* * * * *
I worked obediently for three hours.
I tried to find lint and debris, grime and dust on every piece of furniture, lantern, and figurine. And apart from a few dirty spots on the coffee table legs where the lattice wood liked to gather dust in its corners, Lucien’s home was horrendously clean compared to mine—and I had a legion of staff back in the house I’d fled from over seven years ago.
Cleaning his space told me more about him than he probably wanted, chiselling away at the walls I’d hastily erected around my heart, chipping them away stone by stone as I gathered up more of his secrets.
He lived here alone.
He’d lived here alone for twenty awfully long years.
He didn’t have anything like modern-day society to distract himself from boredom. I’d found no cell phone, laptop, or access to the outside world apart from a single tablet with a folder full of random movies.
His library was extensive with books in both English and Mandarin, but the fastidious tidiness hinted the long hours were held at bay by finding things to polish, wax, and wipe.
“What are you doing down there?”
I squeaked and looked up, my gaze skimming up a pair of black-clad long legs.
Lucien towered over me, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. His long hair kissed his upturned collar, slightly messy as if he’d run his hands through it before coming to find me.
Holding up the thin rag I’d been using to pull through the tiny gaps of his intricately carved coffee table, I blinked innocently. “Doing what you told me to do.”
Stepping back a little, he commanded, “Get up.”
My heart kicked, drenching my system in a rush of adrenaline.
A steady pounding pressed against my temples the longer I looked up at him. The more he glowered, the more my pulse flurried beneath his fierce attention.
Swallowing hard, I begged my body to behave as I scrambled upright and balled my hands.
As expected, I had a few seconds of feeling okay before my vision went black, my ears rang, and the need to fall back down again made me sway.
I tripped.
Strong, warm hands locked around my elbows, keeping me upright. His thumbs dug into my forearms, his intake of breath ever so close as he stepped into me. “What’s wrong with you?”
My vision rushed back but the pain in my head grew worse, thanks to him touching me.
How long had it been since another human, male or female, had put their hands on me? My father’s distracted squeeze a few days before he died? My mother’s hurried kiss as she rushed to the lab?
Apart from them, no one had touched me in almost a decade.
And yet, this man...he’d been on top of me—if only for a few minutes. He’d had his hand on my throat more than once—if only to let me go. He’d touched me with violence, annoyance,wariness, and hate, but right now...right now his touch shook just a little, his fingers digging painfully tight.
Our gazes locked but he didn’t let me go. His thumbs pressed a little harder as if blaming me for this uncomfortable connection. The corners of his mouth turned down as if he didn’t know what to feel.
He’d asked me a question, but I forgot how to answer.
Time webbed around us as my heart palpitated.
In the outside world, he’d be classified as the villain through and through. He’d killed multiple women and held my life in his palm, and yet...I couldn’t see him as the bad guy—not entirely at least.
Clearing his throat, he finally muttered, “Are you going to fall down if I let you go?”
I swallowed and shook my head, wincing a little at the pressure.
Unlocking his hands, he released me, stepping back as if our closeness stung him.
