Chapter 6 Lucien
Lucien
I lean against the lamp post and take a long, slow drag on the cigarette in my hand, my eyes on the black and purple monstrosity on the other side of the street.
Christ, I don’t think I’ve ever seen an uglier building.
The place might have been beautiful once–almost certainly, as it’s in an important part of the city–but whoever owns it now should be fucking shot.
Painting an entire building black and then adding gold and purple?
And honestly, that should be all there is to it. An ugly building that I saw while I was out smoking. I should be able to feel sorry for the building itself, then turn and go back into the cafe behind me and get back to work.
But that horrible building currently holds something very important to me, and I can’t stop thinking about her in there on her own, surrounded by people she can’t trust and shouldn’t even be around.
I can’t stop wondering how much she’s pissing them off with that sharp tongue of hers.
Or when I’m going to be able to get my hands on her again. Preferably to shut her the fuck up.
My fingers twitch at the thought, like they’re already preparing to settle down over her mouth and force her to be quiet, and I nearly groan with the tension of it.
I haven’t seen Brooks since I was pulled out of that van, and though I know where she’s been, physically, it’s not enough.
Because she’s with her father–a man I know we can’t trust–and has been in his house, amongst his men. Unarmed. No allies.
Completely helpless.
I do laugh at that, a quick exhalation of breath at how ridiculous it sounded, even in my head. Brooks Landry hasn’t been helpless in years–longer, I suspect–and she would beat the shit out of me if she knew I even thought the words.
Of course the fact that she’s not helpless is also a big part of the problem. Because the girl never seems to shut up about how not helpless she is and what she wants to do to the people she doesn’t like, and that mouth of hers has gotten her in trouble more than once.
God, I hope she hasn’t made them hurt her.
Because if they did, I’m going to have to track them down one by one and show them the meaning of being skinned alive. Slowly, and with as much pain as I can possibly manage. If any of them has laid one fucking hand on her–
I blink, and when I open my eyes, the girl in question is standing in front of me.
Well, not in front of me, but on the other side of the street, in front of that horrible purple building with the golden trim.
And she’s not exactly standing. She’s being shoved around like she definitely did say something to someone that got her in trouble.
The man behind her puts a hand in the small of her back and hustles her forward like he’s removing her from a situation, and her steps are dragging like she doesn’t really want to go.
I take a moment to glance up and down her body once, and catch my breath.
Fuck me, the girl is stunning. She’s wearing black slacks and a black jacket to match, her legs long and lean on sky-high stilettos, her waist tucked in over the spread of her hips, and the jacket unbuttoned just far enough to show me the hint of a red lace bra.
Her red curls spread over her shoulders, painting flames across the black, and when she turns her head, I see the flash of blue that means her eyes are directed right at me.
I freeze, caught in the power of her gaze like she’s just shot me through the heart, and stare back at her, my heart pounding like I’m having a heart attack, just from seeing her.
She’s safe, or at least alive, and I every inch of my body is reaching for her, trying to stretch across the street to press against her.
I want to run my fingers through that hair and yank her toward me, forcing her body against mine.
I want to bend over her and claim that smart fucking mouth for my own.
Force her to open for me, show me that she’s as desperate as I am.
Fucking hell, my cock is already so hard at the thought that if I had her in front of me, I’d have her pressed against the nearest wall, my hand down her pants spreading her legs for me so I could remind her that she belongs to me.
Some distant, more rational part of my brain tells me firmly that I’m an idiot if I think right now is the time for any of those thoughts, but a deeper, more feral part of me is roaring with need and fury, screaming with the desire to take that girl and protect her with everything I have.
Prove to everyone that she’s mine, and that she’s off-limits.
Conscious me, of course, thinks that primal part of my brain is an absolute idiot.
Though I understand the relief of seeing her whole.
Just then, her eyes move on and I realize that she didn’t actually see me. She was looking down the street, as if expecting someone–a car, maybe? Does she already have an escape planned?–and missed me completely.
She didn’t see me. That bright blue look wasn’t a reaction to seeing me standing here, and with that thought, I get suddenly even more angry. Like her having missed me is some sort of intentional insult.
I mean, it is Brooks. I wouldn’t put it past her to have seen me and then intentionally acted like she didn’t, just to piss me off.
And I would laugh at that, but the man standing behind her suddenly glances in my direction, too, and I have a split second to realize that it’s none other than Dom Landry before I’m stepping quickly back into the shadows.
I get as close to the building as I can and put a hand over my mouth to disguise myself as much as possible, then watch, my eyes narrowed and my suspicions rising.
What the fuck is Dom doing escorting her himself, and why was he in that trumped-up brothel-looking building?
What’s happening in there? Why did they bring Brooks?
And why the everlasting fuck is she dressed like some sort of slutty businesswoman?
I’ve known Brooks a long time, and I’ve never seen her dress like that.
Those pants would definitely hinder her if she was trying to escape. Hell, I bet they don’t even have pockets for her knife collection.
I watch from the darkness as he shoves her into the SUV sitting by the curb, then looks around like he’s expecting trouble.
His eyes linger on the spot where I was standing a moment again, and I press back even further, trying to become one with the wall behind me.
I don’t think he saw me. Maybe he saw someone there, but didn’t have time to identify me.
Maybe he just realized there was a flash.
Because if he’d actually identified me, his men would already be shooting in my direction.
After another moment of hesitation, Dom shakes his head, scowls again, and then ducks into the car after Brooks, slamming the door behind him.
And I watch, my heart in my fucking throat and my fingers twitching, as the SUV peels out of the parking spot and onto the street, then speeds quickly toward the corner, where it turns through a red light, tires squealing and frame shifting at the speed.
I want to run after them. Jump in my own car and take off, force them off the road and to a stop so I can save my girl. Every nerve in my body is singing with the desperate need to get her out of there.
But I don’t want to put her in any more danger than she’s already in.
And the moment I get in a gunfight with Dom–or a knife fight, or a fight with fucking brass knuckles, I don’t care–it increases the chances that she’ll get hurt in the process. If they’re using her for bait to get to me, the moment I show up, she loses value to them and they don’t need her anymore.
Dom has already tried to sell her once.
I don’t think he’ll fail if I give him another shot.
So I have to be careful. This time, when I go to get her, I have to know that I’ll succeed, and that Dom won’t catch us before we’re out. No rushing in. No insane rescue attempts. No mistakes.
I fucking hate having to take my time, but I don’t see that I have any choice.
And I also have to admit that Brooks might actually know what she’s doing in there. She might actually have a plan this time.
Though as usual, she hasn’t bothered to tell me what it is.
* * *
“You owe me an answer.”
I want to throw my phone at the wall and shatter it. Then kill someone. Maybe kill someone with my phone. Shatter it, take the glass, and slice someone’s throat.
God, that sounds satisfying.
Unfortunately, my father is the one I want to kill and he’s not currently within physical reach.
He is, however, wrong.
“I don’t owe you anything, Father.”
His silence tells me he thinks I’m incorrect, and technically, he’s not wrong. That doesn’t make any of this okay, though.
“You gave me until the end of the year,” I remind him, letting my voice go cold and brittle as ice.
Because that part is also true. Months ago, when my father decided it was finally time for me to start taking a bigger role in the family–leading his crews rather than my own–he came to me with some demands.
Demands that stemmed from the arranged marriage Brooks ran out on five years ago.
“And I’m changing my mind,” he says, his voice smooth enough that it makes me want to punch him in the face.
“You’re changing your mind?” I snap. “What do you think I’m going to do, just go out on the street and fucking find someone to marry?”
He chuckles, though it doesn’t hold any amusement.
My father is rarely amused, particularly when it comes to me.
“Oh no. I assume you already have someone in mind. I assume, further, that she’s someone you’ve already decided you’ll do anything to protect. And what better way to protect her than to pull her into the family and put your name all over her? Brand her as your own so no one else can touch her?”
My body goes cold so fast that I think I may have died. I can’t move. Can’t breathe.
Can barely fucking think. And that never happens to me.
“What’s wrong, Lucien? Can got your tongue?
Or did that fiery redhead steal it out of your mouth already?
Oh, you thought I didn’t know? Thought, perhaps, that I hadn’t heard she’s back in town, and that she ran for you the moment she arrived?
Have you seen her, yet? I’ve heard she’s back in her father’s clutches. That must irk you.”
I hate him.
I actually hate him.
And though I might have been joking about killing him before, I’m now deadly serious.
“You leave her out of this,” I growl. “Brooks has nothing to do with any of this.”
His voice, when he replies, is a fucking purr.
“But she has everything to do with it. Because she’s the reason you’re out running around the city, causing more trouble than I can cover up.
She’s the reason I need to bring you to heel right now.
I want you back in the fold, Lucien, and I want it now.
So I’m calling in your chips. If you want to keep using my power, my money, and my men, you’ll take your place at the head of the family the way you’re meant to.
And you’ll marry a woman to secure your inheritance.
I want another heir, because at this rate, you’re going to get yourself killed before I die of old age.
I want you married and stable, and leading the family. And I want it this month.”
This is such an escalation that I lose my voice for a moment. My father has threatened this with me before, but never on such a short timeline. He wants me to start a family and extend our line, and though I understand that, I also assumed I could either talk him out of it or buy myself more time.
Evidently I was wrong about that.
“Oh, and Lucien,” he adds before I can respond. “Not the Landry girl. I know you loved her once, but she’s tarnished, these days. I don’t want her in my family. Choose someone else.”
He hangs up with a sharp click, and I stare at my phone for several moments, letting my brain do what it does best.
Right. Escalated timeline. He wants me to find a wife and settle down, or I’ll no longer have access to the family money or resources.
I’m being forced into Boudreaux leadership–and a marriage–against my will.
And if I don’t agree, I’ll be cut off, in which case I won’t be able to save Brooks.
I have good men, but without the credentials as the Boudreaux heir, I lose power in this city.
As my father very well knows.
So it’s either get married, or desert Brooks.
I don’t have a good option, here.
But I might have a plan.
I just need Brooks to keep her mouth shut and her head off the chopping block until I can execute it.