Lucien's POV:
She slept, finally, nestled against my side, her breathing even, a soft counterpoint to the relentless thrum of the city outside. The curve of her hip fit perfectly against my own, her arm draped across my chest, fingers lightly curled.
The light of dawn was just beginning to etch itself across the skyline, painting the room in hues of bruised purple and nascent gold.
We hadn't moved from the sofa. Not to the bed.
The weight of her body against mine, the scent of her, the taste of her on my tongue—it was a potent cocktail of ash and honey.
Ash from the world I'd just disturbed to protect her, and honey from the sweet, terrifying release of finally claiming her.
Her confession –
"Touch me, Lucien. I'm tired of pretending I don't want you"
– had been a release valve for a pressure I hadn't realized was crushing me. The kiss had been a hurricane, a claiming. And then, the slow, agonizing, exquisite process of unmaking.
I had kept my promise. I hadn't pushed. I hadn't forced. Every touch, every whisper, every slow, deliberate exploration had been met with her fierce, unspoken permission.
Her hands had clutched my shirt, then my hair, then raked over my back, seeking purchase, seeking more.
Her sighs, her soft moans, were a symphony that stripped away the last vestiges of my control.
She had unraveled, yes. But not into weakness. Into something powerful. Something raw and real. And watching her, feeling her respond, had been more intoxicating than any victory I'd ever orchestrated.
The want in her eyes, unclothed and hungry, was a reflection of my own.
And now, this quiet. This stillness. It felt fragile, precious. A temporary reprieve before the storm I knew was coming.
Her question about the Morettis had been direct. My answer, deliberately veiled.
She didn't need to know the granular details of their brutality, the intricate web of my father's past, the methods of my own rise.
Not yet.
All she needed to understand was the threat, and my unequivocal promise of protection.
I shifted slightly, just enough to gaze down at her. Her face was soft in sleep, a stray strand of dark hair falling across her cheek. The gold bracelet gleamed on her wrist. A mark. Mine.
My phone, resting on the coffee table, vibrated. Adrien.
---
I carefully eased myself away from her, a sudden coldness creeping into my bones as the warmth of her body departed. I walked to the window, pulling the phone to my ear, my voice low.
"Adrien."
"They found the vault, Lucien. Angelo's furious. And making noise. He's blaming Damien, saying Morano tipped you off."
"He's a fool," I stated. "Let him make noise. The message was for him, not the underlings."
"There's more," Adrien continued, a pause. "Damien's flight to the Caribbean was rerouted. He landed in Naples an hour ago. He's meeting with Marco Rossi."
My jaw tightened.
Rossi.
Another ghost from my father's past. Younger than Angelo, but infinitely more dangerous.
Rossi was known for his cold ambition, his ruthlessness.
If Damien was dealing with Rossi, this was no longer about leverage or business. This was about vengeance.
"He's going to try to buy a hit," I murmured, my voice colder than the predawn air.
"Seems that way," Adrien confirmed. "Angelo may have backed off, but Rossi… he smells opportunity. And he's got a long-standing grievance with your lineage, Lucien. He won't hesitate to use Celeste."
The air left my lungs in a sharp gasp.
Use her.
Not just as bait. But as a weapon.
"Keep a twenty-four-hour watch on her apartment," I commanded, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. "Cover every exit. No one in. No one out, unless I clear it."
"Understood."
"And Damien. Track his every step. I want to know when he breathes, when he blinks. And when he's on a plane back to New York, I want to know the moment he lands."
"Will do, Lucien."
I ended the call, my gaze sweeping the silent, sleeping city. The initial threat from Angelo was contained, but Damien's desperate, reckless act had opened a new, far more dangerous front.
Rossi was a snake, and he would strike at the softest target.
Celeste.
---
I walked back to the sofa, my eyes falling on her, serene in sleep. Her fire, so recently unleashed, was still raw, vulnerable.
And I would burn the world to protect it.
The honey had been sweet. But the ash, the bitter taste of my world, had just become a tangible threat to her. My hand moved to her hair, brushing it from her face.
I would make sure she never felt it. I would absorb every last ember of this burgeoning war. And if it meant destroying everything to keep her safe and whole, then so be it.
The Reckoning had just begun.