Elara's POV
Lucian led me away from the hall, his hand firm around my wrist. I wanted to pull back, to remind him that I was just a servant, but my body betrayed me. His touch anchored me in a storm I couldn't name.
The silence between us was suffocating, filled with the echo of Isabella's cruel laughter and the sharp crash of porcelain still ringing in my ears. My chest felt tight with humiliation.
When we reached his study, he closed the door with a decisive click. The room smelled faintly of leather and smoke, dark wood gleaming under the glow of the chandelier.
"Sit," he commanded softly, motioning toward the velvet chair by his desk.
"I don't—"
"Sit, Elara." His tone brooked no refusal.
My legs gave in before my will did, and I lowered myself into the chair. My palms rested in my lap, trembling. He crouched in front of me, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.
He reached for my hands, carefully turning them over. Tiny cuts glistened on my fingers where the broken porcelain had nicked my skin. Shame burned in me—shame for being weak, for causing trouble, for needing him.
"You shouldn't… you shouldn't have defended me like that," I whispered, my voice fragile.
His gaze lifted to mine, and what I saw there terrified me more than Isabella ever could. Possession. Fire. A dangerous promise.
Lucian's POV
Her hands were small in mine, fragile, trembling. The sight of blood on her skin ignited something primal inside me, something dark. Isabella's face flashed in my mind, and I wanted nothing more than to silence her permanently.
But now—now, Elara was here, with me. My focus narrowed to her alone.
"You think I'll stand by while someone humiliates you?" I said, low, dangerous. My thumb brushed her wrist, lingering too long. Her pulse fluttered beneath my touch, quick, delicate—like a bird trapped in a cage.
She shook her head, eyes wide. "I'm just a maid. You don't owe me—"
"Don't," I cut in, sharper than I intended. My jaw clenched. "Don't ever call yourself just anything. You're under my protection. That is enough."
Her lips parted, but no words came. She looked at me as if she wanted to believe, as if she wanted to run, as if she was terrified of both choices.
I reached for a cloth on my desk, dabbing gently at the small cuts on her fingers. She winced, and something inside me broke.
"I should let you go," I murmured, though every part of me resisted the thought. My eyes traced the curve of her face, the softness of her mouth. "But I can't."
Her breath hitched. She whispered my name—hesitant, trembling—"Lucian…"
The sound unraveled me.
I leaned closer, just enough for her to feel the heat of me, to know what I wanted without taking it. Her innocence wrapped chains around my restraint, but my need burned through them.
"You don't understand what you're doing to me," I confessed, my voice rough, almost a growl.
Her eyes searched mine, torn between fear and something else—something that mirrored the fire in my chest.
And in that fragile silence, I knew one thing with certainty: she was already mine.