LUCIAN X CYRENE

  They stepped out into the night together, the quiet hum of the street folding around them like a low exhale. The air was mild, perfumed with the scent of lemon trees and salt from the distant sea. He held the door open for her, casual, no performance—just him being him. And she noticed.

  They began to stroll slowly, the pace easy, no urgency between them.

  Lucian slid a hand into his pocket, voice low but edged with that teasing note she was learning to recognize. “You know…” he started, eyes forward, “the night doesn’t have to end here.”

  Cyrene glanced over, her brow lifted just slightly, curious.

  He added, “I’ve got something worth sharing. Good strain. Real good. Thought we could hit it together—call it a continuation of the evening.”

  There was a beat. The corner of her mouth tugged up.

  “Good as the strain you’ve been trying to buy the recipe for?” she asked, tone soft, amused, but perfectly dry.

  Lucian chuckled, eyes flicking toward her. “I see you haven’t forgotten.”

  “Some offers are hard to ignore,” she murmured.

  “Is that your way of saying yes?” he asked.

  She let the question hang for a breath or two before answering. “It’s my way of saying I’m curious.

  Lucian didn’t push. Didn’t have to. He simply held the silence with her, that shared rhythm between them falling into place as they turned down a quieter street where his car was parked. Their footsteps echoed faintly on the cobblestones.

  “So,” he ventured, “you made that strain yourself?”

  “I did.” She smiled to herself, watching the amber light cast from a streetlamp shift across her shoes. “Took months. Not just to get the balance right—but to make it feel like something. Not just taste like something.”

  Lucian looked at her like he was cataloguing every word. “Did you name it?”

  She gave him a look that was playful but unreadable. “I did. But the name’s earned, not handed out.”

  “That so?” he said, his voice dipping a little lower. “What’s it take to earn it?”

  “A good night,” she said simply. “Or a few.”

  He let out a breath of a laugh. “Now I really want to know what you called it.”

  She tilted her head, as if considering him. “You want a hint?”

  He nodded, a slow, deliberate motion.

  “It’s something that tastes sweet, hits harder than you expect, and lingers longer than it should.”

  Lucian’s brow arched slightly. “So you named it after yourself.”

  She laughed—genuine, warm, and low in her throat. “You think I hit hard?”

  “Unexpectedly so,” he said without hesitation. “You make it look like a whisper and feel like a thunderclap.”

  The energy between them simmered—no rush, no demands. Just that quiet gravity.

  As they reached the car, he opened her door like it was second nature. She stepped in, but not before glancing back at him, her voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.

  “I wasn’t trying to make it addictive, you know,” she said. “I just wanted to make something… unforgettable.”

  Lucian looked at her for a moment. “Worked.”

  She smiled and turned to settle in her seat.

  He shut the door gently and moved around to the driver’s side, slipping in beside her with a glance that felt less like a look and more like a lingering question.

  They didn’t speak for the first few seconds once the doors closed. Didn’t need to. The silence was warm, easy.

  Then she looked over, brow arched slightly. “So what strain are you hiding that you think can hold a candle to mine?”

  Lucian grinned. “Let’s just say… it’s got a kick. But I’m willing to be outmatched tonight.”

  “I don’t know if I’m flattered or challenged.”

  “Why not both?”

  She leaned back in her seat, crossing one leg over the other.

  “You really think I’d let you try my strain again without knowing how well you hold yours?”

  Lucian’s grin softened into something quieter, warmer. “I was hoping to remind you.”

  There it was again—that quiet honesty from him that surprised her. No games. Just curiosity. Intent.

  She looked out the window for a moment, then back at him, lips curving. “Then let’s see if the night holds up.”

  He didn’t say anything to that.

  He just started the car, that low purr of the engine slipping into the quiet like a promise.

  And they drove.

  The streetlights slid across her skin in fleeting glows, painting her in amber and shadow. Lucian kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift, but every so often, his fingers flexed like he was thinking about where else they could be.

  “You always this quiet after dinner?” she asked, eyes on the road ahead—but her tone teased him gently.

  He glanced over, lips curving. “Only when I’m full and dangerously close to being distracted.”

  She laughed under her breath, leaning her head against the seat. “From food or company?”

  He didn’t miss a beat. “Company. The food was good. You… are dangerous.”

  She turned her head slightly, watching him from the corner of her eye. “And yet, you invited danger back with you.”

  “Exactly.” His voice dipped low. “I’m not known for playing it safe.”

  “Mmm.” She looked out the window, hiding her smile. “Must be the strain talking.”

  He smirked. “It hasn’t even touched my system yet.”

  Her voice softened, a little more intimate now. “Then maybe I’m the one you’re high on.”

  He looked at her fully then—just a second too long. Enough to make her pulse jump. Then he turned back to the road, jaw ticking like he was holding something back.

  “You have no idea,” he muttered, more to himself than her.

  But she heard it.

  And smiled.

  The silence between them wasn’t awkward—it hummed with something electric, that slow-burning current neither wanted to fight anymore.

  Ten minutes later, the car pulled up to tall black gates framed by stone pillars and neat hedges. The guards on duty straightened when they saw Lucian behind the wheel. One of them stepped forward, catching sight of her beside him.

  No words were exchanged. Just a brief, surprised glance.

  Lucian gave a slight nod, and the gates slid open smoothly.

  The estate beyond was a mix of modern sleekness and classic stonework, lit just enough to hint at its size without being flashy. Controlled elegance, very much like its owner.

  She leaned against the window, voice soft. “This isn’t what I pictured.”

  “Is that good?” he asked, eyes on the road.

  She smiled. “Depends on what else I wasn’t expecting.”

  No answer came. He drove them around the curve until they reached the main house.

  Stolen story; please report.

  But the man cave? That wasn’t here.

  Instead, Lucian took her upstairs, through a corridor that led to a hidden door cleverly disguised within a bookcase.

  He pushed it open, revealing a stairwell leading down.

  At the bottom was a warm, low-lit room.

  The air smelled faintly of cedar and leather.

  The fireplace flickered, casting cozy shadows across the space. A large, modern PlayStation setup sat on a sleek console, surrounded by plush seating that begged to be sunk into.

  “This is more my speed,” he said, a rare softness in his voice.

  She took it all in— the contrast of rugged and refined, casual and deliberate.

  From a side drawer, he pulled out a ziplock with dense, frosted cannabis, rolling papers, a grinder, and a lighter.

  “I’ll be back in a moment,” he said, handing her the stash and supplies. “Get started if you want.”

  “Trusting me already?” she teased, a spark lighting her eyes.

  “Who else could appreciate it?” he replied, disappearing upstairs.

  She found a spot near the firepit inset in the floor, the warmth mingling with the faint piney scent of the strain as she ground the flower carefully between her fingers.

  Halfway through rolling the blunt, he returned.

  And she nearly dropped the lighter.

  The black short-sleeved button-down was familiar—she’d seen him wear something like this—but now the way the sleeves hugged his arms revealed his tattoos in full: intricate, wrapping around his skin like they’d always been part of him. Mesmerizing.

  A black Patek glinted on his wrist.

  His hair was pulled back into a low, neat bun that somehow made his sharp features even more striking.

  In one hand, he held black flip-flops and a small knitted duvet.

  “For you,” he said softly. “Thought you might get cold.”

  She slipped on the flip-flops and draped the duvet over her legs.

  “Very considerate,” she murmured, feeling the subtle shift in the air.

  He shrugged. “I don’t invite just anyone here. Comfort matters.”

  Her eyes betrayed her—she took in his entire look again, from the watch to the tattoos to those lips she was itching to kiss.

  She forced herself back to the blunt. “You clean up nice. Or down. Whichever this is.”

  He moved closer, grinning. “Caught you staring, Bella.”

  She lifted the blunt between her lips, lighting it with a slow grin. “You walked in like that. Hard not to.”

  He poured two glasses from a decanter on the bar. “Anything else you want? Or should I just keep making you look?”

  She took the glass he handed her, their fingers brushing briefly.

  “Let’s start with this,” she said, voice low.

  He settled beside her, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from her skin.

  “You always this charming in your cave?”

  “Only with women who roll like they know what they’re doing and look like they’re thinking about trouble.”

  “I’m not reckless.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Could’ve fooled me.”

  She exhaled smoke, deliberately avoiding his gaze.

  When she finally looked up, her voice softened.

  “You said you don’t let work follow you here.”

  He met her eyes evenly.

  “Then what am I?”

  Lucian leaned in, his forearm brushing her knee.

  “You’re not work.”

  “Then what?”

  He took the blunt from her fingers and smiled.

  “Trouble. The kind I’m not trying to avoid.”

  She leaned back against the couch, toes tucked into the mini duvet he’d offered her. The smoke lingered in her throat like silk, warm and floral with a citrus afterglow. Her lips curled as she exhaled slowly, turning her head toward him.

  “This strain’s… dangerously good,” she murmured, the words light but laced with something deeper. “Makes me wanna patent your taste buds.”

  Lucian’s mouth tugged at one side. He took the blunt from her, the pads of their fingers brushing as he did. “High praise coming from the creator.”

  Cyrene laughed, lazy and low. “What if I say it tastes like quiet chaos?”

  “That’s not bad,” he admitted, passing the blunt back to her. “You think in poetry?”

  “Sometimes.” Her eyes drifted toward the fire crackling gently across from them. “Only when the weed’s good and the company’s better.”

  That earned her a look. A quiet one, but deliberate.

  Their silence folded into comfort again, only the fire and soft hum of jazz from the speakers filling the room. She took another hit, then angled herself slightly toward him.

  “So,” she said, tone softer now, “how are you going about your mole?”

  Lucian’s hand stilled on the glass of single malt. The weight in the room shifted—not aggressive, but sharp.

  He didn’t answer right away.

  “I called them in,” he said eventually

  Made it clear I know something’s off. No threats—just facts. Whoever it is knows I’m not bluffing.”

  Cyrene nodded, expression unreadable. She passed him the blunt, careful not to rush him.

  “I’ve got twenty-four seven surveillance on them now,” he continued. “Not just cameras. Comms, transactions, devices. Any movement out of place, I’ll see it.”

  She let that sit for a beat, sipping the whisky he’d poured. “Good,” she said, placing the glass down on the table. “Because I wasn’t waiting.”

  That got his attention.

  “You weren’t?”

  Cyrene stretched her legs under the blanket and gave him a small, crooked smile. “You were stalling with the names. I needed traction.”

  He raised a brow. “So you took matters into your own hands?”

  “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  A slow smirk pulled at his mouth. He reached for the whisky, taking a measured sip before responding.

  “Should’ve known,” he said, that amused glint back in his eye. “Bella doesn’t wait around for anyone.”

  She laughed softly and leaned her head back, eyes closed for a second. “Not when I already smell smoke.”

  He looked at her for a long moment—at ease but calculating, playful but burning beneath it.

  And the blunt passed again.

  Lucian let the silence settle for a few seconds, watching the way she exhaled like it carried her thoughts. Then, casually but not without intent, he murmured, “Tell me about Edinburgh.”

  Cyrene flicked ash into the tray. “You already know what happened.”

  “I want to hear it from you,” he said, voice low, eyes steady on her. “Not through Xander.”

  She laughed—soft, warm, a little dry. “Right. Xander. Still weirds me out that he’s a fan.”

  Lucian smirked. “You’ve built a reputation. Even in our world, your name echoes. Of course he’s a fan.”

  She took another drag, resting her elbow on the armrest, shoulders loosening under the soft weight of the knitted throw he’d brought her. “Well… I wore a black pixie wig.”

  He tilted his head. “Really?”

  “Yeah. Let’s just say I won’t be revisiting that look.”

  Lucian’s mouth twitched. “Didn’t hit the mark?”

  “I looked like a cyberpunk cartoon sidekick,” she said with a grin. “Didn’t help that it kept shifting every time I moved. I spent half the day adjusting my head and trying to keep my hood up.”

  “I wish I’d seen that.”

  “No, you really don’t.”

  Lucian chuckled, then nodded toward her, giving her the space to keep going. And she did.

  Cyrene leaned back and told him the rest. How the tournament worked. How tight the security was. How good the competition felt—being in that room with others who spoke her language, even if no one actually spoke. How she had to navigate layers of firewalls and tripwire proxies under pressure. How her screen had been projected to an audience, and she was just there, focused, hacking in real-time with nothing but instinct and code between her and elimination.

  She didn’t just describe it. She relived it. Eyes lighting up, gestures animated, her voice fluid and full of pulse. And Lucian sat there, drink in hand, utterly still.

  He didn’t interrupt. Didn’t cut her off or shift the conversation. He just… listened.

  And that surprised him.

  He wasn’t used to that kind of draw—the kind that made him want to stretch a conversation past a point he usually shut down. He’d always been more about precision. Talk when necessary. Be heard when needed. But with her, it was different.

  It felt easy.

  It felt right.

  When she finished, she hesitated, her fingers briefly playing with the edge of the blanket before she leaned forward and reached into the small crossbody she’d tucked beside her on the chair.

  “I got you something,” she said, almost offhandedly. But he caught the flicker of vulnerability in her eyes.

  Lucian raised an eyebrow, watching as she placed a small black box on the table between them.

  He looked at her, then at it. Slowly picked it up.

  Inside was a silver chain—clean, elegant, undeniably masculine. Where a watch face might’ve been, a single black diamond sat centered in a minimalist setting, dark and quietly striking. It wasn’t flashy. It didn’t need to be. It was the kind of piece you wore without fanfare but felt every time it touched your skin.

  He ran his thumb over the numbers. “Holyrood?”

  Cyrene nodded. “It’s where I made the decision to come back.”

  Lucian looked at her. Really looked.

  There was something in his chest that tugged—low, quiet, but unmistakable.

  He closed the box gently and met her gaze. “Thank you.”

  And the blunt passed again.

  But the air between them had shifted. Warmer now. A thread of gravity neither of them pulled on yet, but both of them felt.

  She smiled at him—gentle, with that glint of trouble behind it.

  And he knew right then: this woman wasn’t just intriguing. She was dangerous in the most beautiful way.

  His gaze stayed on her a beat too long.

  The bracelet still rested in his palm, heavy in all the right ways. But it wasn’t the gift that stole his breath—it was her. The way she sat across from him like she had no idea she’d just knocked the rhythm out of his chest.

  “You really shouldn’t have,” he murmured, voice low and edged with something rougher than gratitude.

  “I wanted to,” she said, fingers brushing her knee as if she hadn’t just given him the most intimate coordinates of her trust.

  The blunt burned out in the ashtray. The single malt sat forgotten.

  Silence settled between them—but not the kind that begged to be broken.

  It hummed.

  Crackled.

  His feet moved before he made the decision. Slow steps closing the space, and she didn’t flinch—didn’t retreat.

  She watched him the way someone watched lightning touch down too close—wide-eyed and wired.

  Lucian stood in front of her now, holding that bracelet like it meant more than his next breath. He leaned down, fingers grazing her wrist.

  “May I?”

  Her breath hitched. “Yeah.”

  He clasped it around her wrist, his touch firm, steady—too gentle for how loud everything inside him screamed.

  When he looked up, their faces were inches apart.

  “You give your coordinates to every man who shares a blunt with you?” he asked, half teasing, half starved.

  She smiled, slow and sharp. “Only the ones who make it taste better.”

  Lucian’s chest rose, then fell—and then didn’t rise again until her hand slid up his arm. Her fingers traced his tattoos, those same inked lines she’d admired earlier. But this time, she didn’t look away. She drank him in like she meant to remember the way he felt.

  “Bella…” His voice was a warning, a prayer, a question.

  She tilted her head, lashes low. “Lucian.”

  The sound of his name on her lips—soft, sultry, certain—undid him.

  He leaned in.

  Their mouths met like they’d been flirting with the edge of it all night.

  It wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t frantic. It was deliberate.

  Slow pressure, then heat.

  A tease of tongue, then more.

  He kissed her like he was learning her. Like every part of him had wanted this since the moment she walked into his office and turned his world inside out.

  And she gave it back in full.

  Her hands slipped up to his collar, drawing him deeper. He groaned against her mouth—low and deep—grabbing her waist and pulling her onto his lap without breaking the kiss.

  Her legs parted to straddle him, her fingers sliding through the hair at the nape of his neck. The blunt scent clung to them both, warm and earthy, like the storm they were building.

  She moved against him slowly, hips brushing just enough to spark fire through his core.

  Lucian broke the kiss with a curse under his breath.

  “Fuck…” He rested his forehead to hers, eyes shut, breathing hard. “You’re going to ruin me.”

  She was flushed, lips swollen, eyes burning. “That’s not the plan.”

  His hand ran down her thigh, then back up—slow, reverent. “You say that… but you keep doing shit like this.”

  Her fingers curled in his shirt. “And you keep letting me.”

  He laughed—deep, raspy—and kissed her again, this time on the cheek, then jaw, then neck. But when he reached her collarbone, he paused, breathing her in, tasting restraint.

  “We should stop,” he said, though his hands still held her like they wouldn’t let go.

  “We should,” she whispered, not moving an inch.

  They didn’t.

  Not right away.

  Just sat there, lips barely apart, pulses thudding in sync.

  It was want. It was ache. It was everything they weren’t ready to admit—and all the things they already knew.

  Eventually, she slid off his lap.

  He adjusted his cuffs, jaw tight.

  She reached for the single malt and poured them both a little more, as if that would slow the rush still coiling in the air.

  “You always this composed after kisses like that?” she asked, not looking at him.

  Lucian smirked. “Only when I’m trying not to pin someone against a wall.”

  She sipped her drink—smiling.

  And he watched her like he was already planning the next time he’d taste her again.

  They’d gone quiet again, but this time, it wasn’t thick with tension—it was soft. Settled.

  Somewhere between the burn of single malt and the cool kiss of night air through the cracked window, time had slipped from them.

  Lucian glanced at his watch. The Patek caught the light just enough to mock him.

  1:12 a.m.

  He looked at her. Her legs were folded up beneath her on the couch, blanket loose around her shoulders, her hair a little messy from where his hands had been. She caught him looking and gave a faint smile.

  “You’re not driving back at this hour,” he said quietly.

  Cyrene’s brow lifted—only slightly. “And here I thought you were trying to get rid of me.”

  He huffed a low laugh and leaned forward, elbows to knees. “You know damn well I’m not. Guest room’s yours. It’s already set up.”

  She didn’t answer right away, just looked at him like she was weighing the offer—not for safety, not for comfort, but for the unspoken thing between them that lingered in the space of that kiss.

  Eventually, she nodded. “Alright. Just for the night.”

  “Just for the night,” he echoed, standing.

  He led her through the softly lit hallways, past quiet paintings and darkened rooms, until they reached a door near the end of the west wing.

  Lucian pushed it open. “Fresh towels in the bathroom. Toothbrush, toothpaste. Few basics—soap, body wash, that stuff. It should do.”

  She stepped in slowly, her eyes catching on the clean, modern lines of the guest room—warm wood accents, a plush king-size bed, and thick blackout curtains drawn halfway open to show the stars still scattered outside.

  He held out a folded black polo shirt. “It’s all I’ve got in your size.”

  She raised a brow at him. “Lucian, this’ll hang off me.”

  “Exactly the point.” His mouth curved. “You’ll survive.”

  She took it, trying not to smile as she ran her fingers over the soft cotton. It smelled faintly like him—woodsy, crisp, with a hint of the smoke still lingering on his skin.

  She looked up at him. “Thanks… for being thoughtful.”

  Lucian gave a simple nod, but his eyes said more. “Sleep well, Bella.”

  And with that, he left her in the quiet of the room.

  By the time he got back to his side of the estate, he was already pulling out his phone. The screen cast a soft glow as he sent a quick text to Elena:

  Get feminine clothing here by 6 a.m. Tops, bottoms, undergarments. Keep it simple. Use these measurements.

  He attached the note where he’d jotted down her measurements—guessed from careful observation—and filled in the rest with quiet precision, the kind that came from actually paying attention

  He didn’t overthink it.

  Didn’t tell himself it was more than convenience.

  He just hit send, tossed the phone onto the nightstand, and leaned back into his chair, his mind still full of her voice, her kiss, her weight on his lap—and that look in her eyes when she gave him the bracelet.

  This woman was going to undo him.

  And he didn’t mind one damn bit.