Page 70 of Infamous

She doesn’t know that yet, though.

She doesn’t know that I’ve been to hell and clawed my way back with her name etched in my brain.

The fact that she let me into her apartment - me, a stranger - does things to me I can’t begin to articulate. It makes me want to scold her, drag her across my lap, and remind her that this world isn’t kind to women who open doors to wolves.

She should be terrified.

But she isn’t.

There’s wariness in her posture, sure - the slight stiffness of her shoulders, the way her hands twitch in her lap - but it’s paired with fascination. She’s drawn to me. Like a moth too close to a match.

If only she knew I’ve already burned for her a thousand times over.

Her eyes are on me, wide and uncertain. It takes everything I have not to reach out and brush the hair from her cheek, to keep my hands from memorizing what my mind already knows by heart.

“Why did you come back?” she asks suddenly.

For a split second, it feels like she’s looking through me. Like she knowsexactlywho I am - what I’ve done - and the question is literal. Why did you come back from the grave, Lucian?

But she doesn’t know that side of who Jude Mercer is.

The thought steadies me.

Maybe one day she will. Maybe she’ll hate me for it. Or maybe she’ll see what I became, what I did to survive, and she’ll understand that every twisted part of me exists because of her.

I stay silent. The weight of it makes her fidget. Her fingers flex once before she tucks her hands under her thighs, grounding herself. She doesn’t even realize how that simple act makes me ache.

“I wanted to make sure you’re okay,” I say finally, my voice rougher than intended.

Her gaze flickers to mine, then to the cut on her temple. The bruise on her lip. Her skin looks soft and furious all at once. I shouldn’t notice how pretty she looks when she’s been through hell, but I do.

Her mouth draws my attention like a magnet. The way it’s swollen, parted slightly as she exhales. I imagine those lips on me - hot, trembling, obedient - and the thought hits so fast it’s almost violent.

I exhale sharply, forcing my body to calm, to remember restraint. The kind of restraint that kept me alive all those years in the dark.

“I survived,” she says quietly.

“Yes.” My eyes find hers again. “I can see that.”

What I don’t say:barely.

My jaw tightens as I think of Michael’s hands on her, of the blood that might’ve been hers if I hadn’t been there. The image sits like acid in my chest.

Then she looks at me, unflinching. “Can I say the same for Michael?”

A humorless laugh rumbles in my throat before I can stop it.

She’s sharper than she looks. Brave, too.

I tilt my head, watching her closely, and click my tongue against my teeth. “You should know better by now,” I murmur, low and even. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to.”

Her breath stutters. She knows what that means.

The silence stretches again, humming between us like static. I lean back on the couch, studying her - the defiance in her stare, the pulse fluttering at her throat, the way she’s fighting curiosity and dread in equal measure.

She thinks I’m dangerous. She’s right.

But what she doesn’t realize is that every ounce of that danger belongs to her now.