Chapter 38

That night, I dreamed again.

Not of freedom.

Not of luca.

Not of Adrian.

But of fire and silk. Of red and heat and the kind of touch that branded me more than bruises ever could.

I dreamed of Lucien.

Of his breath against my skin. His hands rough but reverent. His mouth a demand I couldn’t refuse.

I dreamed of being bent over the pool table—hips flush to wood, nails clawing green felt, thighs trembling as he filled me, fucked me with precision that made me hate how much I wanted it. Hate how my body bloomed around him, surrendering in ways my mind never would.

I woke with a gasp.

Fingers buried deep in my slick heat. Back arched. Toes curled. The orgasm I’d begged for—the one he refused to give me—ripped through me like a sob, hot and blinding.

And then…

Silence.

Shame.

The soft hiss of air against damp sheets. My cheeks flushed, thighs trembling, breath hitching as the tremors died out.

A damp patch beneath me. A dull ache inside me. My heart, still fluttering like it didn’t know if it had been violated or saved.

But strangely, in that mess of lust and fury, I found something else.

Peace.

My body didn’t throb. My nerves stopped screaming. For the first time in weeks, I slipped back into sleep like a woman unchained but still burdened.

Time slowed.

Each second dragged its feet, unwilling to pass. Days blurred into one another—nothing to mark their passage except the quiet. The waiting. The growing tension.

Lucien didn’t come.

He didn’t seek me out. Didn’t yank me from sleep or pull me into punishments disguised as lessons.

I never saw him return from wherever he went each day, but I always knew when he was home. The house changed. The silence shifted.

And the music started.

Low at first—just a murmur pulsing through the walls—but then louder, wrapping itself around the marble and wood like silk soaked in wine and longing.

French laments, mostly. Rich with violin and piano and despair. Voices laced with hunger and regret. Each night, the melodies grew darker, more violent.

But then, one night… English.

A song poured from the speakers, rough and raw like a heart being carved open.

>>>>>Every second my temper frays, every moment my beast desires.

you think you can win, but you're not consumed by sin

delicate and sweet are no match for hell and ruin

I don’t want you to see the depth of my blackness

for there-in lie demons and nightmares

don’t look in my eyes, the truth is not for you

you should run, you should flee, you should hide away forever

I stood frozen in the hallway, the lyrics sliding over my skin like razors. They bled something inside me I didn’t want to name.

Longing?

Guilt?

No. Don’t.

I wanted to plug my ears, scream at the ceiling, tell him to stop trying to speak to me through songs.

Because if he was trying to tell me something, if that song meant what I thought it did… what then?

Could I mourn a man who still held the leash around my ankle?

Could I feel sorry for the man who had broken me?

No. I had to stay sharp. I had to stay cold.

Be the icicle. The weapon. The girl who couldn’t be melted.

\---

Life settled into a rhythm. One I didn’t ask for, but fell into like a tide.

Lucien remained distant, and that distance became a strange kind of freedom. A freedom I didn’t trust, but needed all the same.

I cleaned. I cooked. I tried not to think.

Celeste was the only warmth in this house. A quiet, curious warmth. She offered smiles and light chatter, slipping between French and English with gentle patience.

She never asked about the bruises. Never asked what her master had done.

But I caught her watching me sometimes. Brow furrowed, lips tight. She was thinking. Planning something.

I didn’t know what scared me more: that she might help me… or that she wouldn’t.

Even Madame Julie tolerated me now. I hovered in the kitchen, peeling vegetables, rolling dough, feeling almost like a person again. Like a girl with a past and future, not just a captive on pause.

Celeste handed me rags and chores and a quiet kind of companionship. It helped. Gave me something to hold onto when the walls closed in.

But nothing—not even her kindness—stopped the sting in my chest every time I thought about Adrian’s bracelet.

Lucien had it.

My heart clenched every time I imagined him smashing it with those cruel hands, watching my face as he destroyed the last piece of Lucien I had left.

He hadn’t replaced the clothes I’d ruined. Maybe it was punishment. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

Celeste mourned the clothes more than I did. She folded them with a sigh, whispering about cost and luxury.

I saw them for what they were: a costume. Something meant to dress me up like a doll. Make me forget I was a prisoner.

On Friday, while scrubbing the lounge windows, I stared longingly at the garden. Birds hopped on the stone path. The world moved out there—free, alive.

The thought hit hard: I hadn’t been outside in weeks.

The sun mocked me. The trees whispered insults.

I thought, briefly, about throwing myself through the glass. Not to die. Just to feel air. To run. To remember the ache of muscles and the rush of wind.

But the vision of bleeding out on polished tile stopped me.

Somewhere in this godforsaken house, there had to be a treadmill. Lucien was a man of control and discipline. He had to train. There had to be a space where he ran from his demons.

Maybe I could run from mine too.

My anklet buzzed, sharp and mean against my ankle.

I yelped, sitting down and lifting my jeans to glare at the ugly black thing. It buzzed randomly sometimes, just to remind me who owned me.

I’d tried to drown it. Held it under the shower for a full hour.

It didn’t even flinch.

Figures. Lucien would never allow a flaw in his cage.

“Heaven?” celeste called, stepping into the room. Her voice was soft, but the word still scraped.

She glanced at her clipboard. “Maître just called. He has a business dinner tonight. Prospective clients.”

I stood slowly, stretching. My ribs didn’t shriek anymore—just whispered. The bruises on my arms had yellowed, fading like old sins.

The slap Lucien gave me hadn’t marked my skin.

Only my mind.

I wished it had left something. A scar. A welt. Proof. Something that would make him see the horror of what he was becoming.

Or maybe he already knew.

Maybe that’s why he stayed away.

Maybe the songs were his apology.

I couldn’t believe that. I wouldn’t.

Celeste was wrong. There was nothing soft about lucien. There was no saving him.

And I wouldn’t be seduced by grief hidden in melodies.

“Want help preparing the meal?” I asked.

Cooking with Celeste had become my only joy. My only tether to something real. I’d never cooked much—Adrian always had. But now? It grounded me.

Memories hit, sudden and sharp. Adrian in the kitchen, laughing as he burned toast. His crooked smile. His stupid jokes and his Italian accent.

I swallowed back the tears.

I couldn’t mourn him. Not yet. Because if I did… I’d have to accept he was gone.

And that?

Wasn’t an option.