Chapter 13 Lucien
Lucien
Ican hear the faint, steady breaths of Cece sleeping in the other room. My mind won’t quiet. It circles the same questions, the same unease, over and over. Why her? Why this impossible pull toward a mortal when I’ve avoided attachments altogether?
I tell myself to keep my distance. Saving her life, that was a single moment, an instinct. But allowing myself to remain in her life . . . that’s something else entirely. Dangerous. Foolish. And yet here I am.
I keep insisting, mostly to her but also to myself, that my obligation ends with protecting her.
That I’m only here because she needs help.
But beneath that thin excuse, I can feel the truth pressing harder each night.
My intentions stretch beyond duty, and admitting that, even internally, feels like stepping toward a cliff’s edge.
Morning light begins to seep into the living room, brushing against me where I lie on the couch, exhausted but untouched by rest. These feelings make no sense, not for someone like me. But one thing is painfully clear. If I’m going to navigate this, I can’t rely on sheer discipline alone.
I need to speak with Xanther. I’ve kept him in the dark longer than I should have, about Cece and about bringing her to Pomerium.
But things have changed. What is following her is no longer subtle.
And I’ll need someone I trust to cover for me at the domus.
Someone who can keep the internal wards under control if I’m delayed returning to the realm.
I’ll make my way back once she leaves for work.
I can’t risk being gone long. Night is when she’s most exposed.
This thing won’t attack out in the open; it’ll wait until she’s vulnerable, slipping into the gaps of her routine.
Whatever’s watching prefers the dark. As long as she’s not left alone for long, she should be safe.
When morning comes, I’m already in the kitchen, waiting to tell her I’ll need to leave, but that I’ll return soon. The early light casts everything in soft amber. It’s the first time we’ve stood in daylight, seeing each other like this.
She enters, still in her sleep shirt, rubbing one eye, and freezes a little when she sees me.
“Good morning, Lucien,” she says.
Her eyes flick over me quickly, like she doesn’t quite know what to do with the image of me in her kitchen.
“Call me Luc,” I tell her.
Her lips curve slightly at the edges. “Okay . . . Luc. Is there anything I can get for you? I didn’t get to ask if you . . .” She trails off, chewing her lower lip. “You know, if you eat anything.”
I laugh. We’ve faced things that bend reality, and yet this, coffee and awkward questions in daylight, is the moment that makes us feel exposed.
“Yes,” I say, offering her a small smile as I shift my weight against the counter. “I eat. But I’m not hungry. Thank you.” I hesitate, running a thumb along the ridge of a mug sitting on the counter near me. “Though . . . I wouldn’t mind a cup of coffee if you have it.”
She exhales, relief loosening her shoulders, and turns toward the counter.
“You’re in luck. It’s the one thing I can make without messing up.” A soft laugh slips out of her as she reaches for the coffee canister. “Honestly, sometimes I think if I could hook it straight into my veins, I would.”
She moves a little too quickly, nearly knocking the scoop against the tin. The machine rattles as she loads it, and I catch the faint tremor in her hands.
I take a slow step closer. Wanting to help. To bridge this strange space we’ve found ourselves in.
“Is there anything I can do?” I offer.
“I’ve got it. Don’t worry.” Her voice is bright but too tight, and she still won’t look at me.
I wait a moment, listening to the soft drip of the machine and the way she shifts her stance, a fraction too tense.
“Cece, do I make you nervous?”
Her hands still mid-motion. She doesn’t look up at first. But I see her shoulders shift, and when she glances at me, her voice is quieter.
“A little,” she admits. “But not in a bad way. Just . . .” She shrugs. “Everything’s changed. And now you’re here. In my space. Making it feel different, too.”
I understand more than she knows. Change always feels like that. Close, sudden, and uninvited. Even when it’s gentle.
She’s standing there, still half-turned away, pretending to busy herself with the coffee machine, and I can see the quiet tug-of-war happening in her shoulders. She needs space but doesn’t know how to ask for it, not from me.
So I ease back a step, letting the air between us settle.
“Then I’ll stand back,” I say. A moment passes, and I know exactly what I’m doing when I add, “For now.”
She smiles at me awkwardly.
Then she slides the finished mug across the counter, her fingers brushing mine in the exchange.
The contact stills her. Her breath catches, and her fingertips hover a fraction too long before she pulls them back.
I don’t move either, holding the mug but not lifting it, letting the warmth seep into my palm.
Neither of us says anything, letting the moment settle.
I take the mug, careful not to disturb the fragile balance she’s trying to hold. She looks up, searching my face.
“Are you able to stay . . . I mean, if you can . . . just for a little while? I have to leave for work soon, anyway. It would just be nice to . . . I mean, it’s okay if you can’t—”
I cut her off gently, her bright hazel eyes widening as she waits for my reply.
“I can.”
Her shoulders relax, and a small, relieved smile curves her lips. She moves to the sofa and settles in, glancing back at me for a fraction of a second before turning on the television.
“I know it’s super old school, but I put on trashy TV before work. It centers me somehow. Don’t ask.” She laughs softly, cheeks tinged with pink.
I find myself grinning, noticing the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, almost like she’s aware of me watching.
“I try to stay up on pop culture. But I don’t think I’ve ever watched anything like this,” I mutter, eyes flicking to the screen where people bicker over the most ridiculous things.
She catches my gaze and holds it for a moment longer than necessary. Something tightens in my chest. A quick, unwelcome flutter I try to ignore.
“Yeah, I don’t think humans will be winning any interdimensional awards for these shows,” she says, voice light, “but it makes me feel less . . . crazed. I dunno. I’m sure it sounds nuts, which is ironic.”
She shifts closer on the sofa, just enough that our proximity feels charged.
I turn to her, meeting her eyes.
“It makes perfect sense to me.”
My words are firm, deliberate, and for a brief moment, the room seems to shrink around us.
There’s an unspoken connection growing between us, impossible to ignore.
It’s enough to make me pause, to remind myself that I should probably get moving before this shifts into something neither of us is ready to deal with.
My eyes drift to the clock in her kitchen.
“Are you . . . going somewhere?” she asks, catching the motion.
We lock eyes.
“Only for a few hours. I need to speak to someone I trust. Someone who can help keep watch when I can’t be there.”
Her brow furrows, lips parting like she wants to ask more, but she stops herself.
“You’ll be back?” she asks, quieter than before. There’s no accusation, no demand, only a fragile uncertainty wrapped in either care . . . or fear.
I meet her gaze, unwavering.
“Before sundown.”
She gives a faint smile, acknowledging my words, her fingers wrapped around her mug as if it could still her. “Alright.”
“I wouldn’t leave,” I add, “if I didn’t believe you were safe during the day. It’s the shadows that give them room to move.”
Cece exhales, a slow release of tension. She sips her coffee and gives a small, dry smile. “I’ll try not to take any more shortcuts through alleys then,” she jokes dryly.
“Good. That’s best.”
We share a smile, both of us careful not to let it linger too long.
I let the silence settle, trying to read the room. Trying to read her. I’m not sure if she needs space, if she wants me gone, or if there’s a part of her that wouldn’t mind me staying a little longer. And that pull . . . it’s there. Stronger than I’d like to admit.
But I know better than to hover. She deserves room to breathe, and I’m not about to crowd her. So I finish the last sip of coffee, set the mug in her sink, and give myself a quiet nod, signaling it’s time to move. Then I head toward the door.
“Luc?”
I glance back at her. She fidgets with her sleeve. “Just be . . . careful.”
There’s a hitch in her voice that tells me more than she’s ready to say. But I understand. I stop at the door, fingers resting on the handle, a quiet answer to what she didn’t say.
“Always.”
By the time I arrive at the outer edge of the domus, Xan is already waiting. He leans against one of the carved obsidian columns, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
“You’re late.”
“You knew I’d come,” I reply.
He shrugs. “I hoped you would. You tend to go quiet when you’re hiding something.”
“I’m not hiding,” I say evenly. “I choose what to share.”
His eyes narrow. “Which is another way of saying you were hiding.”
I don’t respond. Instead, I glance toward the inner chambers, toward the soldiers posted at the western threshold. The fact that they’re doubled tells me something else has been felt here, too.
He follows my gaze. “You feel it, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I respond.
“I felt the breach, too,” he continues. “About fifteen cycles ago now.”
My footsteps slow on the stone floor, just enough for him to notice. “It was controlled.”
His eyes sharpen, assessing. “You crossed from the mortal realm. Alone?”
I hesitate, barely, but long enough. My jaw tics, and his expression shifts the moment he catches it.
“You weren’t alone.” His voice drops, lower, harder. “Dammit, Luc. Who was with you?”
I exhale through my nose, a frustrated breath. My gaze drifts back to the soldiers, buying myself another second before I answer. “A civilian.”
His brow lifts, skepticism cutting clean across his face. “A civilian?”
“A mortal woman,” I clarify, rolling my shoulders as if that might ease the weight of saying it out loud. “She was being hunted. I intervened.”
He straightens, posture tightening. “By what?”
“That cycle, some mortals. But I have a feeling it’s not that simple. Now something is hunting her that isn’t native to her world. Or ours.”
Xan’s expression shifts, his usual sharp-edged amusement replaced with something colder. “You brought a mortal into Pomerium? Are you out of your mind, brother?”
“I pulled her through. Long enough to keep her alive. It wasn’t some premeditated action.”
“Gods!” He throws his hands up and takes a step back, disbelief written all over his face. “Do you even know what you’ve done? That kind of energy leaves a scar on the veil. It won’t go unnoticed.”
“I’m aware,” I snap back. “It hasn’t gone unnoticed.”
Xan paces once, then stops. “Who is she?”
I meet his gaze but keep my tone guarded. “Her name is Cece. I didn’t plan this. It happened fast. She was caught in something she didn’t understand, and neither did I, until I felt it.”
“Felt it?” He tilts his head, voice lower now. “In her?”
I nod once. “Not power. Not like ours. But something has awakened in her. Something old. It marked her.”
His jaw tightens. “That kind of marking doesn’t happen by accident. And it’s incredible she even survived the warp.”
“I know.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. “Does she know what that may mean?”
“No. Not fully.” I pause. “But she’s beginning to ask the right questions.”
He gives a dry, humorless laugh. “Mortals always do, right before they break.”
“She hasn’t broken,” I say defensively.
“Yet,” Xan replies, studying me. “And you’ve stayed close.”
“She’s vulnerable. She doesn’t know who or what might come next. I can’t leave her unguarded.” Guilt edges into my voice before I can pull it back, and I hate how obvious it sounds.
“You’re not just guarding her,” he says flatly. He folds his arms, watching me too closely. “At least be honest with yourself, Luc. You’re tied to her.”
I don’t answer. My jaw tightens, and I look away because shit . . . he’s right, and admitting it would make it too real.
Xan lets out a rough breath and shakes his head, frustration simmering just beneath the surface. “This isn’t like you. You don’t entangle. You definitely don’t explain.”
“She didn’t ask for much explanation,” I counter, shifting my weight. “She just wanted to know if I was staying.”
That stops him. His stance loosens, irritation fading into something more thoughtful. He drags a hand over his jaw, exhaling slowly. “So,” he says, brow furrowing, “what do you need from me?”
“Cover me at the domus,” I say. “Keep the wards strong in my absence. There’s movement between the folds. I can feel it. I don’t know whether whatever’s watching her is from our side, another, or tied to what’s happening here. But if it follows her again, I need to know it won’t reach further.”
Xan nods slowly. “I’ll hold the line. But Luc—”
I turn halfway back toward the threshold.
He continues, quieter now. “Be sure you know what you’re risking, and that you’re ready to face what comes after.”
I pause, eyes cast over my shoulder.
“I know.”