The drive back from the warehouse felt longer than the way there, the city lights smearing across the tinted windows like wet paint. I sat beside Lucien in silence, wrists still tingling from the belt he'd used, the ghost of leather and steel lingering on my skin. He hadn't spoken since we left the shadows behind. Just watched the road ahead, one hand resting on his thigh, the other tapping once, twice, against the armrest in a rhythm only he could hear.
I kept my gaze forward, pretending the pulse in the necklace wasn't broadcasting every frantic beat straight to him. My body buzzed with leftover adrenaline, sharp and electric, the way it used to when I'd sprint through the park at night just to feel something alive. Except this time the something alive was him. And the danger wasn't abstract anymore. It had a face, a voice, a touch that could bind and release in the same breath.
The SUV glided into the private garage beneath the penthouse. Lucien stepped out first. I followed without being told. The elevator ride up was quiet except for the soft hum of machinery and the steady thrum of my own blood. When the doors opened, he walked straight through the foyer, coat already sliding off his shoulders. He tossed it over the back of a leather chair like it offended him.
"Meeting room," he said over his shoulder. "Now."
I trailed him down a corridor I hadn't explored yet, past abstract paintings that probably cost more than my parents' house. The meeting room was smaller than the one downtown—dark wood table, six chairs, a wall of screens that flickered to life as we entered. Two men waited inside: one tall and lean with silver at the temples, the other shorter, bulkier, sleeves rolled up to show sleeves of ink. They stood when Lucien walked in.
"Sit," he told them.
They sat.
I took my place behind his chair again, same as before. Shadow. Sentinel. Whatever the hell I was becoming.
Lucien didn't sit either. He leaned over the table, palms flat against the polished surface, and stared at the screens. Grainy footage played on three of them—security cams from the docks, timestamped an hour ago. Men in dark jackets moving crates under sodium lights. A black van idling at the edge of frame. Then movement: three figures slipping from the shadows, weapons drawn.
"Moretti's advance team," Silver-hair said, voice calm. "Testing the perimeter. They didn't take anything. Just watching."
Lucien's jaw tightened. "They'll be back Thursday. Bigger. Bolder."
Bulkier-guy nodded. "We've got the sniper intel confirmed. Roof of the old cannery. Russian. Ex-Spetsnaz. He's good."
Lucien straightened. "Then we get better."
He turned to me. "You heard the plan earlier. Walk me through it again. Step by step. Out loud."
The room went still. Both men looked at me like I was a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit.
I cleared my throat. "Spotter on the overpass first. Neutralize quietly. Then two teams on the access road—flank the truck before the sniper has clear line of sight. Ram if they try to bolt. Pull the driver, secure the cargo, leave no witnesses who can talk."
Silver-hair raised an eyebrow. "No witnesses?"
Lucien answered for me. "He means no survivors who can identify us. Clean. Fast. Done."
I nodded once, even though the words tasted like metal in my mouth.
Bulkier-guy snorted. "Kid's got ice in his veins."
Lucien's gaze never left mine. "He's learning."
The meeting wrapped quickly after that. Orders given. Timelines set. Men dismissed with a flick of Lucien's wrist. When the door closed behind the last one, the room felt smaller, heavier.
He walked to the sideboard, poured two glasses of amber liquid from a crystal decanter. Handed one to me without asking.
I took it. The whiskey burned smooth down my throat.
"You did well," he said quietly. "Again."
I stared into the glass. "I just repeated what I said earlier."
"You said it under pressure. With two of my lieutenants watching. And you didn't flinch." He stepped closer. "That matters."
His hand came up, fingers brushing the side of my neck, right over the necklace. The touch was light, almost careful. My breath hitched anyway.
"You're shaking," he observed.
"Adrenaline," I muttered.
"Liar." His thumb traced the chain downward, slow, deliberate. "You're terrified. And you're aroused. Both at once. Beautiful."
Heat flooded my face. I wanted to shove him away. I wanted to pull him closer. The contradiction made my head spin.
He leaned in until his lips brushed my ear. "You protected me today. Even when you didn't have to. That earns you something."
He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes. Then he kissed me.
Not gentle. Not tentative. Hard, claiming, like he was sealing the signature I'd scrawled that morning. His hand fisted in my hair, tilting my head back, deepening the kiss until I tasted whiskey and danger on his tongue.
I kissed back.
I hated myself for it.
I hated how good it felt.
When he broke away, both of us were breathing hard. He rested his forehead against mine for one heartbeat. Two.
Then he stepped back, expression shuttered again.
"Go clean up," he said. "Dinner in an hour. Wear black."
I nodded, legs unsteady, and turned for the door.
As I reached it, he spoke again, voice soft and lethal.
"And puppy?"
I paused, hand on the knob.
"Next time someone comes for me… don't wait for my order. Just kill them."
The words settled in my chest like lead.
I walked out without answering.
Because the scariest part wasn't the command.
It was how ready I felt to obey it.