The first floor of the villa was for show—living room, study, entertainment. The real lives were kept upstairs: the bedrooms, the private corners, the places meant to be hidden. That was where the family actually lived. That was where Liliane slept.
Sebastian had never been up here before.
He didn't need to guess which room was hers.
Three bodyguards were already stationed outside one of the doors—alert, silent, like statues in a mausoleum.
Sebastian knocked once.
Waited.
Then opened the door.
A screen of frosted glass and fresh flowers shielded the small entranceway. Only after stepping around it could one see the full room.
Liliane's bedroom was clean. Tidy. Almost painfully so.
That was Sebastian's first impression.
The curtains were soft, the walls painted in muted tones. Personal belongings were minimal—just enough to hint at the girl who lived there, but never too much. It was a room crafted by a mother, not a daughter. Gentle. Protective. Feminine.
Liliane was curled up on the sofa.
Her skin was pale, the shadows beneath her eyes tinged green.
Still in yesterday's clothes. Still haunted by the night.
She'd drifted into sleep just after dawn. Not peace—just exhaustion.
At the sound of footsteps, she startled awake.
Her breath caught in her throat.
"It's me," Sebastian said.
He sat beside her.
His voice was soft.
"You were scared last night, weren't you?"
Liliane didn't move. She couldn't.
She was too afraid to.
She stared at him.
He had taken off the jacket from the night before. Through the thin, gray shirt, a large patch of dried blood was still visible across his side.
That dark red—
It burned her eyes.
The gun. The men. The sounds. The silence.
She wasn't safe. Not really.
And he knew it.
Sebastian followed her gaze. Then—casually—he touched his waist.
"The doctor said the wound can't get wet," he murmured. "I think I smell... Could you help me?"
His tone was polite.
But Liliane understood: it wasn't a request.
It was the kind of sentence that left no room for refusal.
She stood.
Slow. Mechanical.
Her steps led her to the bathroom.
Could she say no? To a man like that?
The water ran hot.
Liliane poured in a few drops of lavender oil—out of instinct, maybe, or habit. Something soothing.
She wrung out a towel. Set it beside the sink.
Sebastian leaned over.
Because of his height, he had to sit half-sideways to reach the basin.
He said nothing. Neither did she.
The room filled with steam. Quiet and tense.
Liliane turned to leave.
And then—
"Come here," he said.
Her heart skipped.
"Can you wipe me down?"
She froze.
Then turned.
Those eyes.
She remembered them.
The first time they met, even behind her glasses, his gaze had felt like a knife—scraping across her skin, from the inside out. Cold. Calculated. Inescapable.
Now, with nothing between them, it was even worse.
There was no filter. No mask.
Only him.
Only the predator.
She looked away.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for the towel.
She didn't want to do this.
But she didn't stop.
Not because she trusted him.
Because she had no choice.
She started to wipe down his chest—carefully, avoiding the wound. His skin was warm beneath her hand. He didn't flinch. Didn't breathe wrong. He just let her.
Like it meant nothing.
Like her touch was no more than air.
Sebastian didn't speak. He didn't need to.
He could feel the fear in her fingertips.
So he changed the atmosphere.
"What's this?" he asked suddenly, pointing to a small screen embedded in the bathroom wall. "Music?"
He tapped it.
Soft piano notes began to play.
The kind that filled empty space with light.
The air changed.
The silence melted.
"It's beautiful," Sebastian said.
Liliane hesitated. Then answered, barely above a whisper.
"It's Bach."
"I don't understand it," he said. "But I like it."
She said nothing else.
But the tension in her fingers eased—just a little.
The music filled the room.
When she finished, Sebastian looked down at her.
His eyes lingered.
There was something there—something unreadable, shifting just beneath the surface.
Then—
"I haven't introduced myself, have I?" he said.
"My name is Sebastian Blackthorn."
Liliane blinked.
He smiled slightly. It didn't reach his eyes.
"Last night was... an accident."
She tensed again.
But he kept speaking.
"I didn't expect it either. Some stray lunatic stabbed me. Took my wallet. And—unluckily—it had something important inside."
"There was no time to think. I needed a safe place. And then... I saw you."
That wasn't the whole truth.
Not even close.
The meeting last night was meant to be secret. A final exchange with a deep-cover agent. Three years of planning, riding on one transaction.
Then—ambushed.
And the wallet stolen.
Inside: a ledger.
The kind of document that could dismantle everything.
He'd spent the entire night searching for who had leaked it. No answers. No suspects.
Only one conclusion left.
He'd run into a ghost.
And that failure... tasted like shame.
But he didn't show it.
"I'll be busy for the next few days," he said.
"I won't be going far."
A pause.
"But—don't be afraid."
He turned to the mirror.
Adjusted his collar. Brushed back his hair.
From one angle, he still looked like a criminal.
But from another—
He looked like a man who could walk into a boardroom, flash a smile, and sign a deal that broke empires.
Liliane didn't understand half of what he'd said.
But somehow—strangely—it mattered.
That he tried to explain.
That he told her not to be afraid.
There was comfort in it.
Terrifying comfort.
The music continued. The steam curled gently. The scent of lavender lingered in the air.
By the time Sebastian finished cleaning up, Liliane had fallen asleep again—this time in the armchair.
He walked over.
Watched her.
His gaze ran from the part in her hair to the slope of her collarbone... to the rise and fall of her chest. Her waist. Her hips.
Perfect.
He crouched down beside her.
Didn't speak.
Didn't move.
Just... watched.
His fingers brushed her cheek.
Then her lips.
He leaned closer.
Just as he was about to—
Knock knock.
Two gentle taps on the door.
Sebastian froze.
Lysander entered.
He paused at the sight.
His boss. Too close. Too quiet.
And that look in Sebastian's eyes—
It wasn't rage. It wasn't calculation.
It was something worse.
It was tenderness.
It was possession.
Lysander shivered.
"Boss," he said quietly. "Enoch's Left Hand just arrived."
The real world was waiting.
And blood was on the agenda.