90

Moore

Lucien’s door was locked.

I stood at the entrance, shifting my weight from one foot to the other, feeling the slight dampness of sweat on my skin. The scent of the food I had been cooking still clung to me, and I frowned, suddenly self-conscious. Should I have taken a shower before coming here? Maybe changed into something more… decent?

I glanced down at my outfit—tiny shorts and a tank top that did absolutely nothing to hide my skin. The idea of facing Lucien like this made my stomach turn. Not because I cared what he thought, I told myself, but because I didn’t want him to think I had dressed this way for him. I would never do that.

Would I?

No. Absolutely not.

Still, the urge to rush back to my room and grab a robe or something less revealing was strong. But I stayed put, pressing my hands together as I tried to steady myself. Whatever reason he had for calling me here, I doubted my outfit would be the focus.

Lucien never needed a reason to be cruel.

I wondered what my offense was this time. Though, really, did it even matter? With or without an actual mistake, I was always the easiest target for whatever anger, hatred, or resentment he carried inside him.

And yet, a small, pathetic part of me had anticipated this moment.

Not because I missed him. God, no. That would be insane. I scoffed at the thought. There was nothing I felt for Lucien beyond sheer, unfiltered hatred.

Right?

I swallowed hard. If there was anything else, anything beyond hatred—it was nothing but a twisted sense of appreciation. Because of him, I had been able to face Grey. And for that, I was grateful.

Or maybe… maybe I didn’t hate him as much as I wanted to believe.

Because I understood.

I understood why he treated me this way. Why he sought revenge. Why he needed to see me suffer. I got it.

But that didn’t mean it hurt any less.

The hallway felt suffocating. My pulse was uneven, and I had no idea whether it was from nerves or irritation.

I was about to snort again when his voice cut through the silence.

“I said inside, Moore. Not stand outside like a clueless chicken.”

I gasped, my body jolting from the suddenness of his voice. When had he even—?

I turned sharply, and there he was, standing just a few steps away, hands buried in his pockets, gaze locked onto me. He had moved so quietly that I hadn’t even noticed his approach.

The air around him was charged, the same cold authority lacing his words as it had in London when he had greeted me first—for the first time—since whatever twisted relationship we had begun.

I hesitated, staring at his face, trying to read him. But, as always, Lucien was unreadable. Just that almost perfect face staring deep into my soul, causing an involuntary shudder from me.

“The door is locked,” I said finally, tilting my head toward it.

He nodded, completely unfazed.

I raised a brow. “Then why ask me to go in when you know your door is locked?” how I became bold at that moment? No idea.

“Is it?” he murmured, taking a step closer.

I stiffened.

There was something off about him tonight. A little softer, maybe. But even then, his voice still carried that sharp edge, making it impossible to gauge what I should be expecting.

I forced myself to shrug. “Yes.”

Another nod. Then, without warning, he took another step.

My breath caught in my throat, but I didn’t move. Don’t move.

Lucien had always been intimidating. No matter how much time passed, I could never quite get used to the weight of his presence.

His eyes flickered with something unreadable before he spoke again. “How about you tell me about your day while we stand here, Moore?”

The way he said my name—it always did something to me. Something I refused to acknowledge. It was possessive, almost tender, even when laced with mockery.

I blinked at him. “Why do you care?”

I regretted the question the second it left my mouth.

His lips curved slightly. Not a full smile—Lucien never smiled at me—but something close to it. A smirk.

He was toying with me.

“Moore…” When he calls me like that, he's warning me.

I swallowed. “What do you want me to tell you?”

“Everything,” he said. “Let’s start with the fact that you had a conversation with him.”

I frowned. “Who?”

Grey? Ethan? Jordan? Who the hell is he talking about?

The only person he would have issues with right now was Ethan. And only if Athena had told him, I bet he wouldn't have known.

His gaze locked onto mine, and my heart stuttered at the intensity.

“You know who. Don’t make me ask again.”

A slow realization settled over me. Oh.

Jordan… the news.

I pressed my lips together, my mind scrambling for a response. I could lie. Pretend I didn’t know what he was talking about. But something about the way he was looking at me made me pause.

There was something in his eyes—something unexpected.

Jealousy.

It made me want to laugh. Or smirk. Or something.

And before I could stop myself, before I could shove the reckless thought back where it belonged, the word slipped from my lips—soft, teasing, and just loud enough for him to hear.

“Jealous?”

The moment the word left me, I knew I had made a mistake.

Lucien’s expression darkened instantly, his smirk vanishing as his jaw clenched.

My breath hitched, and I opened my mouth to take it back—to fix it—but before I could, he moved.

Fast.

Too fast.

His hand shot out, catching my wrist in a firm grip, and in one swift motion, he pushed me back against the door.

I gasped, my back pressing into the solid wood, my pulse hammering in my ears.

He was close now. Too close.

His body barely an inch from mine, his scent—expensive cologne mixed with something undeniably him—flooding my senses.

I swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way my skin tingled where his fingers brushed against me.

Lucien’s gaze bore into mine, his eyes dark and unreadable. His grip on my wrist wasn’t painful, but it was firm, unyielding, like he was daring me to move.

I could feel his breath against my skin. Slow. Measured.

“What did you just say?” He asked glancing at my lips, “Moore?”