“Mine involves not being dead.”
“Then sure. Super comfortable.”
A ghost of a smile touches his mouth. He walks to the small bar at the corner of the room and pours himself a drink. The glass catches the light as he swirls it.
“You think your father sent you here because he hates you,” he says finally.
I don’t answer.
“He didn’t. He sent you because he’s weak.” He turns, eyes meeting mine. “Because he thought giving me something young and loud and full of fight would buy him forgiveness.”
I swallow hard. “And did it?”
Lucian takes a slow sip. “We’ll see.”
He sets the glass down, then crosses to me. Every step he takes feels deliberate, measured, like he’s testing the space between us.
“Stand up,” he says quietly.
For a second, I consider refusing. But something in his tone—calm, unyielding—makes my body move before my brain decides to. I stand.
He’s close enough now that I can smell his cologne, something dark and expensive. His gaze drifts to the faint red mark at my throat from the ribbon.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“I’m cold.”
“Liar.”
His hand lifts, almost like before, but this time he doesn’t touch me. His knuckles hover an inch from my face, the air between us heavy. I can feel his heat even through that small distance.
“You’re going to stay here,” he says. “You’ll have food, clothes, and freedom to walk the grounds if you behave. But you don’t leave the property. Ever.”
“And if I try?”
He finally lets his fingers touch my chin—light, almost careful. “Then I’ll remind you who you belong to.”
The words hit harder than I expect. I slap his hand away, heart pounding. “I don’t belong to anyone.”
Lucian just watches me, unbothered. He turns to leave, pausing at the door. “Dinner’s at eight. Don’t make me send someone to fetch you.”
Then he’s gone.
The silence that follows feels alive.
I sink back onto the bed, exhaling hard. The window still shows the snow falling outside, soft and relentless. The ribbon lies across the sheets like a scarlet question mark.
My jaw aches where I bit him. My tongue still tastes faintly metallic.
I tell myself I don’t care what he thinks. That I’m not afraid of him, that I’m planning my escape already.
But somewhere deep down, beneath the anger and the adrenaline, I know the truth. For the first time in my life, I met someone I can’t read—someone who might actually be worse than the stories.
And I can still taste his blood on my tongue.
3
Lucian
