Lucien's POV:
The sirens faded, a distant, dying echo in the city's ceaseless hum.
I stood by the panoramic window of my penthouse, a ghost of satisfaction in my chest.
The news had just come in from Adrien:
Angelo Moretti's primary vault, located in his private brownstone, had been breached. Not for money. Not for records. But for his prized collection of illicit historical artifacts, a collection he had painstakingly amassed through decades of brutal acquisition.
The message was delivered. Clear. Unambiguous.
Don't touch what's mine.
Angelo would understand. He respected strength, and this was a display of undeniable power, surgical and silent.
A warning shot fired not with bullets, but with calculated precision.
He wouldn't risk open warfare over a foolish venture to leverage a weak-willed corporate pawn against me. Not when his personal hoard was at risk.
My gaze drifted to the street below, my eyes narrowing, searching. I knew she was coming.
The rose was a signal, a scent on the wind.
I could almost feel her presence, like a shift in the air pressure before a storm.
Adrien called. "Damien's flight departed an hour ago. He's officially off the board for now."
"Good," I muttered. "Keep eyes on him. I want to know who he meets, who he talks to. And more importantly, who he brings back with him."
"You think he'll try something else?" Adrien asked, a hint of concern in his voice.
"He's a cornered rat," I replied, the words cold. "And cornered rats are the most dangerous. He won't let go of Celeste quietly. His pride won't allow it. And his fear will make him reckless."
---
I ended the call. The silence in the penthouse stretched, thick with anticipation. My eyes found the portrait of Celeste in my private gallery, the one that showed her in defiance, eyes closed in power. Soon, she would be here, in the flesh.
And tonight, the pretense would finally fall away. The careful dance, the slow seduction – it all led to this.
I walked through the minimalist rooms, every object placed with intent. This was my sanctuary. My fortress.
And tonight, I was inviting the fire in.
---
The doorbell chimed, a soft, almost imperceptible sound that only I would have heard. My pulse quickened, a drumbeat in my ears.
I walked to the door, my movements measured. I didn't rush.
I wanted her to feel the weight of this moment. The gravity of her choice.
When I opened the door, she stood there, a vision in black.
Her hair was down, flowing around her shoulders. Her eyes, luminous and sharp, met mine. There was no hesitation. No fear. Only a raw, unapologetic hunger that mirrored my own.
"Celeste," I said, my voice a low rasp.
She stepped inside, not asking permission, not waiting for an invitation. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing us inside. The scent of her – subtle, intoxicating – filled the air, replacing the sterile scent of my world.
"Lucien," she breathed, her voice a whisper, yet it vibrated through me like a tuning fork.
She didn't move towards me, but her gaze swept the room, taking it all in. The vast windows overlooking the city, the stark lines of the furniture, the quiet power that permeated every inch of the space.
She was assessing it, absorbing it.
And then her eyes landed on the doorway to my private gallery.
I saw the recognition, the subtle catch of her breath.
She didn't need to walk towards it this time; the memory was already burned into her mind.
"You came," I said, a statement, not a question.
"You knew I would," she replied, her voice firm. "I always come when you call."
"I didn't call," I corrected, a ghost of a smile touching my lips. "I merely showed you the door."
Her eyes, dark and hungry, met mine across the space. "And I walked through it."
I took a slow step towards her, then another. The air between us thickened, heavy with unspoken anticipation. "Tell me what you want, Celeste," I urged, my voice low, a command woven with desire. "Not from a therapist. Not from a wife. From the woman who is finally awake."
Her lips parted. Her gaze was locked on mine, unwavering. "I want… to be consumed."
The words, whispered like a prayer, were a physical blow. The air thickened. My blood thrummed.
This was the moment. The threshold.
"Then ask," I breathed, my hand finally reaching out, hovering over her wrist, where the gold bracelet gleamed. Not touching. Just feeling the heat radiating from her skin.
Her breath hitched. Her eyes closed for a brief moment, then fluttered open.
"Touch me, Lucien," she whispered, her voice rough, a raw plea. "I'm tired of pretending I don't want you."
The dam broke. Not just for her. For me.
---
The hunger that had gnawed at me for months, the relentless, primal need, roared to life. This was no longer a game of control.
This was a claiming.
I pulled her to me, my other hand finding the nape of her neck, my fingers tangling in her soft hair. Her body slammed against mine, a perfect fit. Her head tilted back, offering her throat.
"My queen," I murmured against her skin, a vow.
And then, finally, after months of calculated patience, my mouth descended, claiming hers in a kiss that was everything I had promised: possessive, uncompromising, and absolutely, terrifyingly real.
The fire that had been submerged for so long, the one I had carefully coaxed, finally erupted. And it was going to burn us both alive.