,” Iris murmurs. “Your contacts are… eclectic.”
“That’s one word for it.”
I kill the engine. The silence rushes in, alive with insects and distant animal calls. Something moves in the underbrush. Something large enough to remind me that here, we are not at the top of the food chain.
I step out first, scanning automatically. The air smells like damp earth and flowering vines. A shadow moves behind a window. Someone’s watching us.
“I need you to stay close,” I tell her quietly. “Let me do the talking.”
She lifts an eyebrow. “You’re suddenly very bossy.”
I almost smile. Almost.
The front doors are already open when we reach them.
Lucien Moreau stands framed in the entryway like he’s been expecting us, which he probably has.
He hasn’t changed.
Still tall. Still lean in that deceptively relaxed way that makes men underestimate him right up until they’re bleeding. His dark hair is threaded with more silver than the last time I saw him, but his eyes are the same. Sharp, amused, measuring.
He’s dressed in linen trousers and a loose shirt, barefoot on polished stone, a glass of amber liquid in his hand like this is a dinner party and the capital isn’t imploding a few hours away.
“Julian,” he says, voice smooth, French accent curling around the syllables. “You’re early.”
“I didn’t call ahead,” I reply.
Lucien smiles. “You never do when it matters.”
His gaze slides past me to Iris, and interest sparks in his eyes. “A guest,” he observes, smiling at her. That smile pisses me off.
“She’s a friend,” I say flatly, but with a bite of warning in my tone.
Lucien’s smile deepens. “An exquisite friend.”
I feel something sharp twist in my chest. “Iris,” I say, “this is Lucien Moreau.”
She offers her hand and smiles. “Nice villa.”
Lucien laughs, genuine and warm. He takes her hand briefly, then releases it. “It’s less impressive when you’re running for your life, I imagine.”
Her eyes flick to me. Back to him. “You’re… a friend of Julian’s?”
Lucien and I speak at the same time.
“No,” I say.
“Yes,” Lucien says.
He gestures us inside with a sweep of his hand. “Come. Someone will take care of the car.”
The villa is cool inside. The air stirred gently by slowing moving fans and convection through open walls, carrying jungle sounds with it. Everything is understated luxury: wood, stone, soft light. No ostentation. Nothing that screams steal me.
Lucien moves like a man who belongs in this space. He pours another glass without asking and hands it to Iris.
“For the shock,” he says. “And because you will need it.”
She takes it. Drinks. Coughs slightly.
Lucien watches with faint approval.
“I assume,” he says casually, “that the safe house failed.”
“Yes.”
“Someone knew you’d head that way?”
“Yes.”
“Then you did well to come here.” He finally looks at me fully now. “Though I suspect you’re unhappy about it.”
“I don’t enjoy owing you.”
Lucien shrugs. “You always preferred the illusion of independence.”
I don’t rise to it. “We need shelter. Temporarily.”
“Everything is temporary,” Lucien says. “Even countries.”
He sets his glass down and turns serious. “The coup is moving faster than expected. The palace will fall by morning. Borders will close shortly after.”
Iris stiffens. “The princess—”
Lucien tilts his head. “Is lucky to not be in the country. Her parents might not survive the night.”
She looks at me, something dawning behind her eyes. Her quick mind is connecting the dots. She doesn’t see the full picture yet, but it won’t be long until she does. I shake my head and silently mouth the word “later.” She glares at me but lets it go. For now.
Not noticing our silent exchange, Lucien continues, “My land is protected because of an ancestral trust. I’m not the owner as much as a steward for future generations of San Isidro.
The trust is recognized and enforced by all parties that contributed to this conflict.
No militias can enter without my approval, no royal rules, no corporations.
This land is to remain untouched. But there’s a cost to being my guest.”
“What’s the price?” I ask.
Lucien smiles again, slow and deliberate. “Paperwork.”
I feel a subtle tightening in my gut. The sense that I’ve stepped onto ground that looks solid but isn’t.
He produces a slim folder. “A continuity accord,” he explains lightly. “It specifies your joint standing and mutual responsibility for being guests.”
Tiredness makes my eyes blurry as I skim the document quickly. It’s filled with legal language about trust clauses and something called familiar structures that specifies partnerships between guests staying in the villa. The clause is stated in English and repeated in San Isidran.
Nothing jumps out as being a trap, so I nod. “Fine.”
Iris hesitates, looking between us. “Julian?”
“It’s procedural,” I say. “It keeps you safe.”
Lucien watches her sign with quiet satisfaction.
When she finishes, he takes the folder and closes it. “Welcome,” he says softly, “to my sanctuary.”
The jungle hums outside, relentless and alive.
Something about that energy agitates me, but as I’m coming down from the adrenaline high from the escape out of the city, all I care about is keeping Iris safe.
As a foreign journalist, she’s a high-valued target for the militia currently taking over power.
She’d be an excellent hostage for them to get their message and demands across to the rest of the world.
I don’t even want to think about what could happen to her if they catch her.
As long as I’m alive, I’ll protect her. From the militia. And from Lucien.
I meet the gaze of the man who was once my friend and is now…I don’t know what we are anymore. He smiles at me and laughter dances in his eyes.
Why is he so happy when his country is burning around him?
My gut clenches. Nothing good comes out of Lucien being entertained.