We found refuge back in the cluttered little storage room.
Rowan's hand reached up, brushing my hair back with the kind of gentleness you usually reserve for paper cranes or apologies. His eyes lowered, catching sight of the scrapes blooming across my knuckles. He took my hands—carefully, like he thought I might flinch—and turned my palms upward.
"What the fuck happened?" he said, his voice tight with fury he was clearly trying to hold back.
I couldn't help the grin that tugged at my mouth. "I did some really cool stunts," I said, like a kid bragging about scraped knees. "Climbed up a drainpipe, ran across a roof. Felt like James Bond with cheaper shoes."
Rowan looked at me like I'd just told him I jumped out of a plane for fun. I couldn't help the way I lit up a little under that gaze—as if part of me wanted to impress him, to make him proud, even if the story was coated in blood and stupid choices.
He smiled, exasperated. "You found that refreshing?"
"Well," I shrugged, "a real refresh would've been seeing your face the moment I opened the door."
His smile faltered, then deepened. That soft, crooked kind of smile that makes your stomach knot in the best way.
"You know what, Reed?" he said, voice low. "I never thought I'd say this, but—sending your location two blocks away? With a weird cat mural hint? That was so fucking hot. I didn't get it at first, but when it clicked—shit. You were giving me a breadcrumb without making it obvious."
I leaned in closer, whispering against his smirk, "You know what's even hotter, Lucien? You actually understanding the hint. I think I fell in love with you all over again."
He looked at me like I'd just given him something sacred. Like I was the thing he hadn't known he was searching for, and suddenly it was right there—in his lap, scuffed up, sarcastic, and madly in love.
His hand tightened around mine, pulling me a little closer until our foreheads nearly brushed.
"Anyway," he murmured, breath warm, eyes still searching mine, "fuck… listen. The men chasing you—they weren't the dangerous kind. Not to you, at least. They were tracking your route. Trying to see if I'd given anything away. Making sure I wasn't… betraying them."
My throat tightened. "So they were testing your loyalty?"
"Something like that. It's complicated. I'll explain everything once we're home. Just—" he exhaled, steady but exhausted, "I'm really fucking glad you're safe. That you ran. That you made it."
My voice cracked just a little when I asked, "Were they the same people who kidnapped me before?"
He shook his head, his expression dimming. "No. Different party."
I slumped back, my body suddenly aching with the weight of everything. "I'm so tired. And confused."
Without saying anything, he brought my hands to his mouth.
Soft, unhurried kisses pressed into the raw skin of my palms—one after the other—like he was trying to erase the pain with his breath. As if he was stitching some kind of promise into me, quietly, without words.
And God, it set something on fire inside me.
Not just desire. But trust.
The terrifying kind.
The kind that says you can fall asleep now, I'll stay. I didn't want to run from it.
My knees bracketed his thighs. His hands, warm and steady, hadn't left mine since he kissed them—like he thought they might disappear if he did. The quiet between us wasn't awkward anymore. It had shape. Weight. Desire curled in its corners.
I tilted my head, pressing a kiss to his mouth—not rough, but not shy either. Just enough to say I'm still here. I still want this. I still want you.
He kissed me back slower, deeper, and then his grip shifted. His hands moved lower, one of them sliding to my waist, the other lower—fingertips curling around my hip, guiding me forward.
The movement pulled me against him.
There was friction—hot and sudden and sharp, and my breath caught.
"Rowan," I said, not thinking. Not planning. Just feeling it, his name spilling out of me with a hitch of breath and something raw underneath.
His eyes softened instantly.
Then came his whisper, low and wrecked and reverent:
"Say my name like that again…"
My pulse stuttered.
I leaned closer, deliberately brushing my body against his again, slow this time, letting him feel it—all of it. "Rowan," I said again, slower now, drawing the syllables like I wanted to brand them onto his skin.
He groaned softly, his grip tightening. His forehead pressed to mine, his breath hot and fast.
The tension between us was electric, unsaid things crashing against want, forgiveness, exhaustion. A mess of need in the shape of comfort.
And still, we didn't rush.
Just held on.
His hands lingered on my hips, the warmth of his breath brushing over my cheek like a warning and a promise. My name still echoed between us—twice said, twice felt—and the tension was so thick it nearly sang in the silence.
But then Rowan—Lucien—closed his eyes, exhaled hard through his nose like he was reining in something. Something hungry. Something dangerous.
He pulled back, just enough to break the gravity between us, but not enough to feel distant.
"We should go," he said, voice gravel-rough and still tinged with restraint. "Let's go home."
I blinked. "Home?"
He nodded, already shifting beneath me. "Yeah."
I hesitated. "Would it be safe? After what just happened—after the guys following me—"
He looked me dead in the eyes, steady. "It will. Because we're not going to your place. We're going to mine. And no one knows about that apartment. It's clean. It's quiet. It's ours, just for tonight."
Something in my chest eased. The word ours stuck to my ribs like honey.
I nodded, and for once, didn't argue.
Didn't push. Didn't doubt.
I just got up, waited for him to follow, and whispered, "Okay. Let's go."
The drive settled into silence again... muted. Like both of us were still chewing on too much air, too many thoughts. I watched streetlights flicker past the window, the city blurring into shadow and glass. Rowan's hand stayed on the wheel, calm and loose. But every now and then, when the road curved and his knuckles grazed my leg, I felt steadier.
We pulled up to a quiet street. Clean. Not flashy. Not loud. The kind of place you blink past, but only if you don't know what you're looking at. The building looked old-money disguised as humble: brushed iron details, elegant lighting, manicured hedges trimmed to boring perfection. Like a luxury that didn't feel the need to scream its own value.
We rode the elevator in silence. It opened straight into the apartment—no hallway, no buffer. Just straight in.
And I stopped.
The space unfolded like a magazine spread. Dark wood floors, shadowed lighting, floor-to-ceiling windows letting in the city's soft pulse. Leather and stone, glass and warmth. Everything is intentional. Everything is expensive. Not showy—but sharp. Like Rowan had handpicked every detail not for comfort, but for control.
He walked ahead, tossing his keys in a crystal tray by the door. "It's soundproofed," he said, as if answering a question I hadn't asked. "And under another name."
I followed in, stepping slow. "You live here?"
"I keep things here." He opened a cabinet—whiskey bottles, not even dusted. "Documents. Plans. Some of my best thinking happens here. Margo knows about it, obviously."
My eyes narrowed slightly. "Right. Of course, Margo knows."
He looked over his shoulder and nodded once. "Well—"
He shrugged off his jacket, hung it on a chair. "I've invested a lot into this place," he said, voice calm. "Not just for comfort. For weight. Real estate holds value. It's the one thing you can launder money through without ever washing it."
That wasn't the answer I expected. I raised a brow. "So this is... what? Your safety net?"
"No," he said, coming to stand in front of me, his tone softer now. "This is my constant. When everything else burns, this stays."
"And you brought me here." I folded my arms across my chest. "Why?"
He met my eyes. Steady. Quiet. "Because no one gets this far unless they matter."
The words struck something—somewhere beneath my bruises and the grime of the day, the part of me that still wanted to be chosen.
I looked around again.
"Feels like you," I said finally.
He tilted his head. "Cold and over-designed?"
I gave a lazy half-smile. "Expensive. Sharp. Kind of terrifying. But somehow still warm when you let it be."
That earned a real smile.
I kicked off my shoes near the entry rug—thick as a mattress—and walked deeper into the room. Sat on the edge of the obsidian-colored couch. My fingers skimmed the edge of a marble coffee table.
"I don't know if I'm supposed to be honored or worried," I muttered.
He took off his watch, setting it down with that quiet care of someone who only relaxes when everything else is locked in place.
"Maybe both."
And still—I stayed.
He opened the fridge like it was nothing. Like this was any other night. The light from inside painted a cold glow on his face as he grabbed ingredients—eggs, a carton of milk, herbs I couldn't name, something wrapped in butcher paper. It was too quiet. Even the hum of the refrigerator felt loud.
He didn't look at me.
"I didn't say it back," he said.
I blinked. "Say what?"
"You know what."
My breath caught in my throat.
Lucien placed the ingredients on the marble counter one by one, lining them up like it mattered—like if he just arranged them right, the world might not fall apart.
"I heard you," he continued. "When you said you loved me. You meant it. You said it so clearly I could still hear it echo in my head when you fell asleep."
He paused. Picked up a knife. Started chopping something—parsley, maybe. The rhythmic tap of blade to board sounded too steady for what was happening.
"I didn't say it back. And I knew I wasn't ready to yet. Not because I didn't feel it." He exhaled, shoulders rising. "But because I'm always waiting for the crash."
I sat on one of the stools by the counter, watching the muscles in his back shift beneath his shirt, the set of his jaw in the reflection of the stove.
"And now," he said, "you're the one trying to be the calm in the storm. When it should be me. I should be the one grounding you. But you're the one making space for both of us to breathe."
He kept cooking—cracking an egg, reaching for the pan.
"I told you once, when the timing's right, I'd ask you to be mine. Officially. Like we weren't living in a fucking crime thriller. But every plan I had for that… it's crumbled. Things moved fast. Uncontrolled. I didn't expect to fall this hard. I didn't expect to be watched. To be questioned. To have to look over my shoulder every time I got close to you."
He paused, letting the sizzle of something on the pan fill the space his voice had left behind. Then, quieter:
"I'm working on something big, Reed. And I don't know if I'll make it out of it alive."
The knife stilled. The air felt heavy.
"You need to know that. In case things go south. In case they take me out before I can fix it."
He gripped the edge of the counter like it might steady him.
"I love you." He said it into the pan, into the space between us. "More than I ever thought I could. And that scares the hell out of me. Because no one ever made me feel like I belonged somewhere. And you—" He swallowed, voice cracking, just once. "You gave me that."
He still hadn't turned around.
So I stood. Walked toward him, slow and quiet. And wrapped my arms around him from behind, resting my cheek between his shoulder blades.
"You can't die right after I decided to forgive you, you piece of shit," I muttered, my voice muffled against his back.
He let out a breath—deep, strained. Tilted his head back just slightly, like he was trying to keep everything inside from spilling out.
"We're not supposed to have weaknesses," he said. "Rule number one in the organization. And I already broke it. Fuck."
"You mean me?"
"No," he said dryly. "I meant the eggs."
I snorted softly, the sound getting caught in the lump in my throat.
"If there's anything you need me to do to help, I'll do it," I said quietly, meaning it with every wrecked corner of my chest.
He turned then, arms wrapping around me, pulling me close like the world might steal me if he didn't.
"I want you to be smart about your choices, Reed," he said, pressing his forehead lightly to mine. "Don't rely on emotions when you're making decisions. Not when it's dangerous."
"My brain isn't all that to rely on either, to be honest," I said, lips twitching.
He laughed. God, that laugh—brief, real, frayed at the edges. "You deserve so much more credit than you give yourself."
There was a beat of silence between us. Just breath. Just heartbeats.
"I love you," I said again, softer now. Just to say it. Just to let it sit in the space where it belonged.
"I love you too, idiot," he said, pulling me tighter into him.
And for once tonight, the world outside didn't matter. Not the money. Not the guns. Not the lies or the risks or the goddamn syndicates.
-Rowan.
I waited until he was alone.
Vince always took his breaks around eleven. His routine was laughably predictable—beer, shitty music from his cracked phone speaker, and a smug sense of immunity. He thought working under Sandro made him untouchable. That a badge handed out by a man with too much ego and too little oversight could protect him from consequence.
It didn't.
The alley behind the docks reeked of gasoline and piss. The shadows here clung like wet fabric—thick, sticky, perfect. I stepped out when he lit his cigarette, watched the flame flare and illuminate his busted nose and meathead grin.
He didn't even flinch. "Look who finally grew a pair."
I didn't respond. Talking was a wasted breath.
I moved.
My first strike was a hook to his liver—sharp, fast, brutal. It knocked the wind from him before he even registered we were past words. He hunched instinctively, and I brought my knee up into his chest, feeling the crunch of something that shouldn't crunch.
He gasped, mouth wide like a fish, staggering back.
I followed.
A blow to his jaw snapped his head sideways. He stumbled into the dumpster wall, and I caught him by the front of his jacket before he could slide down. He smelled like old sweat and cheap cologne—the kind they sell behind counters in neighborhoods no one cares to fix.
"You think this is about pride?" I hissed into his ear.
Then I slammed his face into the metal siding. Once. Twice. The clang echoed like a gong. Blood splattered across my glove in a thick, syrupy arc. His legs buckled.
I let him fall, just to watch it happen. Then I knelt down beside him.
"You kicked him. Laughed while he was tied up."
He tried to speak—some garbled mix of insult and regret—but I grabbed his collar and yanked him upright. His nose was broken, again. Eyes swelling. He couldn't see me clearly anymore, but I wanted him to hear me.
"You're not getting a monologue. Just a memory."
My elbow slammed into his temple. His body slackened like a dropped puppet.
But I wasn't done.
I dragged him forward by his collar and forced his back against the wall, crouched close. His bloodied breath trembled against my cheek. He was slipping—consciousness fading—but I held him just above the edge.
"Listen carefully," I murmured, low and deliberate, like a prayer said backwards.
"If you ever touch what's mine again, I'll carve your name out of every mouth that ever spoke it. You'll be forgotten before the bleeding stops."
He gurgled something—didn't matter what.
"And next time," I added, fingers tightening on his collar, "I won't stop until there's nothing left to hand back."
I stood and let go. He collapsed like wet sand.
One more look. One more breath. Then I walked away, the sound of his coughing blood chasing behind me like applause in hell.
I washed the blood off with lemon soap and too-hot water, scrubbing until my hands stung and the scent of Vince was gone. Not the coppery edge of his spit or the meaty slick of his sweat—the scent of arrogance. Of violence without consequence.
Now he knows better.
I felt it in the bones of my fingers—how far I'd let myself go. There was no choreography to it. No finesse. It was rage in motion. Pure, deliberate, and far too satisfying.
Back in my apartment, the windows were shut tight. The city lights outside glared like interrogation lamps. My knuckles ached, wrapped in clean gauze, but I didn't bother with gloves. Let Margo see it. Let anyone.
I had just poured a drink when she arrived.
"Vince is in the hospital," she said without preamble, her heels clipping the floor like a metronome of judgment. "Concussion. Two cracked ribs. A minor skull fracture. And a pretty little boot print on his chest."
I didn't look up. "Did he say who did it?"
"Does he need to?" She stepped forward, placing something on the coffee table. A folded envelope. Heavy paper. Gold trim.
Sandro's style. Of course.
My hands paused on the glass. "…Already?"
"He got the message. Loud and clear." Margo tilted her head, bangs sharp as ever, eyes unreadable. "But he's not flinching. He's inviting."
I slid the envelope open with a knife. Inside, a card.
"If the prince wants to be king, let's meet on the stage. Midnight. No blades. No crowns." —S
I let the edge of the card catch flame from the candle and held it until it burned too close to my fingers.
No blades. No crowns. But all theater.
Classic Sandro. Make it dramatic. Set the scene. Control the lighting.
I looked up at Margo. "You're not coming."
She raised a brow. "You think I'd let you go alone?"
"I'm not asking." I stood, adjusting my coat, checking the inside for hidden pockets I wouldn't use. "He wants a show. Let him have it."
She watched me for a long beat. "Do you think he knows?"
I froze for half a second too long.
"About what?" I asked.
"About how close you've let Reed get. About the way you stopped playing your part weeks ago."
I didn't answer. Not really. Because she was right. And I hated that I still wanted to believe Sandro didn't notice.
"I hurt one of his men. That was step one," I said. "He thinks this meeting is about settling a score. He doesn't realize it's a reckoning."
Margo nodded, but her voice stayed cool. "Don't let him pull you into his tempo."
I glanced at the clock. "If I'm not back by two—"
"You will be," she interrupted, eyes steel.
I didn't say goodbye.
There wasn't time for that. Not anymore.