The memory of last night hits me in flashes—the alley, the gunshot, the panic as I held him up, his blood on my hands, the car ride, stitching him up while he watched me with that unreadable expression… and then the way he kissed me, slow at first, then hungry. The way I kissed him back like I’d been waiting for it.
The way we?—
I shut that thought down before it burns me alive.
The clock on the nightstand reads 6:07 a.m. Lucian doesn’t stir. His breathing is slow, deep. He looks younger like this, not softer, not exactly, but less carved by responsibility. Less like the Devil.
He looks… peaceful.
I shift carefully onto my back, trying not to wake him, but his arm tightens reflexively, pulling me closer. My body fits against his too easily, like he expected me to be here, like he wanted me here. It makes something flutter in my stomach, and I hate that I don’t immediately push it away.
For a long minute, I just look at him.
His hair is mussed, falling over his forehead. His mouth—the same mouth that kissed me senseless last night—is relaxed, almost gentle. His lashes are long, ridiculously so for a man who’s supposed to be terrifying.
How can a man like this run an organization built on blood?
How can someone who held me like I mattered also order men kneeling in front of him to be hurt? How do those things exist in the same person?
I don’t know the answer, and it scares me that I want to.
At 6:29, his breathing shifts. His fingers twitch against my stomach, and then he inhales slowly, waking.
I pretend to be asleep.
He moves behind me, stretching once—a quiet groan escaping his chest—before his arm pulls me fully against him, chin coming to rest against the back of my shoulder. His voice is rough with sleep when he speaks.
“You’re awake.”
I stiffen. “No, I’m not.”
A soft huff of amusement against my skin.
I turn to face him, and the morning light catches in his eyes—dark, still half-lidded, but alert in a way that reminds me who he is. His gaze travels over my face like he’s noting new details.
“Good morning,” he says.
It’s simple, unguarded, and somehow that makes it more dangerous.
“Does this mean you’re going to keep me in bed?” I ask, aiming for sarcasm but hearing the softness I didn’t intend.
He studies me a second longer, then gently tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. The gesture is shockingly tender.
“I could be convinced,” he murmurs.
Heat flares in my chest, not embarrassment exactly, but something close.
I clear my throat. “I should… probably get up.”
“Probably,” he echoes, but he doesn’t let go.
We stay like that until the clock reads 6:41. Finally, Lucian exhales and sits up. The sheet slips from his torso, revealing the bandage I wrapped around him. And all the scars beneath it.
Dozens. Knives, bullets, burns. His whole body is a map of violence.
I stare before I catch myself.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says quietly.
