Chapter 11 Luan
LUAN
The water is scalding. I stand under the spray and let it beat against my shoulders, my neck, the tension that lives permanently in my spine now. Steam fills the bathroom, thick enough that I can see it even with my compromised vision. Gray shapes moving through white fog.
Today is the day.
For weeks, my uncle Driton has been calling. Demanding meetings. Asking questions wrapped in polite concern that barely conceals suspicion. He wants to know why I've been invisible.
I've been stalling. Making excuses. Buying time for my vision to return.
But time just ran out.
The Kuvendi i Gjakut. The Blood Council. Five representatives from the most powerful Albanian clans operating in the United States. Men who've built empires on blood and loyalty and fear. Men who decide who leads and who dies. Men whose authority supersedes borders, governments, and laws.
And they want to speak to me.
Not just my uncle Driton, though he'll be there too. All five of them. Sitting in judgment over what I did. Over the fact that I killed my father and took his seat.
Killing your father is always extreme, even in our world. It doesn't matter if he was a monster. Doesn't matter if he ruled through cruelty and fear. Doesn't matter if removing him saved lives.
What matters is that I broke the oldest rule. The one that keeps clans stable across generations. The one that prevents chaos.
Blood doesn't kill blood. Not without consequence.
They need to decide if I'm legitimate. If the Krasniqi clan remains under their protection. If I remain breathing.
I convinced Driton to do a virtual meeting. Told him I'm cementing my leadership here in Chicago, that I can't leave the territory unattended while the transition is still fresh. That showing weakness by abandoning my post would invite challenges I can't afford.
He agreed. Reluctantly.
But then the others wanted in. Wanted to see for themselves. Wanted to measure me against whatever standard they use to judge men who kill their fathers and claim thrones built on patricide.
So now it's not just a conversation with my uncle.
It's a trial.
My vision has improved. I can see shapes now, edges, contrasts between light and dark. Maybe fifty percent of what I had before. Enough to navigate the apartment without trailing my hand along walls. Enough to find a glass without knocking it over. Enough to orient myself in familiar spaces.
But is it enough to fool five men who've survived decades in this life by reading weakness in others?
Is it enough to hide the fact that I'm still blind enough to be vulnerable?
Artan and Erion will be there. Visible on the call. A united front. Proof that the alliance is real, that I have strength behind me.
It has to be enough.
It has to work.
Because if it doesn't, I'm dead. And the Krasniqi clan dies with me. Everything my family built across generations, gone. Absorbed by stronger clans or torn apart by rivals.
The water runs over my face. I tilt my head back, let it wash away the tension that won't actually leave. Let the heat sink into muscles that haven't relaxed in weeks.
My mind drifts.
To Lily.
The past two days have been strained. Careful. She moves through the apartment like she's walking on glass. I can hear it in her footsteps. In the extra space she puts between us.
Because of what I did. The rage I let slip free.
And maybe because of what she's going through. Whatever truth she's hiding behind that practiced lie.
I know she lied. Artan knows she lied. We both heard it, the rehearsed quality of her explanation. The smoothness that comes from repetition.
Someone hurt her.
And she won't tell us who.
I remember the moment Artan told me. The way rage rose in me, instant and violent. The need to find whoever put their hands on her and make them regret it. Make them beg. Make them understand what happens when you touch something that—
No. She doesn't belong to me.
My body reacts before my mind catches up. Heat spreading through me, pooling low. The water running over my skin suddenly feels different. More acute. Every nerve ending aware and hypersensitive.
I think about her voice. Soft. Warm. The way it sounds when she says my name.
I think about the way she smells. Vanilla and honey. The way it lingers after she leaves a room.
I'm hard.
Fully. Aching.
The want hits me like a fist to the gut. Undeniable. Impossible to ignore.
I tilt my head back under the spray. The water is too hot, steam thick in my lungs.
I wrap my hand around myself.
The first stroke pulls a breath from my chest. The second makes my jaw clench. Water slick, heat building fast, pressure coiling tight in my spine.
I think about Lily. About what she'd look like if she were here. Wet hair plastered to her shoulders. Water running between her breasts. Skin flushed from heat. Looking up at me with those blue eyes I can barely see but know are there.
I stroke faster. Pressure building. The frustration of the past weeks, the rage, the helplessness, all of it condensing into this. Into need I can't control. Into want that bypasses thought entirely and goes straight to the body.
Her hands. Her mouth. Her body pressed against mine.
I come hard. Fast. Too fast. Release hitting me like a wave, stealing my breath, wiping my mind clean for one perfect moment.
For a heartbeat there's nothing. Just heat and water and the aftermath. Just the feeling of my pulse slowing, my breathing evening out.
Then reality crashes back.
Shame. Frustration. The awareness that I'm standing in my shower getting off to thoughts of a woman I can barely see. A woman who works for me.
A woman who deserves better than this.
Better than me.
I turn off the water. Step out onto the mat. Reach for the towel and wrap it around my waist, tucking it tight.
The mirror is fogged over. I can see my reflection, blurred and indistinct. A shadow of a man. Edges without definition.
I need to shave.
The meeting is in a few hours. I need to look like a leader. Strong. Put together. In control.
The last three times my beard got too long, Artan helped me. It was humiliating every single time. Needing help with something so basic. So simple.
But Artan won't be here for another hour at least.
I could wait. Should wait.
But then I think about Lily.
She's here.
She could help me.
And the thought doesn't bring frustration. Doesn't bring that burning resentment I feel when I need help with basic tasks.
It brings something else. Something warmer. Something that feels almost like anticipation.
I don't question it. Don't examine it too closely.
I just call out. "Lily."
Silence. Then footsteps. Quick. Light. Moving down the hallway with purpose.
She appears in the doorway of the ensuite. I can see her shape, the outline of her body. Small. Delicate. Hear her breath catch.
Right. The towel. That's all I'm wearing.
"How can I help?" Her voice is hesitant. Careful.
"I need to shave," I say, keeping my tone even. "Artan usually helps, but he won't be here for a while."
Silence. Long enough that I can hear her breathing. Fast. Shallow. Like she's processing what I'm asking.
"I haven't done that before," she says finally. "I'm afraid I might hurt you. Maybe it's better to wait for Artan?"
"It's not that complicated." I turn toward her voice. Track the sound. "I'll tell you exactly what to do. Guide you through it."
Guide her.
The thought sends heat through me again. Guiding her hands. Her movements. Telling her where to touch, how much pressure to use.
Zot me ndihmoni. God help me.
I'm getting hard again, despite having just come minutes ago. The towel doing nothing to hide it.
"Okay," Lily says. Quiet. Uncertain. "Where do you want me?"
The question hits low. Innocent and loaded at the same time.
A growl rises in my throat before I can stop it.
"The shaving kit is in the cabinet under the sink," I say. "Left side. Bring it to the counter."
I hear her moving. Opening the cabinet. The rustle of the leather bag being lifted. Her footsteps crossing the tile.
"There's a brush and a bowl," I say. "And the razor. The cream is in the red tube."
"Okay." Her voice is closer now. Right beside me. Close enough that I can feel her warmth. "I have it."
"Run the water. Hot. Fill the bowl about halfway."
The tap turns on. Water splashing into ceramic. Steam rising.
"Wet the brush. Then work it into the cream. You want it to foam. Thick."
I can hear the brush moving in the bowl. Rhythmic. Steady. The soft sound of bristles against porcelain.
"Keep going until it's thick enough to hold."
The sound continues. She's focused. Concentrated. Taking the task seriously.
"Now what?"
I hear her set the bowl down. Sense her standing in front of me. Close but not touching.
"Apply the cream," I tell her. "Start at my jaw."
She reaches up. I feel the brush touch my skin. Soft. Tentative. Like she's afraid of hurting me.
But she's too short. She can't reach properly. I can hear the strain in her breathing, the way she's stretching.
Before she can say anything, I reach for her. Find her waist. My hands span it easily, feeling the curve of her hips, the softness beneath her shirt.
I lift.
She makes a small surprised sound. Her hands go to my shoulders automatically, steadying herself.
I set her on the counter. Step between her legs. The towel brushes against her thighs. Bare skin against fabric.
"There," I say, my voice rough. "Easy access."
Her breathing changes. Faster. Uneven. I can feel the heat of her radiating between us. Can sense the way her body responds even though she's trying to hide it.
"Apply the cream," I tell her again.
The brush touches my skin. She starts at my jaw like I instructed. The cream is warm, slick. She works methodically, covering my jaw, my chin, up to my cheeks. Her movements are careful. Precise.
"More pressure," I say. "I won't break."
She adjusts. The brush moves with more confidence now.
"Good," I say. "Now the razor. It's in the kit. Black handle."
I hear her set down the brush. The click of the razor case opening. Metal sliding against leather.
"Hold it at an angle," I tell her, keeping my voice steady. "Not straight on. About thirty degrees. Start with the neck. Short strokes. With the grain first."
The blade touches my skin.
I go completely still.
So does she.
We're both holding our breath. The razor pressed against my throat. Her hand trembling slightly.
"It's okay," I say quietly. "Just go slow. I trust you."
The words come out before I can stop them.
And they're true.
I do trust her. With a blade at my throat. With my vulnerability. With this moment.
The razor moves. A soft scrape. The cream and stubble coming away clean.
"Like that," I say. "Keep going."
She makes another stroke. Then another. Her hand is steadier now. Finding rhythm. Building confidence with each pass of the blade.
I can feel her breath on my face. Warm. Uneven.
The intimacy of the moment settles over me. Me between her legs. My hands resting on her thighs. Her fingers on my face. The blade scraping away foam and hair with careful precision.
"Why did you come back?" I ask.
The razor pauses. "What?"
"After I threw the plate. You came back. Why?"
Silence. The razor doesn't move. I can feel her thinking. Choosing her words.
"I was worried about you," she says finally. Quiet. Honest. "I could sense that you did it out of frustration. That you didn't mean it."
The words warm my chest.
She came back because she was worried. Not because she had to. Not because it was her job. Because she cared.
"I'm sorry," I say. Mean it. "For what I did. For speaking to you that way."
The razor moves again. Careful. Precise. "I accept your apology."
Her voice is softer now. Some of the distance gone.
We're quiet for a moment. Just the sound of the blade, the water dripping from the tap, our breathing.
"Who hurt you?"
Her hand stills. I can feel the tension in her body. The way she's holding herself.
"No lies, Lily."
She takes a breath. "My business. I can handle it."
I make a low sound in my throat. Acknowledgment without agreement.
Her hand moves again. Shaving my upper lip now. Slow. Concentrated. The blade scraping close to my nose.
I reach up. Find her forehead. The bandage still there. Still protecting whatever wound someone gave her.
My fingers trace the edge of it. Gentle. Deliberate.
"If someone hurts you again," I say quietly, "I'll handle it. Fjale e burrit." A man's word. A promise. "Understood?"
She doesn't answer right away. The razor scrapes against my skin. Once. Twice.
"Lily." A demand, not a request.
"What do you care?" she asks suddenly. The question comes out sharp. Defensive.
The words hit wrong. Irritation rising fast and hot.
Does she really think that? Does she really believe I don't care?
I reach for her hips. Pull her forward. Hard enough that she gasps. Hard enough that there's no space left between us.
My erection presses against her. Hot. Insistent. Impossible to miss through the thin towel.
"Can you feel how much I care?" My voice comes out almost a growl.
Her breath catches. A small sound escapes her throat. Half gasp, half moan.
The sound almost undoes me.
My hands tighten on her hips. Holding her there. Holding myself back.
"Be a good girl." My voice drops lower. "And finish cleaning me up."
Her whole body goes still against mine.
Then I feel her hands move. Shaking slightly. Reaching for the towel beside us. Wiping away the remaining cream with careful strokes. Her touch light and reverent.
Neither of us speaks. Neither of us moves.
The moment stretches charged and electric. Everything unspoken hanging heavy in the steam-filled air.
Her hands linger on my face. Just for a second. Just long enough that I know she feels it too.
This pull. This want. This inevitable collision we're both hurtling toward.