Lucien tilted his head back and gave a low, humorless chuckle that echoed through the quiet of the room. His voice was sharp but tinged with something broken.
He said, each syllable laced with bitter amusement, "how long has it been since I heard something like this?"
The way his tone rolled off his tongue—mocking, pained, and yet almost tender—sent a ripple straight through Caroline's chest. Her grip only tightened on him, stubborn and desperate, as though she were terrified that if she let go, he'd dissolve into mist right before her eyes.
Lucien's fingers, elegant and languid, found her hands. He brushed his thumb over her knuckles, slow and deliberate, the way one might trace the edge of a blade. His touch was deceptively gentle, but Caroline knew better—behind that softness was a man capable of cruelty, a man who toyed with hearts like pieces on a chessboard.
And yet she stayed.
"Lucien…" she whispered, unsure if she was begging him or herself.
