The next morning arrived like a bruise—slow, tender, impossible to ignore. My arm still throbbed under fresh gauze, but the real ache lived lower, between my legs and behind my ribs. Lucien's bed had swallowed me whole after the vigil; he'd fucked the jealousy out of me until my voice cracked on his name and my body gave up fighting. Now the sheets were cold on his side. He was already gone.
I found him in the study, shirt sleeves rolled, coffee steaming beside a stack of files spread across the desk like a deck of bloody cards. The room smelled of ink, leather, and the faint metallic edge of last night's gun oil. He didn't look up when I entered barefoot in borrowed sweatpants.
"Sit," he said.
I dropped into the chair opposite him. The leather creaked under me. My body felt heavy, used, claimed. I liked it too much.
He slid a thick envelope across the desk. No label. Just my name scrawled in his sharp, slanted handwriting.
"Open it."
Inside: bank statements, wire transfers, notarized documents with my parents' forged signatures. Emails between Mara and Victor Hale detailing how to liquidate the life insurance without triggering alerts. A photo of Mara signing the house deed over to herself, timestamped the day after the funeral. Proof. Cold, hard, irrefutable.
My fingers trembled as I flipped through. Each page felt like a fresh cut.
Lucien watched me the entire time. Silent. Patient. Dangerous.
"How long have you had this?" I asked, voice rough from last night's screams.
"Since the second day." He leaned back, fingers steepled. "I wanted you angry. Focused. Hungry."
I laughed once, bitter and short. "Mission accomplished."
He stood, circled the desk, stopped behind my chair. His hands settled on my shoulders—firm, grounding. Thumbs pressed into the tense muscles at the base of my neck.
"You're shaking," he murmured.
"Rage," I said. "Not fear."
"Good." His mouth brushed my ear. "Use it."
He reached over me, tapped a key on the laptop. A video file opened. Grainy security footage from a bank lobby. Mara and Victor at the teller window. She smiled while handing over the withdrawal slip. The amount flashed on screen: $487,000. My parents' emergency fund. Gone in thirty seconds.
I stared until my eyes burned.
Lucien's hand slid down my arm, over the bandage, gentle in a way that made my throat close.
"We start today," he said quietly. "First strike: drain one of her secondary accounts. Small enough she notices but can't trace. Panic her. Make her sloppy."
I nodded. Couldn't speak yet.
He turned my chair until I faced him. Cupped my jaw. Tilted my face up.
"Look at me."
I did. His eyes were storm-dark, but there was something softer at the edges. Something almost human.
"You're not doing this alone anymore," he said. "You bleed for me. I bleed for you. We finish this together."
The words hit harder than any bullet.
I surged up, crashed my mouth against his. Desperate. Grateful. Furious. He kissed back just as hard, hands fisting in my hair, pulling until it hurt in the best way.
When we broke apart, both breathing ragged, he rested his forehead against mine.
"Get dressed," he whispered. "Black. Tactical. We're going hunting."
I stood on unsteady legs. The envelope stayed on the desk like a loaded gun.
As I walked to the bedroom, I felt the necklace pulse—steady, warm, synced to his heartbeat across the room.
For the first time, the leash didn't feel like chains.
It felt like armor.
And I was finally ready to wear it.