Eloise couldn't speak. She couldn't draw a sufficient breath. She couldn't hide the profound, instantaneous fear that lit up bright and wild in her forest-green eyes like a hunted animal cornered by a ruthless, silvery moonlight. Luciano had just touched the core, the deepest, most carefully guarded wound of her entire existence.
Luciano saw all of it. He saw the shift in her posture, the widening of her pupils, the subtle, uncontrollable tremor in her lower lip.
His gaze sharpened further, turning cold and cutting, as if her fear were not an indication of pain, but something he found... exquisite.
"Hm," he murmured, his voice low and almost fond, "You pale so beautifully, Paloma. It makes the green in your eyes all the more striking."
The words slid over her skin like a knife dipped in honey—smooth, sweet, and promising deep incision.
He parted his lips, ready to press deeper—to peel her open with questions she wasn't ready to answer, to tear into the secret she kept locked tighter than any vault—when a sudden, joyous movement broke the dangerous, suffocating tension.
The fox.
Listo, usually so regal and composed, suddenly sprang up on his velvet chair, abandoning the meat broth in his gold dish.
He let out a sharp, breathy whine—a sound of pure, ecstatic recognition—then hopped down onto the polished marble floor.
His tail, that pristine white plume, wagged wildly, a full, frantic blur of canine excitement, as he trotted out of the dining room with surprising speed.
Eloise blinked, the sight of the animal's unfiltered joy shocking her out of her paralysis. That was the first time she'd seen the creature genuinely excited since arriving here. And the fox's joy—pure and uncontaminated by its master's darkness—was enough for her to momentarily tear her eyes away from Luciano's suffocating stare. Enough to breathe again.
A second later, a warm, rolling laugh bounced and echoed in from the hall, displacing the chilled air of the dining room.
"Listo, you traitorous little prince! Did you miss your uncle, or just the expensive salmon treats I smuggled through customs, you little opportunist?"
The genuine affection in the voice made the fox squeal with excitement, a high, soft sound.
Seconds later, the owner of the voice stepped into the dining room, Listo nestled affectionately in his arms like a little baby.
And Eloise froze again.
The resemblance hit immediately—the shared high, elegant bone structure, the innate, self-assured elegance—but where Luciano was all platinum-blonde hair and darker, intense shadows, this man was a softer, brighter echo.
Dirty-blond hair, tousled carelessly like he'd just come off a yacht. His eyes were icy blue, almost winter-sky pale, lacking the intense, glacial gray-blue depth of Luciano's. His lips and nose were less sharply cut, more playfully curved. Crucially, he had an easy, genuine smile that didn't look like it could ever kill.
He wore a cream linen shirt, sleeves rolled high, revealing forearms that were corded, sun-browned, and powerful. A single gold earring glinted casually in one ear.
And Listo nuzzled affectionately under his chin in obvious delight.
Eloise registered the comparison instinctively: the newcomer was handsome, charming, and accessible. Luciano was taller, carved from colder stone, and dangerously handsome, his beauty an outright weapon.
The moment the newcomer saw Luciano, he groaned dramatically.
"Well, fuck me," he announced, his grin sharp as broken glass but lacking malice. "Five days in Barcelona and my brother goes full caveman. Hunts William, check. Brings home a fiancée instead of a corpse, double check." He looked at Luciano, shaking his head in mock astonishment. "You've been busy, cabrón."
Luciano lifted his eyes from Eloise slowly—too slowly for her comfort, lingering on her face until the last possible second—and fixed a flat, completely unimpressed stare on the newcomer.
His voice was flat, containing a suppressed threat. "Don't be dramatic, Andrés."
Andrés opened his mouth—probably to unleash another good-natured barrage—but then his entire expression shifted. He froze mid-step, sensing the sudden, dangerous shift in the atmosphere.
He sensed a presence. The unease. The raw tension crackling like static electricity.
He turned slowly, and his icy-blue eyes met Eloise's, curiosity instantly replacing mockery.
He set Listo down gently. And Listo immediately abandoned him to dart back to Luciano's side, but not before nipping Andrés's fingers in playful, delighted betrayal.
Andrés crossed the room in three lazy, confident strides, ignoring the arctic glare that he knew was boring into his back.
He stopped directly in front of Eloise, his eyes sparkling with unholy mischief and genuine interest.
"Well, well, well," he drawled, his voice like warm honey poured over gravel. "The legend herself. The girl who burned thirty million dollars' worth of real estate and walked away with my brother's sanity instead of a death sentence."
He offered his hand, his touch warm and non-threatening. "Andrés De La Vega. Honorary brother, of your fiancé. Or… cousin, technically. But he throws things when I say that. Also a full-time bad influence." He paused, his smile dazzling. "And you are?"
Eloise swallowed. She felt the heavy heat of Luciano's stare drilling into her skull, analyzing her reaction. It made her reluctant fingers shake—but she still reached out, taking the friendly hand as an immediate lifeline.
"Eloise Winters," she whispered, grateful for the simple, shared human courtesy.
Andrés's smile widened, wicked and genuine. "Beautiful name for the woman who finally made Luciano kneel—metaphorically, of course. He's allergic to kneeling."
He lifted her hand slowly, bowing slightly, obviously intending to kiss the back of it—
But Luciano's voice dropped to a death-cold register, slicing through the air like frozen wire.
"Andrés."
Andrés froze instantly, his mouth hovering an inch from her skin.
That tone could still oceans.
"Touch her with your lips," Luciano continued, his stare burning into Andrés without even looking away from Eloise, "and you'll be eating through a straw for the rest of your life."
Andrés dropped her hand instantly, the playful moment shattered.
He exhaled a soft laugh, straightened, and muttered something in Spanish too rapid and complex for her to catch, something about someone waking up territorial this morning.
Luciano didn't deny it. He didn't need to.
He simply watched Eloise. Watched the way she swallowed. Watched the faint, lingering tremble in her fingers. Watched her try and fail to meet his eyes.
Satisfied—too satisfied—he leaned back in his chair, picking up his coffee cup and taking a slow, proprietary sip.
Andrés dropped into the vacant chair beside her instead, snagging a piece of buttered toast from Luciano's plate with the easy familiarity of a man who had survived far worse threats.
The moment Andrés started eating, Eloise felt a wave of profound relief wash over her. Luciano wasn't going to continue questioning her now—not with company at the table. Not with eyes watching the interaction.
She found her voice, turning to Andrés as if he were the only safe harbor in the storm.
"I noticed there are no maids," she said, her voice still a little shaky. "Just the man who brings Listo's meals."
Andrés nodded, chewing comfortably. "Ah, that. Luciano hates having staff around. Too many people, too much noise—he gets… twitchy." He gestured vaguely with his fork. "They come twice a week, clean like ghosts, vanish. He times them with a stopwatch to ensure maximum efficiency. It's miserable."
Before Eloise could reply—
Luciano didn't look away from Eloise, yet his command was perfectly clear.
"Ian," he called, voice deceptively calm.
Ian appeared with the uncanny, silent speed of someone who lived perpetually on edge in a house full of dangerous men.
"Have the maids move in permanently starting tomorrow," Luciano ordered, his eyes never leaving Eloise's face. "Full staff. My fiancée will need them."
The dining room fell into stunned, echoing silence.
Andrés actually choked on his toast, coughing and pounding his chest, his eyes watering.
"I'm sorry, full staff? In the house? Are you ill? Did someone poison you? Blink twice if you need help," Andrés gasped out, struggling to breathe.
Luciano lifted his coffee cup with the serenity of a man utterly unaffected by the chaos he created.
"Don't be ridiculous, Andrés."
Then—slowly, deliberately—he turned his full gaze back to Eloise. He looked at her like she was the only real, solid thing in the entire room, the only anchor in his world.
His gaze then dropped, focusing intensely on Eloise's throat. The thin, almost invisible gold chain. The tiny, cheap heart pendant she'd worn constantly.
"Now," he said softly, as if their earlier, terrifying moment had never been broken by the interruption. "Where did you get that necklace?"
Her breath hitched, sharp and painful.
The question sliced clean through the air, replacing the easy camaraderie with immediate dread.
"Who," he added, his voice warming into something far more intimate and dangerous than mere coldness, "gave it to you?"
Eloise's heart slammed against her ribs.
Her fingers drifted instinctively to the necklace at her throat—an absent, protective gesture. The tiny heart pendant resting against her collarbone, warm against her skin, was one of the few things she'd kept after leaving home.
Luciano's eyes darkened, his focus intensifying on the movement of her fingers.
"We're not leaving this unfinished, Paloma," he said, the finality of a predator securing his prey.
Andrés, half-chewing on a piece of toast, looked between them in rapt interest, like this was some form of morning entertainment. Even Listo stopped chewing its treat and lifted its head—ears high, silver eyes narrowed, sensing the impending confrontation.
Luciano leaned forward, elbows on the table, his expression unreadable, waiting.
Eloise felt herself paling again—exactly the way he seemed to like.
The air around the table tightened like the moment before a lightning strike.
"Tell me," Luciano whispered, his voice dangerously low. "Who gave you the necklace?"
Her pulse roared. Her hands shook beneath the table. Her throat constricted painfully.
And all at once, in the face of his absolute, unrelenting presence...
She knew she couldn't lie. Not with him watching, not with that dangerous, all-knowing look in his eyes.
The past rose like a vivid, painful ghost behind her.
And when she opened her mouth—
"It was a gift from someone... special," she said, the words steady, but something deep trembled beneath them.
Luciano's icy blue-gray eyes sharpened, tracking every tiny flicker of emotion across her face.
"That's what my father told me," she added, her voice tightening just a little on the final word, the truth rising despite her control.
A breath hitched in her chest before she could stop it. Memories surged—uninvited, vicious. Her father's laugh, warm and rumbling. Her older brother's hand ruffling her hair. The feeling of safety, softness, love. A home that smelled of pine and Sunday morning pancakes. Things that had vanished too young, too violently.
The back of her eyes burned with the threat of tears. She blinked hard, refusing to let even a single one fall under Luciano's gaze. She wouldn't give him that release. She wouldn't give anyone that.
Had they been alive… she thought, the sudden rush of grief staggering.
She wouldn't have suffered beneath her mother's cruelty. The cruelty that stemmed from a grief she was too young to understand.
Had they been alive… that horrible night—the one she never spoke about, the one she never could—would never have happened, and certainly wouldn't have turned her entire life into smoke and ashes.
Had they been alive… she would never have clung to William, mistaking manipulation for love, and his casual lies for comfort. She wouldn't have been betrayed, shattered, and humiliated.
And she certainly wouldn't be sitting here now, in the gilded dining room of a man whose touch could bruise or worship depending on his mood… a man who held her fate in those cold, unreadable eyes.
She shut her eyes for the briefest second, pushing the ghosts back into the dark corners where they belonged.
She straightened her spine. Lifted her chin.
"I've had it since I was a baby," she finished quietly, her voice smooth again—controlled, contained. "It's the only thing I have left of my father and brother."
And she didn't dare look at Luciano as she said it, knowing she had just revealed the true, fragile foundation of her soul.