It was past 1:00 a.m. when she heard it.
The front door.
Slow.
Heavy.
A pause.
Then the unmistakable creak of Lucien's boots crossing the marble.
Usually, he walked like a ghost.
Tonight?
He limped.
Leona sat up in the dark, breath caught.
No lights flicked on.
No voices.
No staff.
Just the sound of something wet hitting the tile.
Her stomach flipped.
She padded to the door. Pressed her ear against it.
Silence.
Then
A sharp breath.
His.
Like he'd leaned too hard against a wall.
Like he didn't want to make a sound, but his body betrayed him.
Her fingers curled around the handle.
She opened the door an inch.
Hallway dark.
Shadows stretching long toward the entry.
Then
She saw him.
Lucien.
One hand gripping the side table.
Jacket gone.
Shirt torn at the shoulder.
Blood at his ribs.
Moving like it hurt to breathe.
She didn't think.
She stepped out.
One foot on cold stone.
The other halfway behind.
Her mouth opened to say his name.
But he turned too fast sensing her.
Even in pain, he was a blade.
Their eyes locked.
And she
Froze.
He straightened.
Barely.
Looked at her with those unreadable stormcloud eyes.
Then said, voice low
"Go back to bed."
She didn't move.
"I'm fine," he added.
She wasn't sure if it was meant for her.
Or himself.
He turned.
Disappeared down the east wing.
Didn't look back.
Didn't invite her.
And Leona stood in the hallway
Barefoot.
Breathless.
And almost
Gone to him.
But almost didn't count.
----
The next morning, she tried to ignore it.
The blood.
The limp.
The sound of his breathing through clenched teeth.
But something twisted under her ribs.
Not guilt.
Not even care.
Just… curiosity.
He wasn't in the dining room.
Not the study either.
But when she knocked on his bedroom door—softly, without breath—he actually answered.
A low, flat, "What?"
She hesitated. Then, "You're home."
A pause. "Clearly."
"I brought the kit."
No response.
She opened the door.
He was sitting at the edge of the bed, shirt off now. His left side wrapped hastily in gauze, already soaked through. Blood speckled the white linen near his hip.
She set the first-aid box on the table.
"I don't need help," he said.
"I didn't ask."
He gave her that look again—half irritation, half disbelief.
But he didn't stop her.
So she knelt beside him.
Opened the kit.
Pulled on gloves.
The second her fingers touched his skin, he flinched.
Not from pain.
From… something else.
His eyes didn't move.
But the pulse at his throat jumped.
She cleaned the gash in silence. Worked slowly. Gently.
He didn't speak.
But she noticed everything.
The taut muscle beneath her palm.
The sharp inhale when the antiseptic touched him.
The way he watched her hands—not her face.
And God—
He was carved like marble.
Every scar a story he wouldn't tell.
Every breath too close to her own.
When she finally pressed the last piece of gauze against the wound and reached for the wrap, his voice stopped her.
"I didn't call a doctor," he said.
"I figured."
"No one knows. Especially not my father."
"Then you owe me."
He looked at her.
Really looked.
And for a second—just a second—she thought he might say something that would ruin them both.
Instead—
She leaned in to tuck the bandage.
And he shifted.
Too fast.
Too close.
She lost her balance.
Fell forward.
Onto him.
Hands splayed on his chest.
His breath caught.
So did hers.
Their faces inches apart.
Heat between them that had nothing to do with fever.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
His did the same.
And she realized—
So did he.
She pushed herself up instantly. "Sorry—"
He didn't speak.
Just watched her rise.
Her hands still tingled from his skin.
She turned.
Left the kit on the table.
And walked out fast, barefoot, robe swaying.
Only when she closed the door behind her did she let herself exhale.
Once.
Shakily.
She hated how long it took for her heartbeat to calm.
---
The bar wasn't open yet.
Didn't need to be.
The back room was for people like him.
People who didn't wait.
Lucien sat with one leg over the other, fingers wrapped around a glass he hadn't touched. His shirt sleeves were rolled—again. Scar at his collarbone still visible. He didn't bother hiding it.
Across from him: Jules and Nico.
His oldest friends.
Both dangerous in different ways.
Jules—tall, lean, all knife-sharp grin and expensive cologne. He ran weapons out of Antwerp and looked like a GQ model doing it.
Nico—quieter. Built like a linebacker. Ex-special forces. Now ran security systems most governments couldn't afford.
Lucien didn't beat around the silence.
"I think something's wrong with me."
Jules raised a brow. "Define wrong."
Lucien stared at the wall. "Physical. Internal. Tightness in my chest."
"Chest pain?" Nico asked.
"No. Not pain. Just…" Lucien hesitated, which they both noticed. "Pressure."
Jules leaned forward, too amused already. "This pressure happen at specific times?"
Lucien's jaw ticked.
Jules grinned wider. "Ah."
Nico smirked. "Let me guess—only when she's in the room?"
Lucien didn't answer.
Jules whistled. "Romano. You poor bastard."
"It's not that," Lucien snapped.
"Oh no," Jules said, laughing now. "Of course not. The racing heart, the cold hands, the instinct to either kiss or kill—yeah, no. Definitely sounds like pneumonia."
"It's not—"
"Love."
Lucien went still.
Then glared. "Say that again and I'll shoot your kneecap."
Jules just toasted him. "Classic denial."
Nico chuckled. "What happened? Did she smile? Say thank you? Trip and fall on top of you in a soft domestic accident?"
Lucien's silence answered that.
Jules howled.
"Oh my God," he said between sips. "You're gone."
Lucien ran a hand down his face. "She's not like us."
"She doesn't have to be," Nico said. "She just has to be yours."
Lucien stared at his untouched drink.
Then finally muttered—
"I think she's a disease."
And Jules clinked his glass against Lucien's.
"Then let it kill you slowly."
---
He didn't say anything the next morning.
Didn't look at her.
Not at breakfast. Not in passing.
Nothing.
The warmth from the night before the unspoken heartbeat they shared, it was gone. Smothered.
Replaced by the sharp edges of who he used to be.
Or maybe who he always was.
She sat at the table alone now, poking at her toast, wondering why it hurt. Why she cared.
She shouldn't.
He wasn't hers.
This wasn't love.
It was survival.
It was strategy.
It was
Her phone buzzed.
She picked it up absently.
Then froze.
DAMON
> Still glowing from that almost-kiss?
Reunion didn't feel the same without you.
Her fingers tightened around the phone.
DAMON
> Let me make it up to you. Dinner. Friday. Just us. No best friend sabotage this time.
Leona's pulse jumped.
Not because of the message.
Because of the timing.
Lucien had been cold. Distant. Detached.
And now this?
A boy who once made her laugh. Who didn't come with blood and surveillance and warnings tucked behind every word.
A boy who didn't lock doors and pretend it was kindness.
She should say yes.
She should feel something flutter.
Instead
She just felt torn.
She stared at the screen, thumb hovering.
Then set the phone down.
Her reflection in the black glass stared back.
And she realized
It wasn't Domon she couldn't stop thinking about.
It was the man who looked at her like fire was a language, and he'd been fluent long before her.
Even if he never said a word.
She sat at the edge of the bed.
The silence felt personal.
Like the house missed his footsteps almost as much as she did.
Leona's phone buzzed again.
Damon
> Say yes already. Or I'll send a second message with worse spelling.
She smiled—barely.
But it faded fast.
Lucien hadn't said a word to her since she treated his wound.
No thank you.
No tension.
Not even a glance.
It was like he'd shut the door between them again.
And for some reason, that—
Hurt.
Even though it shouldn't.
Even though she knew better.
Her thumb hovered.
Then, finally, she typed:
> Friday. Just dinner.
Not a heart.
Not a smile.
Just… an opening.
Her phone lit up instantly.
Damon
> You won't regret it.
But as she locked the screen and set it aside
She already did.
Not because Damon wasn't sweet.
Not because he didn't look at her like she was still the version of herself she missed.
But because even when she agreed to see him…
Her mind wasn't on Damon
It was still replaying the sound of Lucien's breath catching when she fell on him.
And wondering why he stopped looking at her like it mattered.
-------
The paper containing the rule was still on her desk.
Signed and facing down
She didn't need to read it again. She already knew what it said.
Lucien had rules.
About where she could go.
Who she could see.
How much freedom she was allowed to think she had.
Leona poured herself a glass of water and sipped it like the rules weren't burning a hole through the desk beside her.
The knock came fifteen minutes later.
A plain black box.
No name on the front.
But when she opened it?
Red silk.
Cut low.
Hem above the knee.
A neckline meant to spark war.
She held it up by the straps and smirked.
Of course Damon sent this.
She ran her fingers across the fabric cool, heavy, soft as a threat and walked to the bed to lay it out.
Then stopped.
Looked up.
At the tiny lens in the ceiling corner.
Still watching.
Still recording.
Lucien's world didn't sleep.
Leona reached for the armchair by the window. Dragged it to the corner. Lifted a spare throw blanket from the bench and draped it over the camera.
She stood back.
Admired her work.
Then said, "Sorry, Romeo. You'll have to imagine it this time."
She pulled her shirt off.
Stepped into the dress.
Tugged the zipper up slow.
Watched her reflection with half a smile.
It wasn't for Damon.
It wasn't even for herself.
It was for the man who wasn't here to stop her.
The man who made the rules.
And the man she was already breaking them for.