34. Lucian
LUCIAN
The limo is Ronan’s idea. So is the fancy-ass suit he ordered for me. Apparently, the one I pull out for games isn’t ‘sufficient’. Rich people, man.
I will admit I look pretty fucking good, though. However, I’m far more excited to see what my little moth is wearing. I bet she’s going to look sexy as sin.
If she ever makes an appearance, since she’s currently ten minutes late, and I’m one second away from breaking into her apartment to find out what the hell is taking so long.
“She’s fine,” Ronan says without looking up from his phone. We’re waiting outside her apartment building, the limousine lingering at the curb behind us.
“I didn’t say anything,” I argue defensively.
He snorts, still not looking up from his phone. “You’re driving me mad with your pacing.”
Silas, who was leaning against the side of the limo with his hands in his pockets, lifts his notebook.
I can feel the energy radiating off you from here.
Scoffing, I shoot him a glare. “Whatever.”
His mouth twitches.
Ronan looks unfairly calm in a black suit that probably costs more than my first car. Dark hair styled, beard neatly trimmed, cufflinks glinting under the streetlight. He looks exactly like the kind of man mothers invite to fundraisers—and daughters envision being ruined by afterward.
Silas looks just as bad, though in a completely different way. Black-on-black suit, no tie, white-blond hair brushed back but already falling loose at the front.
As for me? I wasn’t born to be stuffed into a suit. I hate them. They make me feel like I’ve been strapped into a straitjacket. But as soon as Ronan told me Wren would think I looked hot in this get-up, I snatched the suit out of his hand.
Still doesn’t mean I’m happy to be wearing one.
The front door to Wren’s building opens, and every thought in my head dies.
She steps out beneath the soft glow of the entryway lights, and for half a second, I forget how to breathe.
Fuck.
She’s wearing an emerald-green dress. The kind of green that makes her skin glow and turns her dark hair into something almost unreal beneath the lights.
The fabric hugs her like it was made for the sole purpose of testing my self-control, fitting through the waist before falling softly around her legs with a slit that flashes one thigh every time she moves.
Her hair is swept back from her face, loose pieces curled around her cheeks. Her lips are painted a soft red, her eyes framed behind gold-rimmed glasses tonight instead of her usual bright colors.
Devastating.
That’s what she is. Absolutely fucking devastating. To my sanity. My heart. Every fucking piece of me.
Ronan exhales beside me. “Jesus.”
Silas gulps audibly.
I wouldn’t be surprised if there are three identical puddles of drool at our feet.
Wren slows when she sees us, her smile turning uncertain. “Too much?”
Ronan steps forward first because apparently he still remembers how to function like an actual person. “You look beautiful.”
Wren’s eyes soften. The way she smiles at him, equal parts vulnerability and affection, undoes me. “Thank you.”
I drag my gaze over her, taking in every delectable inch.
I love every version of Wren. I love her in her heels and tight skirts, driving me crazy at the rink.
I love her in her leggings and oversized hoodies, chillin’ on the couch.
But this version of Wren steals my breath.
I wouldn’t necessarily say it’s my favorite, because I’ll always choose ‘every day Wren’ over ‘occasion Wren’, but the way she looks tonight is something else.
It makes me very fucking glad I listened to Ronan and accepted his penguin suit.
“Respectfully, Little Moth…”
She narrows her eyes, and fuck, does that look not go straight to my dick. “Not a single word that follows ‘respectfully’ has ever been respectful.”
“Fair.” I smirk, before trailing my eyes slowly over her curves. “Beautiful doesn’t do you justice.”
Her cheeks flush.
Silas moves forward before I can figure out what else to say. Seriously, I feel the need to say more but words just aren’t sufficient for what Gwendolyn Winslow does to me.
He lifts his notebook, but he doesn’t write immediately. Just looks at her for a long second before finally dragging the pen across the page.
I like seeing you happy.
Wren’s lips part. Her eyes shimmer beneath the lamplight, and I notice the way she swallows around the ball of emotion in her throat.
Drinking her in, I realize Silas is right.
It’s not the dress or makeup or the fact she’s done her hair differently that has Wren looking so breathtaking tonight.
It’s the changes we’ve all seen in her over the past few weeks.
The way she’s smiling more these days. How she laughs more easily.
The fact that she’s finally starting to look like she belongs in her own life.
I grin. “Silas is right. Happy looks good on you.”
She glances at me, trying to be stern and failing miserably, before rolling her eyes instead. “You’re all being ridiculous.”
“No.” I step closer, letting my gaze drag over her because I’m weak and also because she deserves to know exactly what she does to me. “Ridiculous would be me telling Ronan to cancel this whole thing so I can take you back upstairs and peel that dress off with my teeth.”
Her entire face goes pink.
Ronan sighs. “We haven’t even left yet.”
I flick my gaze to his. “Then everyone should be impressed by my restraint.”
Wren presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile. “I’ve never known Lucian Caulfield to have restraint.”
I scoff. “I’m practically a saint.”
Silas snorts quietly.
Knowing there is only so much I can take, and I’m reaching my limit, I move to open the limo door for her with an exaggerated flourish. We need to get the fuck out of here before I change my mind and follow through on my threat. “After you.”
She pauses beside me before climbing in, close enough that her perfume curls around me.
Vanilla. A hint of citrus.
Perfectly Wren.
My fingers itch to touch her. I catch her wrist lightly, just for a second. Her pulse jumps beneath my thumb. Her eyes lift to mine.
“You really do look beautiful,” I say, quieter this time.
Something flickers across her face, vulnerable enough to make my ribs ache.
“Thank you,” she whispers. Then she climbs into the limo, and I have to stand there for a second because I suddenly feel like I can’t breathe.
Inside, Wren settles between Ronan and Silas, which is fucking criminal because I should absolutely be beside her, but fine. Whatever. I sit across from her, which at least gives me the view.
A dangerous one.
The limo pulls away from the curb, gliding through Valehurst toward whatever political circus Ronan’s mother has dragged us into tonight.
Wren smooths her hands over her dress, nervous.
Ronan notices immediately. “You okay?”
She nods. “I’m fine.”
“Liar,” I call her out.
Her eyes snap to mine, that sexy as sin fire alight within them. “Excuse me?”
“You do this thing with your hands when you’re nervous.” I gesture toward her lap. “Like you’re trying to iron yourself flat.”
Her fingers still.
Silas gently reaches over and covers one of her hands with his.
She looks down at the touch, then relaxes slightly. Blowing out a soft breath, she finally admits, “My parents are going to be there.”
“What about that bothers you?” Ronan asks, gaze fixed on her in concern.
Her nose scrunches in a way that would be adorable if she wasn’t looking so conflicted right now.
“They don’t know about”—she wiggles a finger between all of us—“us. And my mother is definitely going to say something.”
I scoff. “Let her say whatever she wants.”
Because honestly? The more I hear about Wren’s mother, the less I like her.
Not because of any one thing. It’s the collection of little comments.
The stories Wren tells like they’re funny when they really aren’t.
The way she talks about disappointing her parents like it’s inevitable.
The fact that she lights up whenever somebody simply tells her she did a good job.
And maybe the thing that bothers me most? She talks about her brother all the time. Her friends. Hockey. Us. But when it comes to her parents, there’s always this wall, like she’s spent so long guarding herself around them that she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it anymore.
Whatever waits for us at that fundraiser tonight, one thing is becoming very fucking clear. If her mother comes for Wren? She’s not going to like my response.
One side of Wren’s lips hitch, but concern still floods her eyes.
Leaning closer, I rest my elbows on my knees, keeping my gaze fixed on her, on the way her lower lip disappears between her teeth.
Noticing it too, Silas reaches up to tug on her chin, encouraging her to release it before she ruins her lipstick.
“Little Moth,” I say carefully, “what exactly are you worried about?”
Her laugh comes out strained. “Take your pick.” She starts counting on her fingers.
“My mother finding out I’m involved with three men.
” A second finger. “You’re about to play for my family’s team.
” A third finger. “And none of us have actually talked about…” She gestures vaguely between us. “…this.”
Ronan reaches over and takes her hand. “What part?”
Her gaze drops briefly.
“The part where I don’t actually know what to call you.”
Something twists in my chest. Because beneath all the family drama, future team ownership, and political fundraiser bullshit…
That’s her real fear.
Silas reaches for his notebook.
We don’t need a label. You just need to know where we stand.
“And where is that?” Wren asks after reading what he wrote. Her gaze bounces nervously between the three of us, her question hanging in the air.
I don’t even have to think about my answer.
“With you.”
Her eyes snap to mine.
I shrug. “Seems pretty obvious from where I’m sitting.” I continue. “If your mother starts something, we’re with you.”
Ronan nods.
You’re not in this alone, Silas writes.
Something fragile flashes across Wren’s face. Hope. Disbelief. Want.