Her breath stilled.
Not in fear.
Not in resignation.
But in that horrible, perfect stillness that comes when a person realizes they've said too much—
and nothing at all.
Lucien tilted his head as if considering something fragile. He was still close. Closer than any sane man would be.
But she wasn't moving away.
Not anymore.
"I don't want you to be enough," he said simply.
That made her blink. Not in confusion—
but in pain.
Subtle. Immediate. That flicker in her pupils like a child being told they would never measure up.
Lucien didn't let up.
"If you were enough," he continued, voice velvet over glass, "then there'd be nothing left to reach for. No ache to fix. No desperate little grasp at my shirt like I might disappear if you let go for a second too long."
His hand finally moved—
but not toward her.
He plucked her fingers from the fabric of his shirt, one by one. Carefully. Gently. Like peeling petals off a dying flower.
She let him.
That was the worst part.
She let him.
And when her hand fell back to her lap—useless, still—she stared at it like it had betrayed her.
Lucien didn't look away.
"You keep thinking if you sit still long enough, I'll come closer."
He leaned back. Not far. But far enough.
Far enough to make her feel the cold that replaced him.
"And every time I don't…
you break a little more beautifully."
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
Because the silence had teeth now.
It wasn't absence.
It was consequence.
And the moonlight wasn't kind—it didn't soften her. It didn't blur the redness in her eyes or the tight way she held herself like her ribs had learned how to fold in.
Lucien watched all of it. Drank it in like a connoisseur savoring a rare vintage.
She wasn't a queen right now.
She was a girl who didn't know whether she'd been seen—or dissected.
"Say something," she breathed.
A whisper. Raw. Fractured.
Not a demand.
Not even a request.
Just the voice of someone drowning, begging for proof that the water wasn't imaginary.
Lucien studied her for a long moment.
Then, with a slow exhale, he said—
"Why?"
And he smiled.
As if he didn't already know the answer.
As if her breaking wasn't the only thing that ever made him feel real.
———-
She didn't answer.
Not with words.
Just sat there with her hands slack in her lap, eyes low, as if she might be able to hide behind her own lashes if she blinked hard enough.
Lucien waited.
Not patiently.
But with precision.
He watched the way her shoulders shifted—how she pulled herself a little straighter, like a spine could fix what a soul couldn't. The way her lips pressed together, tight and colorless, not in defiance, but preparation. Like she thought she could still be something other than what he'd already seen.
It was almost admirable.
Almost.
"Are you trying to reassemble your dignity," Lucien asked softly, "or are you just trying to remember what it looked like?"
Her head lifted.
Just barely.
But her eyes were glassy now—moon-wet and brittle.
He didn't stop.
He wouldn't.
"I think you're hoping I'll pretend not to notice how you looked a moment ago."
He leaned forward again—slow, graceful.
Close enough to taste the denial on her breath.
"But I did notice," he whispered.
"Every little part of it. The way your hand shook. The way your voice thinned. The way you sat still, like maybe you could trade posture for power."
A pause.
Then—
"And now you're pretending it didn't happen."
His tone was almost gentle.
Almost.
But it was the kind of gentleness knives used, right before the cut.
She swallowed.
And for a second—just a second—Lucien saw her impulse to retaliate.
To say something sharp. To claw her way back up from the spiral by force.
But it never reached her mouth.
Because she knew.
It wouldn't land.
Not here.
Not with him.
Instead, her gaze dropped again.
Lucien smiled.
It wasn't cruel.
It wasn't kind.
It was the expression of a boy watching something fall perfectly into place.
"I don't need your affection," he said. "Not when your uncertainty is so much more interesting."
And that made her flinch.
Because affection, she could control.
Affection, she could give or withhold.
But uncertainty?
That lived inside her.
Rooted deep.
Lucien saw it. All of it.
And she knew now—too late—that he'd been watching for it the entire time.
————-
The flinch wasn't enough to stop him.
Lucien leaned in closer.
Not to crowd her.
To observe.
The way her breath caught. The way her jaw tightened in increments, like she was rehearsing composure behind her teeth. The way her hands folded tighter into the fabric of her shirt—knuckles pale, trembling, too stubborn to let go.
"You think this ends with me forgiving you," he murmured. "Or needing you. Or even thanking you."
He shook his head slowly.
"That's not what I'm doing."
A pause.
"You aren't being loved, Kiss-shot. You're being studied."
She closed her eyes.
Not dramatically.
Just the way someone does when they realize the floor beneath them has already given out.
"You're not used to being seen, are you?" he said, voice soft as snowfall.
"Not really. They worshipped you. Or feared you. Or tried to kill you. But none of them ever really saw you."
His fingers brushed the stone beside her thigh. Not touching her. Just… nearby.
"I do."
She shook her head, once.
He ignored it.
"You act like you're ancient. Untouchable. But you're not. You're a child, Kiss-shot. A child who got old, but not better."
That one hit.
It landed in the soft place behind her ribcage, the one still healing from centuries of loneliness she never admitted to.
She opened her mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to laugh—but no sound came.
Lucien watched her inhale instead. Slow. Shaky.
Then—
"You've killed for less," he said, voice honey-smooth. "So why aren't you killing me?"
She didn't answer.
Because they both knew.
There was no world in which she could.
Lucien's eyes narrowed, just slightly. The smile didn't return. He didn't need it.
"I wonder," he whispered, "if you even know who you are when no one's looking."
Then—
"I wonder if you're afraid to find out."
That—
That broke something.
Not with a scream. Not with a sob.
Just a soundless shudder through her chest, and a breath that didn't come out fully.
She curled inward slightly.
Almost imperceptibly.
Like something inside had caved. Quietly. Permanently.
Lucien watched it happen.
Watched her fold into herself, too proud to cry, too wrecked to sit up straight.
And when she finally turned her face away from him, one hand shielding her eyes like the moonlight might see too much—
Lucien let her.
He didn't reach.
Didn't soothe.
Didn't stop.
Because he knew something most people didn't.
When someone truly breaks?
You don't have to tell them what they are.
They'll come crawling back to you just to be told.
————
The quiet between them stretched—long, sharp, absolute.
And still she didn't look back.
Her hand stayed over her face, like that gesture alone might hold her together. Like shielding her expression would protect her from the reality he'd just forced her to sit in.
But the damage had already been done.
The platform beneath her felt colder now. The moonlight harsher. Her own skin felt too tight. Like the body she'd rebuilt was the wrong size, stitched around something that had started to rot the moment he smiled.
She'd killed for pride once.
Killed for it over and over again.
But now?
Now she couldn't even lift her head.
Because she'd offered it to him already.
And he'd seen it for what it was.
A crown she kept polishing in the dark to avoid looking at the rust.
Lucien stood slowly.
Deliberately.
He didn't say a word.
Didn't spare her a glance.
Just turned—one slow, soundless pivot—and walked to the other side of the temple like she didn't matter.
And that—
That hurt worse than anything he'd said.
Because pain was familiar.
Pain was something she could understand.
But this?
This was indifference.
And it hollowed her faster than any wound.
She listened to his footsteps on the cracked stone, heard them pause near the far wall. Heard him shift, settle, sit like he wasn't the gravity she orbited.
She should've been furious.
Should've lashed out. Demanded. Destroyed.
But instead—
"…Lucien."
Her voice was quiet.
Almost childlike.
He didn't answer.
She tried again.
A little louder this time.
"Lucien."
Still nothing.
And that silence—sharp, surgical—made her chest twist.
Like she was bleeding again, but on the inside this time.
"…please."
It slipped out before she could stop it.
Soft.
Small.
Not a command.
A request.
A raw, scraped thing not meant for kings or monsters—just for him.
Just for the boy who didn't flinch when she fed, who didn't look away when she begged, who now sat like she'd never existed.
Lucien finally looked over his shoulder.
Not fully.
Just enough.
His eyes found hers through the dark.
And held.
No smile.
No cruelty.
Just calm.
Like her breaking hadn't moved anything inside him at all.
He waited.
And finally, she said it—
The truth she'd tried to swallow.
"I don't want to go back to being alone."
Lucien didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Just let that confession settle into the room like incense.
Then—
Quietly.
Almost too softly to be heard:
"Good."
He turned away again.
——————-
She didn't speak again.
Didn't ask for mercy.
Didn't beg for softness.
But she moved.
Subtly. Slowly. Like something coming undone beneath silk.
Her fingers slid down her face—not to wipe away tears, but to make sure she still had a face worth hiding.
Her eyes flickered toward him. Not hope. Not anger. Just a desperate little tremor, like a cracked door rattling under a draft.
And then—
Her legs shifted.
One at a time.
Deliberate.
She tucked both beneath her, thighs pressed together. Like a girl kneeling in apology before something that didn't require forgiveness—only proof that she'd learned her place.
Her spine curled forward just slightly.
Not enough to look broken.
Just enough to look owned.
And that?
That was more honest than any vow.
Lucien didn't comment.
Didn't watch her directly.
But he listened.
To the way the stone beneath her sighed as she changed shape.
To the way her breath trembled, quiet and uneven.
To the subtle creak of a body trying to make itself small.
He didn't need to see her to know.
He'd heard enough people collapse into themselves to recognize the sound by now.
And her?
She didn't move after that.
Didn't adjust.
Didn't fidget.
Just waited.
Curled and silent.
Not because she wanted to be forgiven.
But because she wanted to be remembered.
—————
She stayed like that for a while.
Not long enough to be comfortable.
Just long enough for it to hurt.
The silence stretched so tight, it stopped feeling like stillness and started feeling like punishment. Like something hanging over her ribs, waiting to press down.
And when she finally spoke—
It wasn't sharp.
It wasn't regal.
It wasn't even steady.
It was a whisper made of raw edges, barely holding its shape.
"…What do I look like to you?"
Lucien didn't answer right away.
Because that wasn't a question.
It was a confession.
One she hadn't meant to give.
She blinked hard, eyes shining again—worse this time. Like whatever had been holding her together just snapped in the quiet.
And before he could reply, she spoke again.
Softer. Almost inaudible.
"Is it pathetic?"
Her voice cracked.
That was the word that did it.
That final twist of the knife—delivered by her own tongue.
"Needing you like this… is it pathetic?"
She didn't look at him.
Couldn't.
Her head dipped, blonde hair falling forward in a curtain.
But she kept going.
Like if she didn't finish the thought now, it would rot inside her.
"I don't… I don't know how to stop. I don't know how to make it less. I just—"
She swallowed.
"I feel like I disappear when you look away."
That was it.
That was the ruin.
Not some scream.
Not some broken wail.
Just a girl whispering the shape of her undoing into the dark, like it might leave less of a mark that way.
And Lucien?
He just smiled.
Not cruelly.
But like someone who had finally gotten what they came for.
——————
Lucien didn't answer.
Not with words.
Just with the way his gaze stayed fixed on her—the way his body didn't move, didn't comfort, didn't rescue.
She'd asked if she was pathetic.
She'd told him she didn't know how to stop.
And he gave her nothing.
Because the worst thing you can do to someone who's unraveling… is give them room to keep going.
And so she did.
She kept going.
She dragged her shame into the light herself, word by word, until it stopped sounding like shame and started sounding like need.
Like hunger.
Like compulsion.
And that was when he moved.
Not much. Not fast.
Just a single shift of weight—his shoulder dipping as he leaned forward, one elbow resting on the stone beside her hip.
His eyes never left her.
"You want to know what you look like to me?"
His voice was quiet.
But not kind.
"I'll tell you."
She flinched, almost imperceptibly.
He leaned in a little more, the warmth of his breath catching at her temple.
"You look like someone trying very, very hard not to beg."
He didn't mean for blood.
Not this time.
"You look like someone who's forgotten how to be proud unless someone else is watching."
She didn't lift her head.
Didn't defend herself.
Her hands were clenched in her lap, fingers twisted like she was holding back a scream she didn't want to earn.
Lucien's voice dropped lower. Intimate.
Like this was just for her.
"And right now, you look like someone who'd rather be ruined by me… than left alone by anyone else."
That was it.
That was the final blow.
Her shoulders jerked. Just once.
A broken, breathless twitch of something old and unhealed.
But she still didn't move.
Didn't argue.
Didn't deny.
Because deep down, some part of her agreed.
Some part of her wanted it.
And Lucien—
Lucien saw that part.
And chose not to touch her.
Because restraint, in the hands of a monster, is the cruelest intimacy of all.
—————-
She didn't move.
Didn't sob.
Didn't scream.
The silence had settled too deep for that now—like dust in her lungs, like ash on a tongue that didn't dare speak again.
Lucien watched her, not with hunger, not even with satisfaction.
With possession.
The kind that came after the storm, after the splintering, when there was nothing left to win. Just fragments to arrange. Just loyalty to shape.
He crouched in front of her.
Slow.
Fluid.
Not like a man lowering himself to meet her. Like gravity itself had chosen to lean closer.
Her eyes didn't lift. Not even when his shadow slid over her knees like a second skin. Not even when his hand reached forward and touched her chin—lightly, like testing if the fracture had set.
"Look at me."
It wasn't a command.
It wasn't even sharp.
It was soft.
Worse.
Because she obeyed.
Her face tilted up. Barely. Just enough for their eyes to meet—hers wide and wet and ruined, his dark and still and impossibly calm.
He studied her like he was choosing where to sign his name.
And then—
He brushed his thumb under her eye, where a tear had failed to fall.
"There it is," he said quietly.
She didn't ask what he meant.
Because she knew.
She was showing him the truth now. Not the queen. Not the predator. Not the immortal thing with a name too long and sharp for love.
Just the part of her that wanted to be kept.
Lucien smiled.
Not cruelly.
But with the slow, inevitable warmth of someone who'd always known this was coming.
He moved closer.
His fingers slid to the sides of her face, holding her gently—too gently, like she might vanish if he gripped any harder.
And then?
He kissed her.
Not like a victor.
Not like a lover.
Like a promise.
His mouth pressed to hers with no heat, no rush—just that quiet, terrible finality that came when ownership was no longer in question.
And she—
She let him.
Not because she'd forgotten who she was.
But because, in this moment, being his felt more real than anything else ever had.
When he pulled back, her breath stuttered—caught somewhere between relief and submission.
Lucien tilted his head, watching the tremble in her lip, the quiet way her eyes fluttered like she couldn't quite believe he was still there.
"You don't need to beg," he said, voice barely above a whisper.
"I'm already staying."
And for the first time that night—
she cried uncontrollably.
————
Her breath hitched once.
Then again.
And the third time, it broke.
Not loud. Not shattering.
Just a single sound pulled from somewhere deeper than ribs—
a sound she'd never made before, not even in death.
Lucien didn't look away.
He let her cry.
Quietly. Beautifully. Like ruin was a kind of worship.
Tears welled fast now—too fast for dignity. They trailed down her cheeks with the certainty of old grief, not the violence of panic. She didn't sob. Didn't gasp. Just sat there, knees tucked beneath her, throat tight, fingers twitching like they weren't sure whether to hold him or hide.
Lucien watched each tear as if it owed him something.
And in a way, they did.
He'd earned them.
"I thought," she started—but the word cracked down the middle. She blinked, swallowed, tried again. "I thought I could… keep something of myself."
Lucien tilted his head. Not mockingly. Just enough to let her keep going.
Her voice trembled. "I thought… if I didn't say it, you wouldn't take it."
"What?" he asked softly.
She looked at him now. Truly looked. Eyes red and shimmering and small.
"My heart."
Lucien said nothing.
He didn't have to.
Because the silence answered for him—answered better than words ever could.
And she broke again. Not worse. Just… quieter.
She leaned forward, just slightly. Not to touch him. Not to collapse.
Just to be closer.
Because pain felt warmer when it was near him.
He let her.
Didn't move. Didn't smile. Didn't save.
But one hand rose—slow, deliberate—and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. Not possessively. Not cruelly.
Just gently.
Like he was closing the lid on something he now owned.
And when she leaned into that touch—fragile, silent, real—
Lucien finally whispered:
"Now you understand."
Then he stood.
And she didn't stop him.
Because she knew:
If she followed now, it wouldn't be with pride.
It would be with reverence.
And that…
That was exactly what he wanted.
———-
She didn't rise.
Not right away.
Just sat there—kneeling in the temple dust, hair falling around her like a veil, tears cooling against skin that once thought itself invincible.
Lucien's footsteps moved behind her, soft but certain. She didn't watch him go.
She didn't need to.
Because wherever he was, she'd already followed.
That was the thing no one ever told you about breaking.
It didn't always sound like glass.
Sometimes, it sounded like silence.
Sometimes, it looked like staying still.
Sometimes, it looked like a girl who used to be a god— kneeling for a boy who never promised to catch her.
And Lucien?
Lucien didn't revel in her pain.
He studied it.
Measured it.
Memorized the sound her breath made when it hitched just so—
when the last defense gave out and all that remained was obedience, wrapped in longing.
He leaned against the far wall now, arms folded, head tilted slightly toward her.
Watching. Always watching.
But not approaching.
Because he knew something sacred had just been carved between them.
Not trust.
Not love.
Not even desire.
But dependence.
Real, irreversible dependence.
And that was more permanent than any vow.
She wiped at her face with the back of one hand—too slow, too late to pretend it hadn't happened. Her fingers trembled. Her lashes clumped. Her shoulders no longer squared, only held tension like a habit she couldn't unlearn.
Lucien spoke at last.
Not loudly. Not cruelly.
Just plainly.
"Tomorrow," he said, "you'll wonder if this was weakness."
A pause.
"And I want you to."
Her eyes lifted again. Not in protest—just to see if he meant it.
He did.
He always did.
Because this wasn't about breaking her once.
It was about making sure she never quite put herself back together the same way again.
He pushed off the wall.
Walked toward her.
Slow. Deliberate. The kind of approach that said, you'll feel this before you feel me.
When he stopped in front of her, she looked up automatically—like it wasn't a choice anymore.
Lucien reached down.
Two fingers. Under her chin. Lifting her gaze, not gently.
"Get up," he said softly.
She obeyed.
Not because he forced her to.
But because she didn't want to be beneath him anymore.
Because even shame wanted proximity.
He leaned in, just enough for his breath to stir the fine hairs near her temple.
"Next time you cry," he murmured, "don't do it alone."
She blinked.
And the next tear that fell wasn't grief.
It was permission.
He turned.
Let her stand there behind him, shaking and still.
And then—
he held out a hand.
Not looking back.
Not asking.
Just offering.
Her fingers touched his a moment later. Barely. Slowly.
But they closed.
They closed.
————-
He didn't look at her when she took his hand.
Didn't turn, didn't nod, didn't reward the gesture.
Just let it happen.
Because it had to be hers.
The choice.
The silence.
The weight.
All of it.
Her fingers were still trembling when they wrapped around his. Not from fear—not anymore—but from the ache of being seen too clearly. Like a wound left too long in the cold. Like something cracked trying to pretend it was curved.
Lucien's grip was light. Measured.
Enough to hold her there.
Not enough to make her feel held.
He walked forward—slowly. She followed.
She always did.
Bare feet brushing the stone. Breath quieter now. Not because it was steady.
Because it was obedient.
Her head stayed low. But her gaze tracked the line of his shoulder. His back.
The slight tilt of his neck as he guided her toward the old inner sanctum.
Not for prayer.
Not for rest.
But because the room was smaller.
And there was less space to hide in it.
Lucien stopped at the threshold.
Her hand nearly slipped from his. Not by intention.
Just by instinct.
And that? That was what he'd been waiting for.
He turned his head. Not fully. Just enough for his voice to carry like a secret not meant to be kept.
"Still want to be seen?"
She froze.
Didn't speak.
And Lucien smiled—small, private. Like a boy finding an old scar and pressing on it just to see if it still hurt.
Then he pulled her forward.
Through the doorway.
Into a space too narrow for distance.
Too dim for lies.
And when he let go of her hand—finally—he didn't step back.
He stepped closer.
Let his presence curve around her like heat. Not touching. Not crowding. Just there.
She stood still.
Not in defiance. Not in pride.
But in anticipation.
Lucien's gaze dropped again.
Not to devour.
To document.
The way her shirt clung now—clung like fear, or sweat, or both. The rise and fall of her chest had steadied, but only because she was holding her breath. Holding back.
Still trying, after everything.
Still hoping for the part of him that might reach forward instead of in.
He let the silence breathe between them for a moment.
And then—
"So."
He tilted his head.
"Do you want to be ruined…"
A step closer.
"…or do you want to be claimed?"
The word hung there, bare and sharp.
And she—
She didn't answer.
Not yet.
Because the choice wasn't hers anymore.
Not really.
And they both knew it.
---------------------
The smaller room wasn't a room so much as a hollow. A collapsed chamber, half-filled with broken beams and moonlight, like the temple had tried to bury it and failed.
Lucien led her there without speaking. Without looking back.
She followed.
Of course she did.
Barefoot on fractured stone, his shirt brushing the tops of her thighs like a veil of borrowed dignity. Her breath came shallow. Not from exertion. From expectation. Like her lungs had forgotten how to breathe unless it was in reaction to him.
The moment he crossed the threshold, he stopped.
She did too.
He didn't turn.
Not right away.
Just stood there, shoulders half-lit in the silver-dark, letting the weight of the space press down on both of them.
Then—
"Do you want to be claimed?"
The words fell soft. Barely louder than dust. But they hit like thunder.
She didn't answer.
Not out loud.
But the way she stood—one foot shifting closer, hands twitching at her sides, throat bobbing with a silent swallow—spoke volumes.
Lucien turned.
Slowly.
His eyes found hers, unreadable in the low light. But not distant. Never distant.
"You don't have to speak," he said. "You've already said enough."
He stepped forward.
One slow, deliberate pace.
Then another.
She didn't move.
She couldn't.
Her spine locked in place, but everything else—her breath, her lips, her knees—shivered with anticipation.
Lucien stopped just shy of touching her.
Close enough that her heartbeat stuttered in protest at the distance still between them.
"You think this ends with me forgiving you," he said again, repeating himself not for clarity—but for gravity.
He reached up, fingers ghosting the edge of her jaw.
Not contact.
Not yet.
Just pressure in the air between them.
His voice dropped.
"This doesn't end at all."
And then he leaned in.
Slow.
Inevitable.
His mouth hovered beside her ear, breath threading through her hair.
"If you want to be ruined," he whispered, "then kneel again."
A silence fell like velvet.
She didn't hesitate.
Not this time.
Her knees hit the stone with a soft sound. Her palms braced against the floor. Her head bowed—not out of reverence.
Out of surrender.
And Lucien—Lucien watched her like an artist beholding his masterpiece in the moment it cracked wide open.
He stepped behind her.
Hands still at his sides.
Watching the way she waited.
Not begging.
Not trembling.
Just silent.
Offered.
He reached down.
And this time?
He touched her.
-----------------------------
His hand didn't hover anymore.
It took.
Fingers slid down her spine like a claim being written in heat. No more restraint. No more teasing edges or half-spoken promises. She was his now, and her body knew it before her thoughts could catch up.
She arched—subtle, instinctive.
Not to resist.
To offer more.
Lucien's palm flattened low on her back, pressing just enough to remind her what her position meant. Kneeling, waiting, silenced. Her breath hitched with a sharp sound she tried to swallow—but didn't quite manage.
Good.
Let her feel it.
Let her hear it.
Her thighs shifted wider on the cold stone. A tremor moved through her like something sacred being corrupted on purpose. And still she didn't lift her head. Didn't dare.
His other hand came down next—rougher. He didn't caress. He grabbed—the curve of her hip, the place just above where the hem of his shirt no longer hid anything. She gasped—soft and broken. She wasn't breathing for herself anymore. She was breathing for him.
Lucien leaned over her, chest brushing her back, mouth close to her ear.
"You want to be ruined?" he murmured. "Then stay ruined."
His hand slid lower.
And the temple did nothing to stop it.
The air changed. Heavy with heat, damp with the echo of skin and breath. The stone beneath her slicked with sweat and something more. Moonlight crawled across her thighs like it wanted a better view. Her fingers curled uselessly against the floor, no longer trying to brace—just to feel something that wasn't him.
She whispered his name once—twice—but not like a plea this time.
Like worship.
Lucien grinned against her shoulder.
"I want you to remember this," he said, voice low and raw. "I want every time you walk to remind you who owns that body now."
Her answer was a sound he would have killed to hear again.
And maybe he would.
Later.
When it was done, she didn't move.
Couldn't.
Lucien sat behind her, shirtless now, hands resting on her thighs like he'd always meant them there. Her head lolled slightly to the side, lips parted, eyes half-lidded and dazed. Ruined, exactly as promised.
The shirt she wore—his shirt—was wrinkled, pulled halfway off one shoulder. Bite marks blossomed along her neck, down her collarbone. Her legs trembled faintly, one knee sliding an inch out of place before she steadied herself again on instinct alone.
She wasn't kneeling anymore because she had to.
She was kneeling because she belonged there.
Lucien watched her for a long time.
And when he finally leaned in—pressing a kiss to the spot behind her ear, slow and warm and possessive—he didn't say anything.
He didn't have to.
Her body was already answering for her.
--------
She didn't speak.
Didn't move.
Didn't even blink, for a while.
Her body stayed knelt, sunk into the stone like it had forgotten how to rise. Lucien's shirt hung off her in wrinkled folds, sticking to sweat and bruises and the heat of something sacred turned filthy. Her hair clung to her face, to her shoulders. Damp. Disheveled. Marked.
Her hands trembled faintly on her thighs.
Not from shame.
From shock.
Not pain.
But pleasure.
But that low, vibrating hum of something being changed, molecularly, from the inside out.
Lucien still sat behind her, one knee up, arms draped over it like a monarch watching a conquered city smolder. He hadn't spoken since.
Didn't need to.
The room reeked of him now. Of sweat and salt and that quiet scent of blood she hadn't even realized had been drawn until she felt it drying on the back of her neck.
A drop trickled down her spine.
She didn't flinch.
Lucien watched her shoulders rise and fall—slow, measured, like her breath was trying to relearn itself around what had just happened. Around who she was now.
Not Kiss-shot.
Not a vampire.
Just a girl who'd learned what it meant to belong to someone.
And more terrifying—
Who'd wanted it.
He reached out, eventually.
Ran a single knuckle along the dip of her spine. Just once. Like he was confirming the architecture of something he'd already broken.
She shuddered.
Lucien smiled.
Then leaned forward, lips brushing her ear.
"You're quiet now," he murmured.
Her voice—when it came—was raw.
"I don't know what to say."
He chuckled low. "Then don't. Just stay."
She nodded.
It was the softest thing she'd done all night.
And it was the loudest answer he'd ever heard.
-----------------------------------------------
She stayed.
Not because he asked.
But because there was nowhere else to go.
Not in this temple. Not in her body. Not in the sharp, humming space between one breath and the next.
Lucien shifted behind her, slow and silent, like gravity didn't apply to him. His fingers brushed her shoulder—lightly this time, not to command, but to remind. And even that made her jump.
Not out of fear.
Out of memory.
Her pulse answered before her mouth did.
He watched her head tilt slightly, the stretch of her neck baring the bruised line he'd left like an offering she didn't remember making. She wasn't resisting anymore. Not the silence. Not the ache. Not the way her body still leaned toward him with a hunger it no longer knew how to mask.
Lucien's palm slid up her spine again, slower this time, a study instead of a claim.
"You'll bruise," he said casually.
She swallowed.
"I know."
He let his fingers drift to the back of her neck, thumb pressing gently beneath her ear.
"And you'll feel it tomorrow."
"I know," she whispered.
He smiled.
This—this was what he liked. Not the breaking.
The aftermath.
The shape of someone trying to hold themselves upright with nothing but memory and obedience to balance on.
"You were loud," he murmured.
Her face flushed again. But she didn't deny it.
Didn't apologize.
Lucien leaned closer. His breath ghosted the shell of her ear.
"I liked it."
That made her shiver. Made her thighs tense where she still knelt, bare and slick and aching. The air between them was thick with the scent of it all—sex, blood, submission. It clung to her skin like smoke.
She finally turned her head, just enough to glimpse him from the corner of her eye.
Her voice was barely audible.
"…Are you done with me?"
Lucien blinked once.
Then reached forward.
His hand curled around her throat—not tight, not cruel. Just a gentle clasp. A collar made of flesh and heat and the promise of yes, I could take more if I wanted.
"No," he said.
And her eyes fluttered shut.
Because for the first time—
it wasn't a threat.
It was a promise.