The morning air clung heavy to Lucien's senses, pressing on him with quiet warning. Still fatigued from a restless night, he steered his Lamborghini up to the estate's driveway. Beside him, Asher sat with phone in hand, silent but alert. Countless trees and buildings passed by in blurry shadows, but Lucien's instincts sharpened—a chopping unease beneath his ribs. That's weird, what is this feeling?
He halted the car. Gravel crunched beneath tires like brittle bones. His mansion rose before them in eerie stillness—too silent.
"Something's wrong," Lucien muttered, stepping out.
Asher was dismissive, casual: "You're just tired, man. Stop imagining"
But Lucien's gut twisted into steel as they approached the grand doors. The foyer was empty, chandeliers unnaturally still. He treaded forward, every breath taut.
My guts never failed me before Ash, he said quietly to himself.
Then came the muffled sounds: groans, soft struggles—somewhere deeper inside.
Lucien rounded the corner into the piano room, then froze.
There—Seraphine sat terror-stricken in a wooden chair, dark hair damp with sweat, and her face glistening with tears, her arms tied so tightly wool ropes had already bitten into her skin with enough force to turn her beauty like wrist blood-red. She cried even harder upon the sight of Lucien and shook her head violently.
His heart slammed a red warning.
"My angel," he whispered, rushing forward.
Without hesitation, he ripped off her gag. Asher appeared behind to undo her ropes, her wrists raw and unbound. Instead of relief, she shook her head fiercely, as they came nearer. Lucien who expected a thank you or finally you arrived was instead welcomed with something that was enough to take the floor off his feet's.
"Lucien… go! Run! It's a trap—you are—"
The back door crashed open behind him. A tall man with a nose and eyebrow piercing, hairs tucked back in a small ponytail, and with a growl escaping from his yellowish teeth's, stormed in, flanked by a second similar figure near the wall. Shadows moved like venomous snakes ready to bite the two loyal males.
Asher yanked off his shirt, Asher yanked off his shirt in one fluid motion, the fabric slipping from his frame like water over polished stone. Beneath it, his body was carved like a Michelangelo sculpture—broad shoulders tapering into a lean waist, every muscle defined with natural grace rather than brute bulk. His chest rose and fell with quiet intensity, the light catching on the faint sheen of sweat that highlighted the sharp cut of his collarbones and the curve of his pectorals.
His abs were the kind that made hearts skip—six firm ridges, each one tensed as he prepared for combat, a thin trail of hair dipping just below the waistband of his jeans. Veins ran subtly down his arms, like silver threads under golden skin, pulsing with adrenaline and strength. There was something wild in the way he moved—effortless but charged, like a lion moments before a strike. His jaw clenched, shadows dancing along the sharp lines of his cheekbones, and a faint scar cut through his left bicep—a battle story waiting to be asked about.
For a split second, even the chaos around them seemed to still—because Asher shirtless wasn't just a sight. It was a distraction. A declaration. And Gods help the poor soul who thought he was just pretty muscle.
Lucien raised a hand to point behind Asher—
Seraphine screamed with all she had.
But before he could finish, a bat swung down—crack!—and slammed into the base of his skull. He staggered, vision flickering white. As if that wasn't enough he saw Asher get beaten up too.
Saraphine was weeping again, "No, no please! Not him!"
Asher dove forward but was clubbed in the lower back, then the gut, and finally behind both knees—it was lightning-fast brutality. He collapsed with guttural groans, nose bleeding, staggering.
Lucien watched stars explode behind his eyelids, grounded as blood trickled from his temple.
Even then, five more men in black emerged—from the kitchen, hallway, balcony staircase—closing in fast.
Adrenaline exploded. Lucien flung off his shirt, Lucien tore off his shirt with a quiet fury, the fabric clinging to him for a moment—like even it didn't want to let go. But when it fell to the floor, time seemed to do the same. His body was sin wrapped in skin—tall and commanding, every inch sculpted with lethal precision. Broad shoulders framed a chest that looked like it had been moulded by gods too bored with perfection. Muscles rippled with restrained power, not bulky but honed—like he was made for speed, control, and dominance. A deep scar trailed just beneath his collarbone, old and faded but maddeningly mysterious, begging to be traced with trembling fingers.
His abs were hard and symmetrical, a perfect V-line drawing the eye downward like gravity itself was seduced. Tattoos peeked out from beneath his ribs, black ink curling around the side of his torso like secrets only the brave would dare uncover. His skin—sun-kissed olive and smooth in places, rugged in others—was stretched tight over every sinewy inch, glistening faintly with sweat and tension.
And then there was his face. That goddamn face. A jaw so sharp it could cut diamonds, shadowed by a dusting of stubble that only made him more dangerous. His storm-grey eyes bottled up with rage and killing desire, narrowed beneath dark lashes that shouldn't have belonged to a man that ruthless. A single drop of blood slid down the corner of his lip—and somehow, even that looked sexy.
He wasn't just shirtless.
Lucien Vade Castellano looked like he stepped out of a dream you weren't sure you survived. The kind of man you should run from—but never, ever would. And in that moment, with fists clenched and body tensed like a loaded weapon, he wasn't just hot.
He was unholy and dangerous.
He lunged forward. No hesitation. Full determination.
The first attacker swung at Lucien—glove with weight. Lucien grabbed the wrist of the unlucky man, twisted hard. Bones cracked. The man screamed. The man screamed—a sound not of rage, but of something far deeper. It tore from his chest like his soul had been wrenched out with it, raw and full of agony. It was the kind of scream that echoed in the bones of anyone who heard it—full of fear, pain, and the terrible helplessness of knowing that nothing could stop what was happening. It wasn't just a cry—it was a confession of suffering which he solely deserved.
Lucien drove his knee upward into the attacker's face, crushing cheek and tooth. He collapsed to the ground. Before Lucien could even hit him again
A second assailant attacked from the side. Lucien ducked, elbowed into the ribs, and followed with a hammer fist that slammed into the jaw, dropping him instantly.
A third man landed behind Asher with a grapple, wrapping an arm around Asher's throat. He choked. Asher slammed his back into the wall, forcing the man backward until the grip loosened. The attacker dropped unconscious, wide-eyed.
From near the stairs, another thug pressed in with a baton. Asher pivoted, twisted an arm, and shattered it with a sickening snap. He shredded it into the wall, then slammed the man to the ground. But surprising he was stronger than Asher thought and got up and smacked Asher hard on the face. In an instant, Asher sprayed out blood like a water hose.
Breath came stuttering, pain blooming—aching—but Asher functioned. He couldn't see Lucien struggling over all those swift punches, he was now dodging of the man. He only heard grunts, the scuffle of flesh against marble, a sound of a person throwing up and knew at once what was happening. He swiftly kicked double at the man's face causing to knock down on the ground, finally at defeat.
Then came the seventh attacker—boot high, straight to Lucien's stomach. He doubled over, blood spraying onto marble.
Lucien tried to speak over all those assaults, "My a-an-angel." Seraphines and Lucien's eyes locked in a time-stopping glare. "Run away. N-" He coughed up more blood and clenched his palm over his chest. Then a vicious and merciless laugh came from ahead, as Lucien gazed down he found 1 feet's drumming against the floor with malicious intent. The next strike came low, crushing into his groin again; he collapsed, gasping. His knees buckled together as if glued.
Overhead, Seraphine watched. Her breathing was ragged. She saw Lucien collapse and Asher slump beside him. One of the attackers gloated, his back towards Seraphine completely forgotten about her. He stepped forward with smug triumph towards Lucien.
That was the final edge.
On one knee, eyes glazed, he spat blood again. Worse came when another attacker kicked him in the side again. Sharp agony, volcanic. Lucien groaned, as he knelt with both hands.
"Begging for mercy now, are we?" One man sneered. "Lucien Vade Castellano, feared by town after towns—and defeated by us?"
Lucien clenched teeth, blurred vision, ground gaze upward. Pain bloomed in waves but he stayed upright.
Seraphine leapt, heart pounding fury. She grabbed a discarded bat from the floor. Everything slowed—time froze. She raised her arm high and swung with all her weight.
"Could you imagine that being the headlines of the news-"
CRACK.
The bat connected with a wet snap at the base of the man's skull. He convulsed, then crashed sideways without a sound.
Silence swallowed the room.
Lucien looked up through crusted blood at her—eyes bright with stunned awe.
Asher's mouth formed a "—Did she just—?" before turning into shocked admiration. But he suddenly tripped and twisted his ankles.
The nose piecing man glared at her, smirk across his bleeding lips.
"She's mine," Lucien mouthed. "Don't you dare-"
The piercing man lunged at her ignoring Lucien's warnings, thick arm coiling around her neck in a vice grip. She gasped. Fear flickered—but then the memory kicked in:
Bullies. Amelia. Self-defence training.
With primal force, she clenched his waistband. With one powerful heave, she flipped him over her shoulder. He landed with a thunderous thud. She then grabbed the discarded bat again and smacked him with every inch of his body she could reach.
Smack.
Smack.
Smack.
Smack.
Smack.
Smack.
It was as if her sole life mission was to give the man a taste of what he did to her husband and her brother— her one and only true family. Lucien was stunned. My angel protected me? He blushed at the thought of this and Asher caught that with a cheeky grin. Lucien rolled his eyes at him. One hit at the stomach, another at his crotch, then at his face, at his crotch again. He twisted underneath her beating. It was Asher's who whistled in delight. And with 2 last fatal blows at his head, he finally knocked out.
Unlike before—he stayed down, silent and still.
She stood, breathing hard, shaking but alive.
Lucien staggered up, half-crouching. "Angel…"
She rolled her eyes, delivered a quick smack on his arm. "You're such a dumbass."
His lips curled crookedly. "You are worth every scar."
A Fragile Vow
Seraphine roared with anger, fire shooting out of her ears, "Are you mad? You could have died!"
Lucien limped to her side. He gripped her hand, voice ragged but earnest:
"I'd let the world burn for you. No one but me—the only one who deserves you. I would give my life just for every second I get to look at you. You are my beauty. No one else's."
He squeezed tighter: "I'd guard you with everything I have. With you… I fear nothing but losing you."
Seraphine's chest heaved. Her heart pounded thunderously.
Before she could answer—a sharp whistle cut through the hush.
Asher stood in the archway with a phone raised, eyes shining with mischief as a smirk played on his lips. "Got the whole thing recorded."
Lucien snatched, tried to pull Asher in—but only yanked his leg pulling him closer. He smacked Asher sharply across the head. Asher rubbed his cheek with a groan.
"Ow! Stop it!" Asher sputtered.
Seraphine pushed them apart. "Not today. You both are in a right state already."
Asher ran his hand over his bruised nose. "Seriously though—Lucien, you are so damn lucky. You landed yourself a woman of brains, beauty—and battle instincts."
He winked at Seraphine. She flushed harder than Lucien.
Lucien glanced at her—bloodied, fierce, radiant. He smiled softly, despite the pain.
Outside, dawn light filtered through broken windows. Guards rushed medical care to the unconscious attackers. The halls were littered with cracked marble and dark footprints.
Seraphine supported Lucien and Asher as they leaned on each other under a broken chandelier. Silence settled—heavy but cleansing.
Asher coughed, wiped blood. Lucien pressed his jacket to Seraphine's wrist. She leaned in, eyes still glassy. The smell of fresh blood filled that air. Its smell was so strong that it reminded of death to anyone who smelled it.
The triumphant adrenaline faded, but a new bond remained—wrought in blood, survival, and unspeakable love.