ELENA CORTEZ

  The morning air bit cool against Elena Cortez's skin as she stepped out of her car, heels sharp against the slate drive. Fog clung to the low hills behind the Castellan estate like a hush before a secret. The house, perched and stern in its geometry, gave nothing away.

  Just like the man who lived inside.

  She smoothed down her coat, adjusted the hang of the garment bag over her arm. Inside was the ensemble Lucian had requested—deliberate and vague as always. Feminine. Sophisticated. Neutral tones. His taste, not hers. It didn't matter that he hadn't specified a name.

  It didn't need one.

  He'd never asked her to buy a woman clothes before. Not in five years.

  Not for hotel flings. Not for boardroom distractions. Certainly not for anyone in his home.

  That was what struck deepest.

  No one stayed here.

  Lucian Castellan's estate was sacred ground. A fortress for his solitude. Even the incumbents met him here rarely, and only in the lower level conference wing—never the living spaces. Elena had entered this house exactly three times in five years, all under rigid professional pretext. She never passed the hallway near the main staircase.

  And now, someone else had.

  A woman. Inside. At dawn.

  Her fingers curled tighter around the handles of the tote. It wasn't jealousy—she'd never allowed herself the luxury of that word. It was confusion. It was audacity. After everything she'd done, the loyalty, the discretion, the years of mastering what it meant to be indispensable without ever being intrusive... this felt like betrayal.

  But she wore her face like armor—flawless, practiced, serene.

  Until the front door opened.

  Lucian emerged like a weapon left unsheathed. Bare chest slick with sweat, joggers low on his hips, hair damp and pushed back, his body humming with the residue of exertion. The early light played tricks on his frame—sharp and sculpted and effortless.

  Elena's heart clenched, too hard and too sudden, and she hated herself for it.

  He was beautiful. But he always had been. That wasn't new.

  What was new was how hard it was to keep her composure now that she knew. Now that she felt it—that someone else had been close enough to that body to keep him from sleeping.

  He didn't speak, not at first. Just stepped toward her with quiet, methodical purpose.

  And yet his gaze didn't land on the bag in her hand. It flicked across her face first—briefly, then twice—like he'd caught something there he wasn't supposed to see. A hairline fracture in her performance.

  She tilted her chin. Controlled the breath. Focused on precision.

  "Good morning, Sir," she said, each syllable controlled, sharp-edged and smoothed into place with the kind of force only jealousy could polish.

  He reached for the bag without a word. No brush of fingers. No warmth. Just the distant efficiency she knew too well.

  He didn't thank her.

  He didn't explain.

  Typical Lucian. But this time, it stung.

  He turned to go—already halfway back inside before she could say anything else—and the door closed with the same finality as a slammed vault.

  She stood there for a long second, staring at the metal and stone that had swallowed him whole.

  She had waited. Endured. Told herself he didn't do relationships, that he didn't see women—not in that way. That he was above all that mess. And if he ever changed... it would mean something. He'd choose someone he trusted.

  Someone who'd earned it.

  Her.

  Whoever was inside—whoever had slipped past his walls—hadn't earned it. Hadn't bled for it. She had.

  She turned away before the warmth in her chest became something sharp. Something that burned.

  Elena tightened her grip on the strap of her handbag and swallowed the acid gathering behind her teeth.

  She wasn't stupid. There were no sisters. No cousins. No female relatives that she knew of. Lucian didn't have women in his life unless they had a purpose, and she could feel it—deep in her gut—that this one wasn't casual.

  No one casual got clothes tailored at six in the morning.

  No one casual stayed here.

  Whoever that woman was, Elena hated her.

  Hated her for being inside when Elena never had been. Hated her for breaking Lucian's pattern, for earning something she had bled years to deserve.

  She didn't even know what she looked like. But that didn't matter.

  Elena hated her for existing.

  And if Lucian was serious about this woman, it wasn't just heartbreak Elena felt. It was war.

  LUCIAN X CYRENE

  Lucian had been up long before dawn.

  Sleep wasn't an option—not with her here, in his house.

  The moment he turned off the lights the night before, her presence seeped into the walls. Into his sheets. Into his skin. He could still catch faint traces of her perfume drifting through the hallway, still remember the soft rasp of her laughter when she teased him. It didn't matter how far she'd been down the hall—his body had registered her like she'd never left his side.

  He needed an outlet. So, he turned to pain and precision.

  Thirty push-ups, perfect and silent. Dumbbells, weighted pulls, the punching bag in the corner of the gym taking most of the brunt. But not even the sweat slicking down his back or the soreness setting into his shoulders could wring her out of his head.

  At 6:28 a.m. a quiet ping from his security console. Elena Cortez. Front gate.

  Right. The package.

  He grabbed a towel and headed to the front of the estate, still shirtless, joggers hanging low on his hips, breath steadying as he pulled open the door.

  Elena stood poised on the steps. Crisp coat. Neutral lips. Garment bag over one arm, a sleek box in the other. He caught the twitch in her jaw, the flicker behind her eyes—barely concealed resentment, tightly coiled anger.

  "Good morning, Sir."

  She didn't ask questions. She didn't need to. The fact that she was here, this early, bringing a woman's clothing to his house? That said everything.

  Lucian didn't reply. He just looked at her—long enough to register the tightly leashed resentment behind her eyes, the kind of fury a well-trained soldier would never admit to.

  She tried to hide it. Polished mask and all. But it was there. And it didn't surprise him.

  He took the bag with no fanfare. No touch. No thank you.

  Then he shut the door.

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  Just like always.

  The bag landed gently by the entrance to the guest room. No knock, no fuss. She might still be asleep. She might still be asleep. She'd find it when she woke.

  And then he went back to war with himself in the gym.

  Back in the gym, he hit the weights harder. Ran through his sets with a ferocity born from the need to burn through everything she stirred in him.

  Later, under the steady heat of a hot shower, the water couldn't wash away the memory of her laugh, her confident way of taking up space without asking. Her laugh. Her confidence. The way she took up space without asking for it. She didn't belong in his world—didn't play by its rules.

  And maybe that was exactly why he couldn't get her out of his head.

  Dressed in a slate-gray polo and dark joggers, he chose casual—no suits today, no meetings. He wasn't going in. Too much risk with her under his roof. It was better to keep her away from the wrong eyes until he figured out his next step.

  Lucian settled behind the massive desk in his study, opened his laptop, and tried to focus on work. Emails, reports, intel—all the usual noise. But every few minutes, his thoughts drifted back to her.

  Was she still asleep?

  Did she find the package?

  Would she like it?

  He hated how much he cared about that.

  He leaned back in his chair, jaw clenched, eyes on the screen but brain nowhere near the numbers scrolling by.

  —

  Cyrene hadn't gotten much sleep.

  Not until early morning, when exhaustion finally won the argument her brain wouldn't let go of. The room was unfamiliar, the house too quiet. Lucian's presence filled the space—but he wasn't here.

  She'd tossed. Turned. Counted stars through slatted blinds.

  By 8:00 a.m., her eyes finally fluttered open. Her muscles ached from being curled up too long in thought. Hair mussed. Mouth dry.

  A neat black shirt folded over the armchair. Lucian's. She slipped it on out of habit more than modesty, her legs bare beneath the hem as she walked to the door.

  She opened it slowly—and froze. There on the floor, just outside her room, lay a garment bag and a tote

  She crouched, unzipped the bag, and felt her heart stutter. Inside—an outfit. Carefully chosen. Feminine, neutral, elegant. Her size. Down to the lingerie.

  No note. No explanation. Just clothes, quietly left for her to find. She ran her fingers over the soft fabric, and a flutter of butterflies filled her stomach.

  She touched the fabric. Soft. Expensive. Personal.

  The butterflies stirred.

  After a long, hot shower, she slipped into the new outfit. It fit perfectly, like it had been made for her—maybe it had. She ran her fingers through her still-damp wavy hair and gave herself one last glance in the mirror. She looked... like someone different.

  The hall was quiet when she stepped out, hesitant but curious. Quiet, tentative footsteps carried her down the hall. The floor was cool under bare feet. The house smelled faintly of wood polish and morning. Curiosity and hope pushed her forward as she retraced her steps from the night before. Then, she saw a maid.

  The older woman nearly dropped her duster when she saw Cyrene. Her lips parted in a soft gasp.

  "Um... Good morning," Cyrene said softly. "Do you know where Lucian is?" The maid blinked, then nodded toward the hall. "Study. Down the hall, first door on the right."

  "Thank you."

  The woman said nothing else, only watched her go—silent, wide-eyed, as if she'd just glimpsed a ghost or something more dangerous.

  Cyrene's heart hammered as she approached the door. Fingers smoothing over the hem of her shirt, she stopped and took a breath. Then, she knocked—soft, tentative.

  She shifted her weight on the polished floors, bare toes brushing the grain. Her dress—deep brown, body-hugging, perfectly fitted—clung to her like a second skin. No bra. She couldn't bear the restriction today. After the corset last night? Her body needed air. Still, she didn't expect this level of self-consciousness—standing outside his study, in his house, wearing what he picked out.

  The door swung open.

  Lucian stood in the doorway, looking like he'd just come back from a walk. His hair was slightly tousled, like he'd run his fingers through it instead of bothering with a comb. A soft tee clung to the muscle beneath it, and a pair of joggers hung low on his hips—casual, effortless. Devastating. His gaze dropped—and froze.

  She felt the burn of his stare before he even spoke.

  His eyes raked over her—slow, deliberate. The snug dress revealed just enough: the curve of her waist, the way her nipples peaked subtly through the fabric.

  His throat flexed. A muttered curse slipped under his breath.

  "It's too early to be tormented like this."

  Cyrene flushed, caught in place.

  She blinked, lips parting—He did not just say that.

  Lucian's eyes were still on her chest. He didn't even try to hide it.

  She felt heat climb her neck, rushed and warm. "You're not serious," she said under her breath, half-laughing. But her heart wasn't joking.

  He leaned against the doorframe, one brow lifting slightly. "Oh, I'm very serious," he murmured. "I knew the dress would fit, but I didn't think you'd wear it like... this."

  Her stomach tightened. Her nipples—already tingling from the cool air—ached under his stare. And that look on his face. Like he wanted to ruin her. Slowly.

  Lucian straightened, voice calmer now, but no less rough around the edges. "Your hair's still wet."

  She tucked a damp strand behind her ear, biting the inside of her cheek. "Just showered."

  He didn't say a word.

  Just stared. Quiet, steady. Like he was memorizing her. Like he wanted to press the sight of her into some permanent space behind his eyes.

  That stare—it made her nervous.

  And yet, she couldn't look away.

  She found herself glancing at his lips—the same ones that had crashed into hers just hours ago. The taste of that kiss still lingered on her mouth like a secret. She remembered how firm his grip had been. How his breath hitched. How she'd wanted more. Still did.

  His lips curled into that familiar cocky half-smile, and she rolled her eyes—half flustered, half defensive.

  "Good morning," she said finally, clearing her throat.

  Then, a softer, "Thank you for the items you got me."

  Lucian stepped aside to let her in. "I thought you'd prefer something comfortable," he said. His voice was even, but his eyes kept flicking back to her chest.

  She breezed past him, trying to ignore the way his scent clung to the air. Warm and clean and masculine. "Comfortable was a bold choice," she murmured. "It fits... but breathing might be a long-term goal."

  He chuckled low behind her. "You're the one who chose not to wear the bra."

  She shot him a look over her shoulder. "Recovery. That corset was an actual war crime."

  Lucian watched her cross to his desk—her dress clinging to every shift of her hips, her bare feet silent against the floors—and fought the urge to follow right behind her. She looked like sin. Begging to be touched. Tasted. Imprinted.

  She settled in the chair across from him, finally turning to meet his gaze directly. "Mind if I borrow your laptop?" she asked. "I need to connect to my server."

  He nodded slowly. "Sure."

  "But first," she said, already pulling the machine toward her, "I need to make sure your system hasn't been compromised. You don't strike me as the type to take routine digital precautions."

  Lucian folded his arms, leaning against the wall to watch her. "Is that your polite way of saying I'm lazy with my cybersecurity?"

  "It's my accurate way."

  She was already typing, her fingers flying across the keyboard. A few lines of code blinked on screen as she began fortifying his firewalls, checking ports, tightening the digital vault around his data.

  Lucian watched her, eyes narrowing slightly—not in suspicion, but curiosity. "You always code this fast before breakfast?"

  "I barely slept," she murmured, eyes on the screen. "New environment. Different energy."

  He nodded slowly. "You didn't feel safe?"

  "I felt... too aware."

  He let that hang there for a moment, then said quietly, "I like when you're comfortable. You don't need to be on edge here."

  She paused her typing. Looked up at him.

  "I'll get there," she said. "Just... takes time."

  He held her gaze. Something unspoken passed between them. A hum of electricity, low and hot.

  And then she added, almost too casually, "I'm changing your default admin credentials, by the way. They were embarrassing."

  Lucian laughed. "I liked my old password."

  "It was password123," she deadpanned.

  He shrugged. "Easy to remember."

  She rolled her eyes again, then went quiet—fingers typing, mind half focused.

  But she felt him watching her.

  Felt the heat of it.

  And she liked it more than she should.

  Her fingers danced across the keys, pulling up deeper systems, probing backend channels most users never even touched. Lucian's laptop was decent. Better than she expected, actually. But there were small oversights—lazy configurations, expired security certificates. She fixed them as she went, chewing the inside of her cheek.

  He was still watching her.

  Not with the same overt hunger from earlier, but she could feel it. That steady burn of awareness. A man used to controlling a room, now choosing to watch her work instead.

  Then she saw it.

  Her fingers froze.

  There it was again. The same fragmented anomaly she'd found embedded in his office network days ago. Buried deep beneath a normal system process—masked to look like part of an update—but definitely not standard.

  "Lucian," she said, voice shifting.

  He moved instantly, the humor draining from his expression. "What is it?"

  She angled the laptop screen toward him, her tone clipped. "You see that script fragment? That isn't native to this machine. I found something almost identical running quietly in your office system. Same author tag. Same camouflage. Different access point."

  His jaw flexed as he leaned in, gaze narrowing. "What does it do?"

  "At first glance? Nothing. It idles, hidden. Collects packet data—harmless stuff at first. Search history, browsing behavior. But the structure's modular. It's built to evolve. I'd bet money it's waiting for a trigger."

  "Remote?"

  She nodded. "Most likely. Whoever installed it knew what they were doing. It's designed to look passive. But I think they're mapping your patterns. Watching for something."

  Lucian's expression turned to stone. "How long do you think it's been there?"

  She hesitated. "Hard to say. This kind of footprint doesn't timestamp normally. But if I had to guess? A few months. Minimum."

  "Shit," he muttered, running a hand through his hair, the tension rolling off him now in thick waves. "And no one on my side caught it."

  "No offense," she said, sitting back, "but you're surrounded by good muscle, not penetration experts."

  His gaze lifted to hers. "But you did."

  She held his stare. "That's why you brought me here, right?"

  A beat. Then, "Partially."

  The shift in his voice made her breath catch. It was subtle—just enough gravel and gravity to stir something low in her belly.

  Cyrene's eyes flicked back to the screen, trying to stay on task. "I'm isolating the script now. Once I lock it in a sandbox, I'll start tracing the handshake it was using. With luck, I can find out where it's reporting."

  Lucian didn't respond right away. When she glanced up, he was studying her again. Not just watching. Assessing. As if recalibrating everything he thought he knew about her.

  "You never stop working, do you?" he asked quietly.

  She smirked faintly, not looking up from the code. "Says the man running a global empire before breakfast."

  "I've never seen anyone move like you at a keyboard."

  "Do I look good doing it?" she teased without thinking—then instantly regretted it.

  Because Lucian stepped in just a fraction closer, voice low and deliberate. "You look like you could bring nations to their knees with that mouth and a few lines of code."

  Her hands stilled.

  He meant the words. She could feel it—cutting through the silence, heat curling down her spine.

  She swallowed. "You're flirting."

  "I'm stating a fact."

  Cyrene turned her head slowly, meeting his eyes. The room felt warmer. Smaller. Her dress clung a little tighter now. Her bare feet curled against the floor.

  Still, she forced her voice steady. "You should sit. I'll walk you through what I'm seeing."

  Lucian didn't move. Just kept watching her like he could see all the pieces she worked so hard to keep hidden.

  Finally, he said, "You're not used to being vulnerable."

  It wasn't a question. It didn't need to be.

  She looked away. "Neither are you."

  Another beat. Then: "We'll get to the bottom of this," he said, voice even again, returning to the matter at hand. "You'll trace it. I'll handle whoever's on the other side."

  Cyrene nodded. But her thoughts lingered on his face. On that look he gave her—like she was something dangerous, something holy, something his.

  She went back to the code, but her fingers felt slower now.

  Because he was still right behind her.

  And her body remembered every moment from last night.

  And the part of her she tried hardest to silence?

  Wanted to let the code wait. Just long enough to turn around... and find out what it would feel like if he kissed her again when there were no shadows left to hide behind.

  Cyrene leaned back slightly in the chair, tapping her nails against the side of the laptop. Her brows pinched together as she stared at the screen, still turning the script over in her mind.

  "This thing's too embedded," she muttered. "If I run my server directly through your machine, I risk dragging this parasite back with me. Even sandboxed, it's too volatile. I can't link my hardware to yours—not until I'm sure it's completely scrubbed."

  Lucian stepped around the desk, arms folded, his tone even. "Then what do you need?"

  She hesitated. "My own setup. At home. I have the isolation rigs there, my encrypted routers, external shells to pull the logs clean." Her fingers flexed on the desk. "But I can't take this laptop with me. It's not safe enough to leave this house until I neutralize that code."

  Lucian nodded slowly, absorbing every word.

  "Alright," he said. "I'll take you."

  Cyrene blinked, caught off guard. "You'll what?"

  "I'll drive you home. You get what you need. We come back here and you build whatever paranoid little tower of protection your heart desires."

  A slow smirk tugged at her lips. "You offering me chauffeur service now?"

  Lucian stepped a little closer, that familiar glint returning to his eye. "Something like that. Let's call it... asset transport."

  She arched a brow. "You're calling me an asset?"

  "No," he said. "The laptop's the asset. You're a hazard."

  Her laugh slipped out before she could stop it. "Charming."

  He tilted his head. "I try."

  Her amusement softened into something quieter, more thoughtful. "You sure you have time to play Uber today?"

  Lucian glanced at the watch on his wrist, then back at her. "I make time for what matters. And I don't want you moving through the city alone, especially if someone's watching my systems."

  That last part settled over her like a glove—protective, but not possessive. Cyrene nodded, eyes narrowing slightly as she returned to the task at hand, saving a few logs, encrypting the current state of the machine.

  "Give me ten minutes," she said, standing. "I'll finish the lockdown protocol and prep your laptop for safe storage while we're out."

  Lucian watched her rise, his eyes trailing the length of her again. The way that dress hugged her, the silent confidence in her movements, the sharp mind hiding behind every effortless glance.

  He wanted her. Not just physically—though that part was killing him—but in every dimension. The fire, the wit, the defiance. She was a storm dressed like serenity.

  Cyrene caught his stare and gave him a sidelong glance. "You're doing it again."

  "What?"

  "Looking at me like I'm going to vanish."

  His voice dropped. "Not vanish. Detonate."

  She shook her head, biting back a smile. "Get your keys. I'll be done before you warm the engine."

  Lucian turned, heading toward the door. "We'll grab food on the way back."

  She paused, watching the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders as he moved. "You cooking or buying?"

  He glanced over his shoulder with a grin. "Buying. You already overloaded my kitchen with rogue code—I'm not letting you set fire to it."

  Cyrene rolled her eyes, heart lighter than it had been in hours. "Fine. But I'm picking the place."

  "Deal," he said, voice trailing as he disappeared down the hall.

  She stood alone for a moment in his study, exhaling slow. The tension hadn't left. It just changed shape. Became something anticipatory.

  Something that looked a lot like the beginning of trust. Or trouble.

  Probably both.