Chapter 12
Lucio
D ana laughs, her hand resting lightly on my arm as she murmurs something into my ear—something teasing, meant to hold my attention. I laugh and nod absently, swirling the whiskey in my glass, but my focus isn’t on her. It’s elsewhere.
On a woman I don’t recognize. She moves across the dance floor with a fluid, practiced grace.
Her gown catches the dim chandelier light, the fabric shifting like liquid ink.
She’s young—younger than me, probably. Dark, sleek hair against her back, eyes sharp despite the soft elegance she wears like armor. And she’s dancing with Daniel Morgan.
My fingers tighten around my glass.
“You’re not listening,” Dana pouts beside me, shifting closer, her perfume cloying in my nose.
I glance at her, just enough to appease. “I am.”
She lifts a brow, unimpressed. “Oh? Then what did I just say?”
I exhale through my nose, a ghost of a smirk playing at my lips. “Something about how I should be dancing with you instead of standing here with a drink in my hand.”
She rolls her eyes, but smiles anyway. “At least you admit it.”
I let out a low chuckle, but my attention shifts again—back to the dance floor. Daniel moves like he’s trained for this, his hand at the woman’s waist, his grip firm, but not forceful. His other hand guides hers, their steps precise, measured.
He says something low. And she smiles at him.
I pause trying to figure out what the fuck I am feeling and why I’m watching a woman I know nothing about. But the smile makes me want to rip his throat out.
She does something that makes me question if we know each other: she watches me. Her sharp gaze flickers over his shoulder, subtle but intentional. A glance that’s too quick to be curious, but too bold to be meaningless.
And she doesn’t look away.
My grip around the glass tightens, a slow swirl of something unreadable curling in my chest. Suspicion. Intrigue. Irritation.
I don’t fucking like being watched. But I don’t look away either.
“Here. I’ll be back.” I hand Dana my glass.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“I’m going to smoke.”
She pouts, shifting closer as if she thinks I’ll change my mind, but I’m already turning away.
“I’ll be back,” I mutter, dismissing whatever flirtatious protest she might have had lined up.
She sighs dramatically, but she doesn’t press.
I make my way through the crowd, cutting through bodies adorned in designer silks and tailored suits, barely paying attention to the conversations swirling around me. The gilded pretense of this world is suffocating, and the longer I stand in it, the more I crave the crisp bite of the night air.
Stepping onto the balcony, I exhale slowly. The cold sinks into my skin, cutting through the lingering warmth of the ballroom. It’s quieter out here—isolated.
I light a cigarette, the click of my lighter breaking the silence, the ember flaring as I take a slow drag. The smoke curls lazily around me as I lean against the stone railing, letting my thoughts settle into the quiet.
Bored. Fucking bored.
These events are always the same. Same faces, same conversations, same shallow games of power disguised as pleasantries. I take another pull exhaling through my nose.
Then—movement.
I shift, my gaze sliding to the newcomer.
The woman from the dance floor. Up close, she’s even more striking.
The delicate bone structure, the high cheekbones softened by subtle roundness, the lush curve of her mouth—features that hint at a lineage woven from more than one world.
There’s something undeniably intoxicating about her.
Something that makes me want to stare at her for eternity.
There’s a quiet, striking symmetry to her features. Something in the way sharp lines meet soft curves, a balance that feels both familiar and hard to place.
I wait for her to disappear back into the ballroom, but she doesn’t move.
She’s still here. She should have walked away by now and turned back into the ballroom.
Instead, she stands in front of me, the soft glow of the chandeliers catching in her dark eyes, turning them into something molten. Something dangerous.
She doesn’t belong here. Not in the way these other women do. She watches. Studies. Calculates.
And tonight, she’s watching me.
I take a slow drag from my cigarette, my pulse steady, measured. My fingers itch to touch her—to test her, to see if she’s as controlled as she pretends to be.
But I don’t. Not yet. Instead, I exhale a thin stream of smoke, letting the silence stretch.
“You smoke?” I ask, my voice rough, edged with something I don’t bother naming.
She pauses, her head tilting just slightly, caught off-guard but hiding it well. “Not usually.”
She’s lying.
I hold out my cigarette, pinching the filter between two fingers, offering it to her. My gaze never leaves hers. “Want one?”
She hesitates. Not because she doesn’t want it. Because she doesn’t know what this means.
Smart girl.
But she takes it anyway. She steps forward, closing the distance between us just enough that I catch the faintest scent of her—something light and floral, something that doesn’t belong here in the cold.
The warmth of her fingertips brushes against mine as she takes the cigarette.
A brief touch, fleeting. But I feel it like a brand.
She lifts it to her lips, inhaling carefully, like she’s bracing herself.
The second the smoke hits her lungs, her body betrays her.
She coughs, her throat catching, breath stuttering.
Her eyes close, her lashes flutter, and for the first time since I noticed her, her mask slips.
I smirk. “You’ve never smoked before, have you?”
She glares at me, her expression sharp even as her voice comes out raw. “Never.”
I chuckle, the sound vibrating in my chest. “Figured.”
I pluck the cigarette from her fingers, bringing it back to my lips, taking a slow, deep inhale.
I watch her the whole time—the way her eyes track every movement, the way her breath is just a little too shallow now.
Then, before she can react, I exhale a deliberate stream of smoke, letting it curl between us, letting it claim the space around her.
She freezes. Her lips part slightly, instinctively, and she inhales—me, the smoke, the scent of tobacco and whiskey, and something else neither of us can name yet.
She doesn’t cough this time. She doesn’t step back. She doesn’t look away. I feel something shift in the air, something sharp and electric.
Her lips glisten, barely parted, and I track the movement without thinking, without meaning to. Something tightens in my chest, something I don’t fucking like. She’s too close. But not close enough at the same damn time.
My gaze dips, lingering on the curve of her throat, the delicate shape of her collarbone disappearing beneath the fabric of her dress. She’s built like something meant to be worshipped, but there’s something dark under her skin, something feral that she’s trying too hard to keep hidden.
I want to tear it out of her. I want to see what she really looks like when she loses control.
My lips curl slightly. Amused. Intrigued. Possessive .
“What’s your name?”
She wets her lips—a small movement, intentional. My gaze flicks to it, to the way the dim lighting catches the soft sheen there. She knows what she’s doing. And fuck if I don’t like it.
“Princess,” she answers, smooth and effortless.
A slow exhale leaves my lungs.
Princess . The name shouldn’t suit her. But it fits. Too well.
I narrow my eyes, studying her, weighing the way the word tastes on my tongue. Testing it. Testing her.
“Fitting,” I murmur, rolling the cigarette between my fingers, already knowing…
She’s mine. She just doesn’t know it yet.
There’s some movement below, and my gaze flicks down to see Dana, my date. Standing next to James Sterling. I don’t look for too long, I already know what she’s doing.
Princess is staring down at them with shock and confusion etched into her features. The weight of her presence clings to me, wrapping itself around my spine, tugging, demanding my attention.
Not Dana. Not the scene unfolding below.
Her.
I should be watching Dana make a fool of herself, should be paying attention to the way she drapes herself over James Sterling, her fingers pressing into his chest, her lips dangerously close to his.
I don’t. Instead, I watch Princess watch me. She stands there, poised against the stone railing, her expression unreadable, but her presence palpable. She isn’t affected by the cold, isn’t distracted by the music drifting from the ballroom. Isn’t paying attention to anything but me.
She sees everything. The way my jaw tightens, the way my fingers flex around my cigarette, the way my body registers Dana’s betrayal and immediately discards it as insignificant.
I wonder what she expects. Anger? Possessiveness? Amusement?
I give her nothing. Just take a slow drag from my cigarette, letting the moment stretch, exhaling through my nose before muttering, “Huh.”
Princess shifts slightly, watching me closely. “That’s all you have to say?”
I flick the cigarette between my fingers, eyes still locked on hers. She wants a reaction. She won’t get one.
I take another pull, exhaling slower this time, letting the smoke curl into the cold air. “It’s not unexpected.”
She studies me like she’s trying to find a crack, some tell, some indication that I care. She won’t find one.
“She’s not yours, then,” she muses, voice smooth but laced with something sharp.
My lips twitch, but I don’t smile. “She was never mine.”
Something flickers in her gaze.
There it is. Not satisfaction. Not amusement. Something uglier. Something she doesn’t name.
She hates Dana for it. For trying to claim what was never hers. I don’t think she even realizes how much she detests Dana. Silence settles between us, thick and unspoken. The ball hums behind us, a distant murmur of voices and laughter, but none of it matters. Not out here. Not between us.