The penthouse was quiet.
Too quiet.
Ava stood near the massive window overlooking the city lights. Everything looked normal from up here—cars moving, people living their lives, the world continuing as if nothing had changed.
But her world had been completely erased.
Behind her, Lucien moved around the room calmly, removing his jacket. The torn fabric from the fight revealed a strong line of muscle along his shoulder.
Ava tried not to stare.
She failed.
"You're hurt," she said softly.
Lucien glanced down at the small cut on his knuckle.
"It's nothing."
"That's not what it looked like downstairs."
He walked toward the bar and poured a glass of whiskey.
"Violence tends to look worse than it is."
Ava crossed her arms.
"You could have been killed."
Lucien took a slow sip.
"That would have been inconvenient."
She rolled her eyes.
"You're impossible."
He smirked faintly.
"And yet you're still here."
Ava hesitated.
Then walked closer.
Without asking permission, she took his hand.
Lucien stiffened.
The contact between them felt electric.
She examined the cut on his knuckles.
"You should clean this."
His voice lowered.
"You're worried about me?"
"Someone has to be."
Lucien studied her face carefully, something unreadable in his eyes.
"You're different from what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"A woman who would panic and run."
She shrugged lightly.
"Maybe I would… if I had somewhere to run."
Silence filled the room.
Lucien gently pulled his hand away.
But his fingers lingered on hers for a moment longer than necessary.
"Get some rest," he said quietly.
"You'll need it."
"For what?"
His gaze darkened slightly.
"Tomorrow."