“How am I looking at you?”
“Like you’re trying to decide whether to be horrified or fascinated.”
I swallow. “I’m not horrified.”
He doesn’t answer. He just watches me, jaw tight, like he’s waiting for me to ask what he doesn’t want to talk about.
So I do.
“Lucian… what was your childhood like?”
His entire body goes still.
I immediately regret it. I expect him to shut down, get cold, tell me it’s none of my business.
Instead, he looks away.
“Elias,” he says slowly, “there are parts of my life I don’t like remembering. Let alone sharing.”
“I get that,” I say gently. “But you asked me yesterday why I didn’t leave you in that alley, and I didn’t answer. So… this is me trying. I want to understand you.”
His throat works once. Then, to my surprise, he leans back against the headboard and lets out a long, tired breath.
“My father,” he begins, “believed pain was instruction. ‘A man who doesn’t fear is a man who doesn’t listen,’ he used to say.”
The bitterness in his voice is sharp.
“He taught us to obey before we could talk. I remember being six and having to stand still while he—” Lucian breaks off. His hand flexes against the sheets. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” I say softly.
His jaw tightens. “He broke my brother’s arm when he was eight. He… left marks on me that never faded. More than the scars.”
My chest tightens painfully.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He looks at me then, really looks, like he’s surprised I mean it.
He clears his throat. “I don’t want to be him, Elias.”
“I know,” I answer, and the truth of it surprises me.
He nods once, barely perceptible, then swings his legs out of bed. The moment is over. The walls come back up. I let him go; he needs the armor, and maybe I need mine too.
The rest of the morning is strangely normal.
Mara convinces me to help her bake cookies, though I suspect she mostly wants someone to talk to. I mix dough, she swats my hands when I taste too much of it, and the whole kitchen smellslike cinnamon and chocolate. It’s the most peaceful I’ve felt since arriving here.
When the cookies are done, I arrange a plate and carry it toward Lucian’s wing of the mansion. For once, I feel… good. Light. Like maybe last night wasn’t a mistake.
I knock once and enter.
He’s at his desk, glasses low on his nose—which, honestly, should be illegal—focused on paperwork. His shirt is crisp today, dark blue, sleeves rolled up. The bandage is hidden beneath it, but he still looks tired in a way that softens something deep in me.
“I brought cookies,” I say, feeling awkward the moment the words leave my mouth.
Lucian looks up. And the hungry, slow smile that crosses his face almost drops the plate from my hands.
