Page 107

Not the cold avoidance.

Lucien’s shoulders rise with his breath, his mouth pressed in a sharp line, but his eyes—gods, his eyes are molten, dark and wild in a way that should terrify me. Because he looks like he’s on the verge of cracking wide open.

And I want him to.

I step closer, my voice quiet but deadly. “So tell me, Lucien. What do I mean to you?”

And then, without warning, he exhales a rough, sharp sound that might be a laugh, except there’s nothing warm in it. His gaze flicks away, sharp and precise, like he’s taking inventory of every wall in the room before landing back on me.

“You want me to make it simple,” he says finally, voice pitched low and cutting, like he’s peeling his skin back one word at a time. “But I don’t do simple.”

I arch a brow, unblinking. “That’s not an answer.”

Lucien’s jaw works, his throat bobbing as he swallows whatever instinct he has to retreat.

“You mean too much,” he says, voice rough and biting, like the words hurt. “That’s the problem.”

I shake my head once, slow, deliberate. “No, Lucien. That’s not the problem. The problem is you want me to guess every goddamn time.”

“I don’t know what to do with you,” his voice pitched lower now, like it’s not meant to be heard. “You fit everywhere I don’t.”

Lucien’s gaze drops for a moment, like he’s reeling it all back in, already folding himself shut again. But he doesn’t leave. And I don’t tell him to.

Because this is what we are—sharp edges, unmet confessions, a thread stretched too tight.

The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

“Do you want to stay the night?”

I hear myself say it and immediately want to drag the question back between my teeth and swallow it whole. It’s not what I meant to offer. I don’t even know why I ask.

Because he doesn’t deserve me. Because he’s spent months pushing me away, cutting me down, treating me like I’m the problem. Because the Lucien I know is sharp edges and cold silences, a man who runs hot enough to burn when he wants me and cold enough to freeze me out when the morning comes.

And yet, I ask anyway.

Maybe it’s because tonight felt different—because the way he looked at me when he apologized wasn’t cruel. Maybe it’s because when I finally asked him what I meant to him, he didn’t lie. He didn’t confess either, but the cracks were there, raw and ugly, and I can’t stop looking at them.

Maybe it’s because I’ve already slept with him once, and that night—gods, that night—he wasn’t cold. He wasn’t cruel. He touched me like I was something worth worshipping and worthdestroying all at once, and then left me wondering if any of it was real when the morning came.

I don’t know what this is, but I can’t stop the question from falling out of me.

Lucien stills like I’ve knocked the air out of him.

For a moment, with his gaze fixed on mine like he’s waiting for me to take it back. Like he’s already preparing for the door to slam shut in his face.

And then something shifts in his expression—not soft exactly, but something flickering beneath the weight he always carries around like armor.

His mouth curves, slow and almost uncertain, and then he says, quietly, quickly, “Yes.”

One second, he’s standing there looking at me, and the next, I’m pinned hard against the door, my back slamming into the wood, his mouth crushing mine without apology. His kiss isn’t soft. It’s sharp, biting, full of everything he’s been holding back. His hands find my hips, fingers curling in tight as he pulls me flush against him, and when his mouth crashes down on mine, it’s not careful. It’s desperate. Hard and hungry and rough, like he’s been trying not to touch me for weeks and now he’s caved completely.

I kiss him back like I want to ruin him.

My fingers fist in the front of his coat, yanking him closer, the taste of him sharp and hot on my tongue. There’s no sweetness in this—no careful, tender build-up. It’s desperate and messy and inevitable, the two of us colliding like we’ve been circling this moment for months.

His hands are already beneath my shirt, dragging it up over my head without finesse, his mouth never leaving mine for long. His palms are rough, fingers splayed wide as they drag over bare skin, possessive without trying to be. His kiss turns hungrier,bruising, like he’s trying to devour me whole, like he wants to disappear inside me until nothing else exists.

“You drive me fucking insane,” he mutters against my mouth, voice low and rough, like the words scrape against his throat on the way out.