CHAPTER FOURTY-ONE

"WOULD YOU LIKE COFFEE OR TEA?" I ASK, CASTING A QUICK LOOK AT Lucifer WHILE MOVING AROUND the compact kitchen tucked into the corner of my studio.

He’s lounging at the small table by the wall, clad only in a pair of jeans—the only thing he bothered to put on after his shower.

His tanned, sculpted torso holds my gaze, and my fingers tremble slightly as I reach for a cup. With his hair cropped shorter, his cheekbones appear even more defined, his features sharper than before.

I frown, studying him closer. He looks leaner than I remember, as if he’s lost some weight.

Lucifer ignores my scrutiny, reclining in the flimsy IKEA chair with an effortless ease, stretching his long legs. His bare feet rest on the floor, exuding a quiet, masculine strength.

"Coffee would be perfect," he replies in a smooth, unhurried tone, his gaze heavy-lidded as he watches me.

He reminds me of a panther, calm and calculated, patiently observing its prey.

I swallow hard, setting the cup on the counter before reaching for the coffeemaker. Unlike him, I’m bundled up in jeans, thick socks, and a fleece sweater. Staying fully dressed gives me a sense of security, a feeling of control.

The entire situation feels unreal. If not for the lingering soreness between my thighs, I might have convinced myself that I was imagining this.

But no—my captor, the man who once consumed my entire world, is sitting here in my tiny apartment, effortlessly commanding the space with his overwhelming presence.

Once the coffee is ready, I pour us both a cup and slide into the chair across from him. I feel unsteady, as if balancing on a tightrope.

One moment, I want to cry out in relief that he’s alive. The next, I want to strangle him for putting me through this torment.

And beneath it all, I know that neither reaction fits the circumstances. Rationally, I should be trying to flee, calling the police.

Yet Lucifer doesn’t seem remotely concerned about that possibility. He’s just as composed and at ease in my studio as he had been on his island.

Lifting his cup, he takes a slow sip, then meets my gaze with a mesmerizing half-smile curving his perfect lips.

I wrap my hands around my cup, savoring the warmth against my palms. "How did you survive the explosion?" I ask softly, locking eyes with him.

His lips twist slightly. "I almost didn’t. When they realized they were losing, one of those suicidal bastards detonated a bomb.

Two of my men and I were near the ladder leading to the basement, and at the last second, we dove into the opening.

A section of the floor gave way, collapsing on top of me. It knocked me unconscious and killed one of the men with me. Fortunately, the other—Lucas—survived and stayed conscious.

He managed to drag both of us into the drainpipe, and since there was just enough fresh air seeping in from outside, we didn’t suffocate from the smoke."

I take a shaky breath. The drainpipe… It was the one place I hadn’t checked that terrible day when I spent hours searching through the smoldering wreckage.

I had been too numb, too shattered to even think of looking there for survivors.

"By the time Lucas got us to a hospital, I was in rough shape," Lucifer continues, watching me. "I had a fractured skull and multiple broken bones.

The doctors placed me in a medically induced coma to control the brain swelling, and I didn’t wake up until a few weeks ago."

Lifting a hand, he brushes his fingers over his short hair, and suddenly, I understand the reason behind his new haircut. They must have shaved his head at the hospital.

My hand trembles as I raise my cup to my lips. He had nearly died after all—not that it makes his disappearance these past weeks any less unforgivable.

"Why didn’t you reach out to me then? Why didn’t you let me know you were alive?" How could he allow my suffering to drag on even a second longer than necessary?

He tilts his head slightly, his voice turning dangerously smooth. "And then what?" he murmurs.

"What would you have done, my pet? Rushed to my bedside in Thailand? Or would you have tipped off your friends at the FBI so they could come for me while I was weak and defenseless?"

I inhale sharply. "I wouldn’t have told them—"

"No?" He gives me a sardonic look. "You think I don’t know you spoke to them? That they now have my name and picture?"

"I only talked to them because I thought you were dead!" I spring to my feet, nearly knocking over my coffee. My anger erupts all at once. Furious, I grip the table’s edge and glare at him. "I never betrayed you, even though I should have—"

He rises, unfolding his tall, muscular frame with effortless grace. "Yes, you probably should have," he murmurs, his gaze darkening as we stare at each other across the table.

"You should've turned me in at that clinic in the Philippines and run as far and as fast as you could, my pet."

I run my tongue over my dry lips. "Would that have made a difference?"

"No. I would’ve found you anywhere."

A mix of fear and excitement twists in my stomach. He’s not bluffing. I see it in his expression—he would have come for me, and nothing would’ve stopped him.

"Who are you?" I whisper, staring at him in disbelief. "Why wasn’t there a single record of you in any government database? If you’re such a major arms dealer, why has the FBI never heard of you?"

He holds my gaze, his striking blue eyes sharp against his tanned face. "Because I have powerful connections, Ella,"

he says quietly. "And because, through my dealings, I sometimes come across information that the U.S. government considers valuable—intelligence concerning national security and public safety."

My mouth falls open. "You’re a spy?"

"No." He chuckles. "Not in the traditional sense. I’m not on anyone’s payroll. It’s more of a trade. I give the government useful intel, and in return, they erase my existence. Only a handful of the highest-ranking CIA officials even know I exist."

He pauses, then adds softly, "Or at least, that was the case before the FBI got to you, my pet. Now things are more complicated, and I’ll have to call in quite a few favors to make this problem disappear."

"I see," I say evenly, though my mind is spinning. The man who once kidnapped me is somehow working with my government. It’s almost too much to process.

Lucifer smirks, clearly amused by my confusion. "Don’t overthink it, my pet," he advises, his eyes gleaming. "Just because I help stop the occasional terrorist attack doesn’t mean I’m one of the good guys."

"No," I agree. "It doesn’t."

Turning away, I walk over to the small window and stare outside. The sun is beginning to rise, casting a soft glow over the thin layer of snow on the ground.

The first snowfall of the season—it must have come down overnight.

I don’t hear him move, but suddenly, he’s behind me, his strong arms wrapping around me, pulling me against his body. His clean, masculine scent fills my senses, and a small part of the tension inside me eases.

Lucifer is alive.

"So what happens now?" I ask, still gazing at the snow. "Are you taking me back to the island?"

For a moment, he doesn’t respond. Then, finally, he says, "No. I can’t. Not without Daphne there."

There’s a tightness in his voice, and I realize he misses her just as much as I do.

I turn in his arms, pressing my hands against his chest as I look up at him. "I’m glad those bastards are dead." The words leave my lips in a low, furious whisper. "I’m glad you killed them all."

"Yes," he murmurs, and in the hard glitter of his eyes, I see my own pain and rage reflected.

"The men who hurt her are gone, and I’m making sure their entire organization is wiped off the map. By the time I’m done, Al-Quadar will be nothing more than a forgotten file in government archives."

I meet his gaze without flinching. "Good."

I want them all erased. I want Lucifer to hunt them down and make them suffer as Daphne did.

In this moment, we understand each other completely. He’s a killer, and that’s exactly what I need him to be. Not a kind, moral man, but a monster who will avenge Daphne’s death without mercy.

A faint smile tugs at the corners of his lips. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead before stepping away and heading toward the bed, where the rest of his clothes are laid out.

I frown as I watch him pull on a long-sleeved T-shirt, followed by socks and sturdy boots. The sight stirs an uneasy feeling in my chest, like an icy grip tightening around my heart. "Are you leaving?" I ask, my voice laced with apprehension.

"No," he answers smoothly, shrugging on his leather jacket before making his way to my closet. "We are leaving." Without hesitation, he opens the door and pulls out my winter coat and warm boots, tossing them in my direction.

Catching the coat on instinct, I slip it on, my mind racing. "Are you kidnapping me again?" I ask as I tug on the boots.

He meets my gaze with a look that sends a shiver down my spine. "I don’t know," he murmurs, stepping closer. His fingers brush against my cheek as he cups my face, his thumb gliding over my lower lip. "Am I?"

I don’t know either. But for the first time in months, I feel something—something real. The rush of emotions floods through me, sharp and vivid. Fear. Anticipation. Adrenaline.

Love.

Not the gentle, comforting love I once imagined, but something darker. Twisted, obsessive. A force that consumes and controls. The world may judge me for this choice, but I need Lucifer as much as he needs me.

"What if I don’t want to go with you?" The question leaves my lips before I can stop it, though deep down, I already know the answer.

His lips curve into a knowing smile. Lowering his hand, he reaches into his jacket pocket and retrieves a small syringe, holding it up for me to see.

"I see," I say evenly. He came prepared for every possibility.

He tucks the syringe back into his pocket and extends his hand toward me. I hesitate briefly, then slip my hand into his large palm.

His fingers tighten around mine, firm yet reassuring, and for a fleeting moment, his eyes seem impossibly blue—almost glowing with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine.

We walk out together, our hands intertwined like any ordinary couple. He leads me toward a waiting car—a sleek black vehicle with thick, tinted windows. The glass appears heavier than usual, likely reinforced, possibly bulletproof.

Without a word, he opens the door for me, his expectant gaze never wavering. I climb inside without hesitation.

As the car glides forward, he pulls me against him, his arm wrapping securely around me. I turn into his warmth, pressing my face into the crook of his neck, breathing in his familiar scent—the only thing that has ever felt constant.

For the first time in months, I feel like I belong. I feel like I’m home.