4
Elias
The next few days, I hide in my room, a self-imposed exile. The mansion is quiet without Lucian here, though I know better than to believe it’s empty. Meals are brought to me, left silently outside my door; trays of food that feel more like bribes than sustenance. I eat mechanically, stabbing at the meat and vegetables as if taste doesn’t matter. Every bite is a reminder of the past few days, of the strange chaos of being here, of being under his roof and under his gaze, and of the kiss.
God, the kiss.
It shouldn’t have happened. I wanted to confuse him, make him question his own control. That had been the plan, and yet instead, it did the opposite. It confused me. I can’t stop replaying it in my head: the heat, the reckless want behind it, the way he had kissed back—brief, calculated, but enough to make me feel…something I wasn’t supposed to feel. I try to shake it from my mind, but it lingers, stubborn as a bruise. I hate it, and I hate myself for thinking about him in that way.
The first two days are easy enough to hide. I stick to the suite, open the curtains only a crack, and peek at the courtyard. But staying hidden isn’t living. I pace the room, bite at my nails, tap my foot against the hardwood.
I can’t help thinking about him. About the way he carries himself, about the room he occupies, the way he commands presence without raising his voice. The way he… Everything about him is infuriating and magnetic all at once.
By the third evening, the cabin fever gnaws too hard. I tell myself I’m going to leave the room, to pad down the halls and see the house, to stretch my legs. Lucian is supposed to be out. He tends to work from his city office during the week is what Mara tells me
The thought of crossing paths with him makes my chest tighten, makes my stomach tangle with nerves and some other feeling I don’t yet name. But I push past the fear. I need movement, a reminder that I am not completely captive to my own emotions.
I step out. The hallways are empty, the marble cold beneath my socks. The quiet hum of the mansion feels alive in its own way, like the building itself is breathing, waiting to see what I’ll do next. My footsteps echo softly, a whisper against the walls, and I feel the thrill of being alone in a house that belongs to someone else. Someone dangerous. Someone I shouldn’t want to think about this way.
I round the corner to the drawing room and freeze.
Lucian. He’s home.
He’s not what I expected. Not at all. He sits in the chair by the fire, slightly slouched, tie undone around his neck, the top two buttons of his shirt open. The lamp illuminates him with a warm glow. There are flecks of blood on the white fabric, small, dark reminders of some violent encounter I haven’t witnessed. He looks…disheveled. Imperfect. Human. And I feel it immediately,a jolt that runs straight through me, stirring the same reckless heat from the kiss.
My pulse hammers. I shouldn’t be looking at him like this. I shouldn’t feel drawn to the sight of him, to the set of his jaw, the careless strength in his hands, the subtle swell of muscle that tells me he’s always been in control of something—something I will never be. And yet, here I am, frozen, wanting, trying not to want.
He notices me, and his eyes are sharp even when slightly glassy from whatever drink he’s had. He leans back in the chair, one arm draped over the armrest. The firelight catches his face in a way that highlights the hard planes, the scarred edges of him, and the intensity in his gaze makes my stomach twist.
“Elias,” he says, his voice low, a little rough. “I haven’t seen you in a while. Are you well?”
Is he trying to pretend he isn’t covered in blood? Or is he actually concerned for me?
“I’m...fine. Wasn’t feeling like myself.” I close the parlor door, leaning against the wood.
Lucian nods, sipping his drink. “I often feel like that.”
My feet seem to gravitate towards him. “How was your day?”
His dark eyes regard me. Probably trying to see if I’m being earnest. “Today was…particularly hard. Had to discipline someone in my court. They were stupid, defiant. I couldn’t leave it alone.”
I tilt my head, daring, dangerous, defiance stitched into every line of my body. “Sounds familiar,” I say. “You’re just like your father.”
He flinches, ever so slightly, the firelight flicking across his expression. “I’m not,” he says, and the denial is sharp, clipped. “I am nothing like him. Nothing.”
I step closer, unable to resist. I can feel the heat in the room intensifying, the way the fire flickers shadows across hisbroad shoulders, the way his presence fills the space and presses against me.
“You are,” I insist. “You have his temper, his insistence on control. You may not want to admit it, but it’s there. Just like him.”
His jaw tightens, a warning, a promise. “Enough,” he says, frustration creeping into his voice. “Don’t test me.”
I can’t help it. The thrill of pushing him, of seeing him unravel slightly under my gaze, is too intoxicating. I step closer. Closer. I can see the fine lines of his face, the way his eyes dart just a fraction, the tight set of his shoulders. His temper flares like a flare shot in the dark. I feel drawn in, testing limits I shouldn’t touch.
“Get on your knees, Elias,” he commands suddenly, and the authority in his tone sends a shock straight through me.
I pause, measuring. This is not a request. It’s not even a challenge. It’s a command. And yet, something about the order makes my pulse spike, makes the defiance within me want to rise and answer.
I comply. Slowly, deliberately. Kneeling before him is an act I hate to perform, but I do it with my eyes locked on his. I want to see the storm in them, the fire, the unspoken desire to dominate, to control, to test. And in this moment, I recognize the complex layers of him: the man who demands obedience, the man who is flawed, human, and terrifying.
