Page 8

Lucan

Feathered by wind yet unwavering in its claim, The Lumina Dome, stands towering over the city, about five floors, covering an expanse of land, and whispering of history.

Lucan stands a few feet away from the building, feeling ambushed and overpowered. His amber eyes flicker to the entrance as the revolving glass door keeps ushering out and ushering in civilians, the air a kaleidoscope of giggles, laughters and murmurs.

“Well, fuck.” The quiet whisper drifts into the air like smoke, then gets lost in the hum of the afternoon traffic.

He shouldn’t have come here. This is one of many bad ideas.

After a ten-hour flight from Russia to the United States, his head is currently heavy, his muscles coiled tight with exhaustion. Every nerve in his body is rioting for rest, solitude. But at 2:30 p.m., he is standing in front of the largest convention hall just outside of Pennsylvania.

Through the door, the chaos inside spills out in waves. Crowds of people—hundreds of them in gaudy colors that make the room look like a rainbow has detonated—buzzes with chatter. Too bright. Too loud. Too much. Simply too much.

He feels his fingers twitch, and he swiftly tucks one hand into his pocket, the other clenching the book he is carrying, his nails pressing hard on the spine with enough pressure to feel something solid beneath his touch.

Books.

For Lucan, books are the only things that make the most amount of sense in a world filled with disorder.

On some days, he spends his time locked up in his office with the whisper of pen on paper keeping him company.

On different days, he will travel from Moscow to Saint Petersburg, Rostov-on-Don to Kazan, and Krasnodar to Novosibirsk, all to ensure the stability of his empire— The Kingfisher , his hotels and Estates, Volk, his high-end security firm, Kraven Global, his international shipping and logistics company, Miriell, the gentlemen club and The Pythons, his Bratva, the fore-runner of it all.

So when all these are in order, he takes the night off to find solace between the pages of books in the quiet of his room.

Maleficium, a book by an author called Donna Copeland, is his last read.

Usually, it is difficult for a book to leave a long-lasting mark on him.

But this one did. He never bothered unsubscribing when he discovered he had somehow subscribed to the author’s Newsletter last week.

Then, three days ago, an email landed within the junks in his inbox.

There is a book event, and the author is coming.

And she plans on signing some copies of her most recent releases.

That’s how he got here. Now he regrets it.

Raids, debt-collecting and commanding an army of men—those things he can do. But willingly placing himself in the middle of a crowd? He will rather pass.

He turns slightly, his gaze traveling to the black Mercedes Benz parked a few feet away. It’s a short distance. Just ten steps and he will be out of here.

One of his soldiers stands beside the car, his stance alert, eyes sweeping the area for any threats.

With the note Zev, his twin brother, his other half, his other self left for him two weeks ago— Be careful down in the States.

Some fucker tried to kill me— Lucan should have probably asked the soldier to follow him in.

After all, the rule is for his men to always be a foot behind him.

But the soldier’s uniform and the weapon on his hip makes him an imposing figure. So, Lucan told him to wait by the car.

According to Zev’s note, their enemies down here are making moves again. And they had sent an assassin to kill him at a coffee shop on his previous visit, two weeks ago.

But taking an armed soldier into an event hall filled with civilians, especially women and teenagers, is not very subtle.

Lucan can’t afford to cause any unnecessary panic.

So putting his safety as secondary to important, he chooses to go in alone.

And to be frank, the idea of him having a panic attack here right now is worse than the risk of being gunned down by some assassin.

Panic attack.

He can’t afford to have that. Imagine a soldier, the revered marshal of the Russian Federation, breaking down and whimpering in public? He is supposed to be fearless. No, that is a reality far too embarrassing.

Lucan takes a deep breath and straightens. A soldier should never flinch in front of a crowd.

One step, two steps, three…he keeps going. And by the sixth one, he is stepping through the revolving glass door.

But the second the door swings shut, closing him in, his blood runs cold and his body stiffens.

The noise swells, pressing against his skull. He tries to move, but his legs seem rooted to the floor.

The walls, pristine and white, seem to contract, shrinking around him. He stands frozen still, drowning in the sheer volume of bodies, a lone, armless soldier dropped into the middle of a battlefield.

His lungs tightens and his free hand raises, clawing at his chest.

He tries to breathe. But the air is too thick, refusing to fill his chest in the desperate way he needs it to.

His pulse knocks violently against his ribs and an inaudible gasp breaks out of his lips, eyes clenched shut.

Anxiety crawls beneath his skin. A vicious living thing with sharp claws, dragging down his spine, and—

“Hey, are you okay?” a soft voice suddenly murmurs beside him. Like a faint breeze, it brush hushed kisses against his earlobes, reaches invisible hands inside him, and claws at his soul... the very essence of him.

His eyes snap open and she is right there in front of him; red-haired and an enigmatic pair of green eyes that makes him want to take a long walk in the forest.

Lucan’s heart skips a beat, the luminous essence of her beauty blinding him.

“It’s my first time, too,” her voice is clinical, her hand slipping into his, giving it a little reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry. I got you.”

Her touch is gentle, yet it feels as if he has stepped into the heart of a powerful force field. A surge of energy ripples through him, like the largest electrical charge has just been conducted in his body—96,500 coulombs, to be exact.

What is that ? He wonders, his thoughts frantic. But what unsettles him even more is the craving, the inexplicable need for another dose of that raw, electrical power.

“Don’t.” His voice comes out more gravy than he probably intends to as he snatches his hand from hers. “Don’t touch me.”

Her smile falters and Lucan feels her disappointment like a stab to his gut.

He tries to open his mouth to say something, a desperate attempt to take away the pain he must have caused.

She is the one that touched him without his permission.

He has no clue why he desperately wants to apologize to her instead.

“I’m sorry,” she says, and in a second, the smile she lost rearranges back on her lips.

She glances at the furthest part of the room where the crowd swims. “Honestly, I didn’t know it would be this much.”

Lucan still stares at her as she speaks ten words per second, unconcerned by his silence. But he is thinking, calculating, and realizing not everything can be solved with science or mathematics after all.

But he really wants to get to the bottom of it, the reason why every time her eyes drifts away and flickers back to him, they hit him like a thousand silver bullets, but instead of excruciating pain, he will be met with an unadulterated feeling that squeezes at his heart in a painfully beautiful way, flow through his veins like a mixture of euphoria, fire, and liquid gold.

“Anyway.” She releases what seems like a final exhale as one prepares for a goodbye. “It was nice meeting you…again.”

Again? Have they met before?

Lucan wants to ask what she means. He doesn’t have a bad memory unless due to some circumstances he is not proud of, by the way. But he is sure that if they met before, he would have remembered her instantly. She doesn’t have a face that can easily float behind memory.

“See you around, Snow white,” she says, and she is gone before he can work up the courage to ask where she knows him from.

Lucan steps out of The Lumina Dome , his long strides measured and purposeful as he heads for his car.

His soldier straightens immediately at the sight of him, his eyes sharp as ever, ready to gun down any threat.

Lucan doesn’t acknowledge him, though. His focus is somewhere else—a movement in his peripheral vision. Quite subtle, yet enough to capture his attention. His eyes flick to the park bench nestled below a twin lamppost just outside the building.

And there she is. The girl from earlier. The two loose strands of her red hair, which is styled into twin braids, frame her face. The wind tugs at the strands, letting them dance around her face before settling again.

She is hunched over something on her lap—a tablet, perhaps. And she looks absorbed, unaware of the world around her.

Lucan should keep walking. He should slide into his car and leave. But he doesn’t. He stands there and watches. And before he can catch himself, his feet are heading in her direction.

Each step toward her is a mistake. He has no business approaching her. No business wanting to talk to her again because earlier, it had felt incredible.

And when the realization that he is about to do the unthinkable dawns on him. It’s too late. She already senses a presence.

Her head snaps up, alert. Her green eyes meet his, wide and startled. But it only lasts for a second as the tension eases almost immediately, her lips curling into a warm smile.

“Oh, hey,” she says.

Lucan hesitates, his throat dry. “Hey.”

“I didn’t know you were still in there.”

“I stepped out to make some calls,” he replies. “I ended up staying for long.”

She nods, then gestures to the space beside her for invitation. But he doesn’t sit. He shouldn’t. Instead, his eyes drop to the tablet resting on her lap.

It is a digital canvas. A work in progress.