Lucien stood in the center of his penthouse, shirt half-unbuttoned, chest rising and falling with shallow, restrained breaths. The city was alive outside his windows—but inside, all he felt was the burn.
Hunger.
It coiled in his gut like fire. Not just for blood—but hers. The memory of her scent haunted him. Her fear. Her defiance. That heartbeat that still echoed in his head.
He hadn't fed in too long. Not properly. He didn't want the usual meaningless bite, the quick fix from some club-hopping temptress who wouldn't remember a thing. He wanted something real.
He wanted her.
And that was a problem.
A dangerous one.
Elara's fingers trembled as she hit send. One simple message.
"I want answers."
She didn't expect a reply. Not really. But somehow, she knew he'd seen it.
She paced her apartment in silence, the rain still streaking down the window, casting long shadows over her bed, her violin, her unanswered questions.
Why had he saved her?
What was that thing in the alley?
And why, when he looked at her, did it feel like she was standing on the edge of something deep... and hungry?
An hour later, she was standing outside ValeTower again.
This time, no one stopped her. No receptionist. No questions.
The elevator was already waiting.
When the doors slid open on the top floor, the lights were dim, the room bathed in the soft gold of firelight. She stepped inside, breath caught in her throat.
Lucien stood by the fireplace, his shirt now fully open, a glass of wine in hand. But he wasn't drinking. He was watching her.
And this time, his eyes weren't just red. They glowed.
"You came," he said softly.
"You told me I shouldn't," she whispered.
"I did."
"So why let me in?"
Lucien tilted his head, studying her. His voice dropped an octave—low, smooth, dangerous.
"Because I wanted to see if I could trust myself."
The air between them tightened. Elara took a slow step forward.
"Are you... human?" she asked.
Lucien chuckled darkly. "Not in a very long time."
"Then what are you?"
He was in front of her before she could blink.
One hand lifted, brushing a curl behind her ear. The touch was light—but it sparked heat straight down her spine.
"I'm the kind of monster that knows how to behave," he said. "Until he's starving."
Her breath hitched. "And are you?"
His voice was a whisper, teeth sharp beneath the words.
"Very."
He leaned in—so close she could feel the cold of his breath, smell the iron buried in it.
"Why me?" she asked.
Lucien's gaze locked on her throat. His control was slipping. Fast.
"I wish I knew," he murmured. "You smell like the first choice I haven't wanted to forget."
Then he stepped back—shaking himself, eyes darkening to something more human again.
"You should go, Elara," he said tightly.
But she didn't move.
Because despite the fear curling in her stomach, despite the voice in her head screaming run, something deeper—something reckless—whispered:
Stay.