LUCIAN X CYRENE

  By the time Lucian came back, she'd already spotted the flip-flops he'd set out for her at the door. They were new. Still had the tag curled around the strap like a lazy question mark.

  "I figured heels weren't an option," he said, voice low but still threaded with that ever-present awareness of her.

  Cyrene raised an eyebrow. "Did you raid a beach kiosk for these?"

  He looked down at the flimsy rubber footwear. "Close. One of the maids had a pair. I had them run out and grab your size."

  "Thoughtful," she murmured, sliding her feet into them. Her arches protested, not because the flip-flops were uncomfortable, but because walking meant movement. Proximity. Temptation.

  Lucian held the door open. "I could carry you to the car."

  The offer came so casually, like he was offering her a drink, but his eyes told a different story—too steady, too still, watching her too closely.

  She hesitated.

  And then shook her head. "I don't think I'd survive that much proximity."

  His mouth curved—just slightly—but he didn't push it. Just gestured with one hand for her to lead the way.

  They walked slowly across the estate, the night air thick with silence and something else—something shared, simmering, unspoken. Each step sent a quiet pulse up through her calves, every brush of her arm near his a flicker she refused to acknowledge.

  When they reached the car, Lucian opened the door for her like it was second nature. Gentlemanly. Unforced.

  And when he slid into the driver's seat and the car hummed to life, Cyrene glanced at him sideways.

  "You've been to my place before," she said.

  He nodded.

  They fell into quiet as they pulled onto the road, tires humming along the wet Sicilian asphalt.

  She broke it first. "What about you?"

  Lucian glanced over. "What about me?"

  Tell me about you.

  He let out a low breath. "Not while I'm driving."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I'd rather not wrap the car around a tree while you start psychoanalyzing me from the passenger seat."

  She huffed a short laugh. "Who says I'd psychoanalyze you?"

  "You, Bella."

  He said it like it was fact. No teasing in it this time. Just quiet certainty.

  She looked over at him, catching the angle of his jaw in the soft dashboard light, the shadows that cut beneath his cheekbones. His knuckles were tight on the steering wheel, though his voice stayed even.

  "Fine," she said softly. "But give me something. Just a sliver."

  Lucian didn't answer right away. A few streetlights blurred past them in golden smears before he spoke.

  "I didn't have a rosy life."

  His tone wasn't defensive. It wasn't bitter either. It just was. Like he was stating the weather. Or recounting someone else's childhood.

  "Nothing about it was soft or ideal. Not the place. Not the people. I learned early not to expect much, and to protect what little you can't afford to lose."

  Cyrene watched him in profile. The set of his mouth didn't change. His voice didn't crack. But the stillness in him spoke volumes.

  She didn't interrupt.

  He finally glanced at her. "That's all for now. You want more? Make me stop driving."

  A slow smirk crept across her lips. "Is that your version of flirting?"

  "No," he said, eyes back on the road. "That was me surviving you."

  Her smile lingered, but she didn't push again.

  Not yet.

  The rest of the drive passed with the kind of silence that wasn't empty—it was thick with what they weren't saying. Charged with the quiet understanding that the more they spoke, the more they peeled things back. Layers. Masks. Armor.

  And that sort of thing?

  It was dangerous.

  For both of them.

  They pulled up outside her building, the engine purring low before Lucian cut it. The sudden quiet felt sharper than the night air.

  He didn't move right away—just turned toward her slightly, one arm draped casually over the steering wheel.

  "You still have good greens?" he asked, voice soft but deliberate.

  Cyrene gave a half-smile, unlocking her door. "Something just came in."

  Lucian raised a brow as he got out. "Just 'something'?"

  She smirked. "It's alright. Good stuff. You'll live."

  They stepped inside the building, the familiar scent of old stone and polished wood greeting her like a threshold only she could read. He knew his way around—of course he did—and didn't trail her like a guest. Just moved alongside her, easy and unobtrusive, the way people do when they've already measured a space and chosen not to intrude.

  Inside her penthouse, she moved with purpose.

  She went straight to the back room—not the kitchen, not the living area—but the cabinet with a false bottom she'd designed herself, sliding it open with a satisfying click. Inside was the fresh pound she'd vacuum-sealed and labeled by strain. She didn't look at Lucian while she worked, but she could feel him. Not hovering. Not imposing. Just there. Present.

  Familiar in a way that made her nerves do things she didn't allow often.

  She cracked the seal, the scent hitting instantly—loud and sharp and earthy. Lucian made a quiet, appreciative sound in the back of his throat.

  "You weren't exaggerating."

  "I don't exaggerate," she replied, eyes still on the stash. "I just under-explain."

  She grabbed an ounce from the pound—didn't need more, not for now—and resealed the rest, tucking it away again. Then she moved to the tall cabinet near her desk and pulled out her gadget of choice: sleek, efficient, self-contained. She started loading it, each motion quick but precise."

  Her mind, though, was already somewhere else.

  As she packed the vaporizer, she took silent inventory. Not of supplies. Of systems. Risks. Redundancies. She'd made a mental note hours ago, but now it circled again like a low hum at the back of her skull: get a new laptop. She needed a fresh setup—one that hadn't touched anything sensitive, one that wasn't already swimming in metadata or potential threats.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  She didn't know how deep things went yet. And that meant caution wasn't just wise—it was non-negotiable.

  The documents on her current drive?

  Too important. Too revealing.

  Too damn expensive to be careless with.

  She could still feel the weight of them, tucked inside a hidden partition—encrypted, mirrored, and backed up in three physical locations she never visited twice in the same order. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough.

  So, before she tried anything, even innocuous—before she poked around or cross-referenced names or ran any tests on the traces she'd picked up—she'd do it on a clean machine. Factory-fresh. No digital fingerprints. No lazy habits.

  She didn't know yet who was watching what. Or how.

  And Cyrene had never survived by being lucky. She survived by being invisible when it counted and ruthless when it didn't.

  She clipped the vaporizer together, powered it up, and inhaled slow. Clean pull. Immediate warmth. The good kind—the kind that settled in her lungs like calm in a bottle.

  Lucian watched her from the edge of the room, arms crossed, an amused flicker in his gaze.

  Cyrene zipped the case shut and set it by the door, then moved back to the kitchen counter where her gear was spread out. Grinder. Papers. Her vape pen. The usual.

  "I need to grab a new laptop today," she said without looking up.

  Lucian glanced over, brow ticking. "Something wrong with the one you have?"

  She flicked her thumb across the pen and watched it light. "No. That's the problem. It's clean. I want to keep it that way."

  He didn't ask more, just waited as she took a pull and exhaled slow.

  "I don't know how deep this goes," she added after a beat. "I'm not opening anything—not even a local copy—on the drive with my other projects. I'd rather start fresh."

  Lucian nodded once. "We can stop on the way back."

  "Okay," she said.

  Lucian leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "How many laptops have you burned through?"

  She cracked a small smile, holding in a laugh as she repacked her kit. "This year, or total?"

  He mirrored her smile, subtle. "Total."

  Cyrene looked up, the edge of her voice amused but precise. "I lost count around fifty. Maybe more. I used to keep a tally. Then I realized it was pointless."

  His brows lifted just a little. "That many?"

  "You'd be surprised how careless people get. They wipe a drive, delete a few logs, and think they're good." She picked up the ashtray and moved past him to set it on the coffee table. "They forget metadata lives in a dozen different places. And even if you're careful—if one bad packet slips in, it's over. Someone smart enough can backtrace everything."

  Lucian followed her with his eyes, not moving. He didn't interrupt. Didn't poke. Just watched.

  She noticed.

  And it made something settle low in her chest. Not comfort, exactly. Not safety.

  Something more dangerous than both.

  She perched on the armrest again and took another slow hit. "The trick," she said, voice softer now, "isn't cleaning up the mess after. It's making sure no mess exists in the first place."

  Lucian finally stepped in, slow and deliberate, resting his shoulder against the wall beside her. His presence was calm but alert, like someone who recognized how rarely people like her shared this much out loud.

  And maybe that's why she let herself keep going.

  Not everything. Not yet.

  But enough to feel the shift.

  Enough to know this wasn't just smoke and silence anymore.

  This was something else entirely.

  It started from here.

  They went to a gadget store. Bright, modern, with sleek display tables and soft security buzzes every time someone entered. The moment they walked in, heads turned. People stared—some subtly, some not at all. But neither Lucian nor Cyrene acknowledged them. They moved through the space like the crowd didn't exist. As if the eyes on them were invincible, irrelevant.

  She tested something sleek with chrome edges. He checked specs on a discreet monitor. They didn't speak much, but they didn't need to. They picked what they came for—no browsing, no delay—and paid without hesitation.

  Back outside, sun warm on concrete and shoulders, the idea of food hung between them. It was the logical next stop.

  But Cyrene slowed. Glanced at him. Her voice came out low, a little tight.

  "Actually... I have a better idea."

  He arched an eyebrow, hand already halfway in his pocket for keys. "Yeah?"

  She nodded. "I just feel... tight, you know? Stressed. And I'd rather smoke first. Just exhale everything before I even think about food."

  There was a pause. Then his mouth curved—not quite a smile, not yet, but close. "Say no more."

  He unlocked the car with a soft beep. She slid into the passenger seat, kicking her heels off with a sigh that practically melted into the seat. He started the engine, pulling away with quiet precision.

  Ten minutes later, they were parked at a small, shaded park tucked off a side road. Not crowded. Not even busy. Just enough trees to feel tucked away. The perfect kind of forgotten.

  He cut the engine and leaned back. "Comfortable?"

  She shifted in her seat, folding one leg beneath her. "Now I am."

  The car fell into a hush. Birds somewhere outside. Leaves moving. Sunlight slicing through the windshield like lazy gold threads.

  He reached for the center console, pulled out a black case—sleek, organized, intentional. Inside was everything. Grinder. Papers. Lighter. His own strain, already sealed in a glass vial.

  She watched him. "You really came ready, huh?"

  "I always do," he said, loading up calmly. "Helps when your passenger has good ideas."

  She leaned her head against the seat, eyes half-closed. "This might actually be the best one I've had all week."

  "Stress that bad?"

  She gave a small nod, quiet for a second. "It's like I've been holding my breath.

  I just want to... exhale."

  He lit up. Inhaled slow. Let it sit before passing it to her.

  She took it without hesitation. Breathed deep, then exhaled just as slow. Like she meant every second of it.

  "God," she murmured, letting the smoke trail from her lips. "That's perfect."

  They passed it back and forth, easy rhythm, no pressure. The air inside the car grew warm, soft-edged. Her shoulders dropped a little more with every drag.

  "I should've suggested this hours ago," she said, eyes on the ceiling. "Forget food."

  "We've got time," he replied, watching her. "This matters more."

  She looked over at him. "You ever do this with anyone else?"

  "Smoke? Sure." He paused, eyes still on her. "Like this? Not really."

  She smirked faintly and took another hit. "So I'm special."

  "I didn't say that," he said, amused.

  "But you didn't not say it either."

  He tilted his head, watching her blow smoke out the window. "You want a label for everything?"

  She smiled, eyes still closed. "No. Just enjoying the moment."

  They didn't speak for a while. Just sat in the haze, letting it settle into their clothes and bones, letting the tension bleed out of her inch by inch. Outside, the world went quiet.

  Inside, everything shifted.

  Not everything. Not yet.

  But enough to feel the change.

  Enough to know this wasn't just escape anymore.

  This was the beginning of something that might matter.

  The smoke session had left them both somewhere softer—unguarded, a little buzzed, and completely present. Cyrene leaned against the window with a lazy smile, her fingers idly tracing the seam of her seat. Lucian had one hand on the wheel, his other resting near her knee without ever quite touching it.

  They were high. And hungry. The best kind of hungry—where everything sounded good and every bite promised to taste like a revelation.

  It was 2:30 PM now. Late lunch or early dinner, depending on who asked. But neither of them cared about labels right now.

  Lucian pulled into the parking lot of a small diner tucked between a pharmacy and a closed-down tailor shop. The sign was old-fashioned—just “Mel’s” in red script, flickering slightly—but the scent leaking out the front door was warm and sweet, syrup and fried batter and coffee.

  “This place,” he said, turning off the engine, “has the best pancakes in the city.”

  “You said that about your strain too,” Cyrene said, stretching her arms overhead with a grin.

  “And was I wrong?”

  She slid him a look as they stepped out of the car. “You’ve got a point.”

  Inside, the diner was cozy in the way that made you feel like you’d already been there before. Red leather booths, white-and-chrome tables, and a chalkboard menu hanging behind the counter. A waitress with a tired ponytail and a too-bright smile greeted them and led them to a booth by the window.

  Lucian slid into one side, Cyrene into the other. She leaned on her elbows, eyes dancing over the menu like she was reading poetry.

  “I want waffles,” she announced, “but also pancakes. And wings.”

  He didn’t even blink. “Then order all three.”

  She lifted a brow. “You’re dangerous.”

  “You keep saying that,” he said, picking up his menu, “and yet, here you are.”

  They ended up ordering waffles stacked with strawberries and whipped cream, a double-stack of fluffy pancakes drowned in butter and maple syrup, and a basket of wings—crispy, golden, tossed in spicy honey glaze. They added hash browns and a vanilla milkshake too, just because the high made everything feel like a good idea.

  When the food arrived, Cyrene’s eyes went wide.

  “Oh my god,” she whispered, staring at the spread. “We’re not gonna finish this.”

  “We absolutely are,” Lucian said, already cutting into a pancake.

  They ate like they’d been starving. Laughing between bites, stealing off each other’s plates, dipping wings into syrup without shame. Cyrene’s lipstick smudged just a little from the heat of the wings and the edge of the shake straw, but she didn’t care. Lucian wiped a dab of syrup off her thumb with his own napkin, and she blinked—something soft and startled behind her eyes—but said nothing.

  When they finally slowed down, stomachs full and heads hazy with food and weed and whatever this energy was between them, Cyrene leaned back in the booth, groaning lightly.

  “We need to order more,” she said.

  Lucian blinked. “More?”

  “For later. Trust me. I’ll regret it at like midnight if I don’t.”

  He didn’t argue. They flagged down the waitress again and ordered everything a second time—to go. She raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. Just packed it up in neat white boxes with grease spots blooming on the bottom and a bag that smelled like every good decision they’d made today.

  By the time they got back in the car, the sun had started shifting lower, gold turning to amber on the hood of Lucian’s coupe. Cyrene curled up in the passenger seat again, barefoot and full, cradling the bag of leftovers like a prize.

  They drove in quiet this time, but it wasn’t empty. The kind of silence that came when things didn’t need to be said out loud.

  Back at Lucian’s estate, the gate swung open with smooth deference. The gravel crunch under the tires, the manicured path winding past olive trees and into a space that somehow felt too beautiful for how messy and spontaneous the day had been.

  He parked near the side entrance. Turned off the car.

  “You good?” he asked, turning slightly toward her.

  She looked over at him, hair loose around her shoulders, eyes slow and satisfied.

  “Better than good,” she said.

  They stepped out, bags in hand, sun slipping behind the villa’s roofline.

  The door opened to cool air and silence.

  Their footsteps echoed softly as they entered—shoes traded for bare feet on smooth floors, the scent of warm food trailing behind them. Cyrene set the bags down in the kitchen while Lucian opened the fridge, clearing space. Neither spoke much. There was no need. The energy between them had shifted into something quieter but charged—like a held breath.

  She slid the takeout containers onto a shelf, stacking them in careful columns. He handed her the last one, their fingers brushing in the transfer. Her eyes flicked to his for the briefest second before returning to the task. Controlled. Focused.

  But she felt it.

  The hum underneath everything.

  Once the food was packed away, Lucian leaned against the counter, watching her. “Come on. I’ll show you where you can set up.”

  She followed him through the wide, elegant halls—her fingertips grazing walls in passing, taking in the home that was somehow both luxurious and lived-in. He led her past closed doors, up a short flight of stairs, then stopped in front of a quiet room at the end of a corridor.

  He pushed the door open.

  Neutral-toned walls, heavy curtains, a broad walnut desk near the window. Several power outlets lined the wall. The space was clean and private—perfect.

  “You’ll be good here,” he said. “No one comes up this way.”

  She stepped inside, already envisioning where her things would go. “Perfect,” she murmured, walking to the desk and running her hand across the smooth surface. “I’ll need to connect to my drives and get a secure VPN running, but I’ll keep things quiet.”

  “I figured you would.”

  He lingered by the doorway for a moment, hands in his pockets, watching her get her bearings. She was already thinking like Maddison again—assessing setup time, visualizing code, calculating possible breach points. The transition was seamless. Natural.

  He stepped closer.

  She didn’t look up at first, but she felt it—the weight of his presence, the sudden, deliberate shift in his posture.

  Lucian reached out, fingers brushing her wrist, not pulling but grounding.

  She turned.

  And before she could say anything—before a thought could fully form—he kissed her.

  It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t hesitant. It was deliberate, searing, slow. His mouth on hers like he had every intention of making her feel the heat he’d been holding back all day. One hand slid around her waist, pulling her just enough to remind her of how close they were. How close they could be.

  Her breath hitched. She leaned into it before she even realized she had, her fingers finding the front of his shirt, curling in fabric.

  He kissed her like he was claiming something—but not yet taking it. Just making sure she knew. That he could.

  When he finally pulled back, he didn’t let go of her waist. His mouth hovered close, breath warm against her lips.

  “That,” he said, voice low, rough with satisfaction, “was for teasing me since you stepped into my office this morning.”

  Her lips were parted. Her heart, unsettled.

  “And that’s it?” she asked, blinking slowly.

  His smile was the dangerous kind—sharp, knowing, patient. “For now.”

  Then he let go, stepped back, and nodded toward the room. “Get to work, bella. I’ve got catching up to do.”

  And just like that, he turned and walked off down the hall.

  Leaving her standing in the silence, pulse racing, lips tingling, and the taste of his promise lingering in her mouth.