I smooth the leather skirt with my palm, feigning nonchalance while my pulse hammers against my throat like a caged bird. “You said nice but comfortable.”
The corner of his mouth barely lifts. That ghost of a smile no one else is permitted to witness. “I didn’t think you’d interpret that as pillaging my wardrobe.”
I offer a one-shouldered shrug, though heat blooms across my cheekbones under the weight of his gaze. “I wanted to try something new.”
Lucian pushes away from the counter, crossing the tiles in three deliberate strides that somehow make the room feel halfits size. His calloused fingertips brush the frayed hem of his shirt where it is tucked into my skirt, sending electricity crackling through the threadbare cotton.
His eyes capture mine. “You look good wrapped in me,” his voice pitched so low it’s almost a physical touch against my skin. After a weighted pause, his mouth curves into that wicked half-smile that sends butterflies rioting in my stomach. “Hell, I know you look even better wrapped around me, too.”
He lets his hand linger a beat longer than necessary before he pulls away, his fingers reluctant, his eyes even more so. I watch the way he watches me, like he’s cataloging the small things. My chest does that stupid, traitorous flutter. “And all night,” he says, voice low and rough in a way that lands somewhere between warning and worship, “I’ll be thinking about getting you back in bed and finding out what you’re wearing under that skirt.”
The words hang there, heavy between us, and exactly the kind of thing that makes my brain short-circuit. I lean in, close enough that my lips ghost the shell of his ear. “That might be tricky. I forgot to tell you, I’m not wearing anything under this skirt.”
A low growl rumbles in his chest. “Celeste,” he warns, gravel and heat braided together.
I laugh and brush past him, feeling like I just sprinted a mile. Of course, I haven’t gotten far before his hand shoots out and catches my wrist, tugging me back with a gentle force that turns me around and puts me back in his arms. He doesn’t kiss me like I expect him to. Instead, he presses something small and velvet into my palm.
“Before you drive me insane, I have something for you.”
Curiosity cuts through the heat, and I flip the lid. Nestled on black velvet is a delicate chain: a diamond-covered L and a flat circular charm that glints like a promise.
He clears his throat, awkward in that rare, gentle way I’ve come to love. “It’s not just jewelry,” he murmurs. “If you feel anxious, or god forbid something happens, you can click that charm twice, and it’ll ping me, Orion, and Rowan, immediately. I synced it to your phone when I got it. Only you can activate it, and once it’s on, we’ll see your location until we call the company and shut it down.”
I stare at the gift, my heart pounding so loud I’m sure he can hear it. The metal feels surprisingly cool in my hot palm, yet warmth blooms in my chest, as if his protection has already settled there.
“Lucian…” My voice comes out in a whisper.
His eyes soften, their usual steel edge blunted by something tender, and though his tone remains low and gruff, I hear the care behind it. “I can’t be everywhere. But this way, you’ll never be alone.”
I trace the circular charm with my thumb, my pulse tightening. It’s not just clever or safe, but I love the fact that he thought of it, and he wants to keep me safe even when he can’t be here.
I look up, and the dangerous smirk I know so well melts into something quiet and almost shy and makes it hard to breathe. “You really don’t do anything halfway, do you?”
His lips tilt in that crooked half-smile that makes my knees go weak. “Not when it comes to you.”
He steps behind me, the cool chain brushing the nape of my neck. His movements, otherwise so sure and sharp, become almost reverent.
“Hold still,” he mutters, voice low and gravelly. The gentle rub of his knuckle against my skin sends a shiver racing down my spine. When the chain finally clicks into place, it settles against my collarbone.
I press a finger to the pendant, studying how it sits. It might be a pretty trinket to any passerby, but to me it feels like an anchor. This is Lucian in essence: practical, protective, and undeniably possessive. My lips curve into a smile as I lean back against him, letting his chin rest against the top of my head.
Before I can say thank you, a knock thunders on the front door, rattling the windows.
Lucian’s hand slides away from my waist, and when I glance over my shoulder, he’s wearing the infuriating smirk that says he’s already ten steps ahead. “Go on, it’s for you, I’ll go start my SUV.”
My heart lurches with fresh curiosity as I pad across the hardwood floor, the soft scrape of my boots the only sound punctuating the hush. I reach for the doorknob, pull it open—
And then I freeze.
Shiloh fills the doorway first, with Linkin clinging to her back like a mischievous shadow in piggyback style, with his chin tucked over her shoulder. Her hair is twisted into tight space buns, a few rebellious strands escaping to frame her face; she’s wearing a cropped tank that shows the faint line of a sunburn and her signature high-waisted plaid pants. There’s a grin on her face that says she’s just as excited to see me as I am to see her.
Linkin looks like he wandered off a magazine shoot and into a punk rock afterparty, his hair artfully messy, a button-down half undone to reveal his chest, and a pair of trousers that somehow make him look both dangerously casual and absurdly put together. They both glow with excitement that’s loud without making a sound; seeing them there feels like being surprised by sunlight.
His grin flips into a mock-apology the second he sees me. “Ope—sorry, ma’am, we have the wrong house,” he says, voice syrupy and delighted. He mock whispers in Shiloh’s ear, loud enough for me to hear, adds, “Shi—turn around, I’m scared. Thisisn’t our fearless leader, the one who only wears matching sets and has never owned a band tee or a leather skirt in her life.”
Shiloh shrugs him off her back and shoots him a look that’s half amusement, half exasperation. “She looks like Celeste to me,” she says, grin wide. “Just… softer.”
Linkin flails a little, scandalized at the implication. “What kind of ‘softer version’ wears band tees, leather skirts, and combat boots? This has to be ‘Leste 2.0.”
