The penthouse felt colder after the docks. Not the temperature—Lucien kept the thermostat at a steady seventy-two like clockwork—but the silence. It pressed against my ears like cotton wool soaked in blood. My arm throbbed under fresh bandages, a dull reminder that I'd stepped between a man and a shotgun for someone who still called me puppy like it was both insult and endearment.
Lucien hadn't said much on the ride home. Just kept his hand wrapped around mine, thumb stroking over my knuckles in slow, absent circles until the dried blood flaked off and stained his skin too. When we stepped through the foyer doors, he released me like the contact suddenly burned.
"Shower," he ordered, voice flat. "Then come to my room."
I obeyed because arguing felt pointless tonight. Hot water stung the graze, turning the water pink for a few seconds before it ran clear. I stood under the spray until my fingertips pruned, trying to wash away the smell of gunpowder and the echo of that shotgun blast. It didn't work. The memory clung like smoke.
When I emerged, towel around my waist, the bedroom lights were already dimmed to a soft amber glow. Lucien's door stood ajar across the hall. Music drifted out—something low and instrumental, strings and distant piano, the kind of soundtrack that made every heartbeat feel louder.
I crossed the hallway barefoot. The carpet swallowed my steps.
He was inside, shirt unbuttoned to the navel, sleeves rolled, leaning against the headboard with a glass of whiskey dangling from his fingers. The bed was huge, black sheets rumpled like he'd already tried to sleep and given up. A woman sat on the edge of the mattress—blonde, red dress clinging to every curve, legs crossed at the knee. She looked up when I appeared in the doorway, smiled slow and knowing.
Lucien didn't acknowledge me at first. Just took a sip, eyes on her.
"Out," he said quietly.
The woman blinked. "But—"
"Now."
She stood without another word, smoothed her dress, and walked past me. Her perfume brushed my nose—sweet, expensive, nothing like the cedar-and-gun-oil scent that lived on Lucien's skin now. The door clicked shut behind her.
Silence returned, thicker this time.
Lucien set the glass on the nightstand. "Close it."
I pushed the door until the latch caught. The hallway light disappeared. Only the bedside lamp remained, painting half his face in gold, the other half in shadow.
"Come here."
I crossed the room on legs that felt borrowed. Stopped at the foot of the bed.
He studied me for a long moment—eyes tracing the bandage on my arm, the damp hair clinging to my neck, the towel knotted low on my hips.
"You almost died tonight," he said. No anger. Just fact.
"So did you."
He exhaled through his nose. "That's not the point."
I swallowed. "What is?"
He swung his legs off the bed, stood, closed the distance in two steps. His hand came up, fingers brushing the chain at my throat. The pendant was warm from my skin.
"You don't get to decide when I bleed," he murmured. "That's my choice. Not yours."
My throat tightened. "I couldn't just watch."
"I know." His thumb pressed against my pulse. "That's why you're standing here instead of bleeding out on concrete."
He stepped back, sat on the edge of the mattress again, thighs spread. "Kneel."
I dropped to my knees between his legs without hesitation. The carpet was soft under my shins. His hand cupped my jaw, tilting my face up.
"You're going to stand outside that door tonight," he said softly. "Every time I fuck someone else. Every time I let someone else touch what's mine. You're going to listen. You're going to wait. And you're going to remember who owns you."
My stomach twisted—jealousy, shame, heat all crashing together until I couldn't separate them.
"Why?" The word came out raw.
"Because I want you to feel it." His thumb traced my bottom lip. "Because the only way you'll understand how much I want you is if you learn what it feels like to be replaced. Even for a night."
I closed my eyes. "You're cruel."
"I'm honest." He leaned down, brushed his mouth over mine—soft, almost gentle. "And you're going to thank me for it later."
He stood, walked me backward until my back hit the door. Turned me around. Pressed my palms flat against the wood.
"Stay," he whispered against my ear. "Don't move. Don't touch yourself. Don't make a sound unless I tell you to."
Then he stepped away.
The door closed behind me with a soft click.
I stood there in the hallway, forehead resting against cool wood, towel still clinging to my hips, heart slamming so hard the necklace vibrated with every beat.
Inside, the music swelled.
A low laugh—female, breathy.
The rustle of fabric.
A zipper.
A soft moan.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Tried to block it out. Couldn't.
Every sound was amplified by the silence around me—the creak of the bed, the hitch in her breathing, the low growl Lucien made when something pleased him. I knew that growl. I'd heard it against my own skin less than twenty-four hours ago.
My cock hardened painfully against the towel. I didn't touch it. I didn't dare.
Minutes stretched into forever.
A sharp cry—hers.
His name on her lips.
Then silence again.
The door opened behind me.
Lucien stood there, shirt gone, chest glistening with sweat, hair mussed. His eyes were dark, pupils blown, but his expression was calm. Controlled.
He didn't speak. Just reached out, took my wrist, and pulled me inside.
The woman was gone—slipped out the side door while I stood vigil.
The bed was wrecked. Sheets twisted. Pillows on the floor.
Lucien backed me against the wall, caged me with his arms.
"Did you listen?" he asked quietly.
"Yes."
"Did it hurt?"
My voice cracked. "Yes."
He kissed me then—slow, deep, claiming every inch of my mouth like he was erasing the last hour. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine.
"Good," he whispered. "Now you know."
I trembled against him. "Know what?"
"That no one else gets to keep me." His hand slid down, palmed me through the towel. I bucked into the touch. "Only you."
He kissed me again, harder this time.
And for the first time that night, I believed him.
The jealousy still burned.
But underneath it—god, underneath it—something fiercer took root.
Possession.
Mine as much as his.
And when he finally pushed me onto the ruined sheets, when he stripped the towel away and covered my body with his, when he fucked into me slow and deep and whispered my name like a prayer against my throat—
I knew I'd stand outside that door a thousand more times if it meant ending up right here.
Bleeding.
Burning.
Belonging.