Nikolai's eyes gleamed wolf-bright behind the mask, teeth flashing in the grin of a predator cornering its prey.
"And, by the way," he murmured, voice slick and taunting, "you're not wrong about being a dog. Except… not a dog." His lips twisted into a razor-sharp smile. "A wolf. A hungry wolf. And the way you smell right now—" his gaze dragged over Lucien, predatory, like he could taste the air—"makes me want to eat you alive, princess."
Slowly, deliberately, he raised the fingers that had clasped Lucien's wrist. He inhaled, long and drawn out, like he was savoring every trace of scent that clung to his skin.
Lucien recoiled. His voice snapped out raw, laced with disgust. "You! What the hell are you?" He raked a hand through his hair, a bitter, jagged laugh ripping loose. The sight of that lunatic sniffing his own damn fingers made his stomach lurch. "You are insane. A total, glass-housed lunatic. Who the fuck calls someone 'princess' in broad daylight? Did you get dropped on your head as a baby, or did you crawl out of the womb already stuffed full of bad decisions?"
He didn't even know he had the talent for insults like this, but Nikolai—goddamn Nikolai—dragged it out of him. Brought the worst to the surface like poison bubbling up.
Nikolai's grin only curved wider under the mask. He wanted so badly to say, 'Then is it okay if I call you that at night, while I devour you?' The line sat on the tip of his tongue, aching to be loosed. But even he wasn't stupid enough to throw gasoline on a fire already this wild. Not yet. He still wanted that sweet date.
Before Lucien could swing again, Nikolai slipped back—clean as smoke—card secured between his fingers. The ache in his cheek had dulled, and with it, so had the trance Lucien's pheromones had shackled him in. He felt lighter. Sharper. Rejuvenated.
Lucien's arm twitched with the start of another punch, muscles coiled, but he forced it down, grinding his teeth so hard his jaw ached. The suppressant pill had softened his scent somewhat, but the blonde's cloying floral fog clung like a second skin. He hated that he was still stuck under it, breathing it in like poison.
"Since this was supposed to be a date," Nikolai announced breezily, laughter spilling between the words, "I'll treat you instead. Meal, drinks, the whole thing's on me. Eat until you burst." He flashed the card like a prize, sharp grin catching the light. "And as a bonus? I'll even throw in your friends' new contact numbers. Their locations, too. Seems like they're trying real damn hard to hide from you. Hahahaha!"
The bastard really wouldn't stop. Lucien's eyebrow twitched, anger rattling under his ribs. Calling this a date, of all things—this gay, perverted lunatic.
"Don't call this a date," he snapped, chest tight. "I'd rather—" he made a face, spitting the words like ash—"ladder my own spine than go on a date with someone like you."
Still, when he pulled a handkerchief and dabbed at his neck, he didn't notice how his body leaned unconsciously closer, as if dragged along by that clinging scent. He was oblivious to his own betrayal. But not Nikolai. Nikolai saw everything—with a glee that glittered sharp and mean.
Every slur, every jab, every profanity Lucien hurled should have stung. Should have cracked skin, left scars. But Nikolai only savored it, because it meant he had the man's full attention. The content didn't matter—what mattered was Lucien's gaze, locked on him, his voice sharpened against him. No distractions. No one else. Nikolai wanted to be engraved there, in the folds of his mind, even if it was for all the wrong reasons. Especially if it was.
"Oh, come oooooon. You look like you need more than a drink to cool that hot head of yours," Nikolai sang, almost skipping backward, testing. And sure enough—Lucien's legs carried him forward.
"Can you stop slithering like a snake? Walk like a damn human for once," Lucien grumbled, fingers raking through his hair. Irritated, yes, but the edge of volatility had softened.
Ah. His princess really did have such a feisty tongue. But Nikolai ignored the jab, blissfully content that Lucien was trailing him like a duckling.
"Don't you want to know what your so-called amigos are doing? Where they're wasting their time instead of paying you back for that heroic little sacrifice of yours? Where they're hiding while you grind your teeth bloody?" His voice slanted lower, tugging right where it would hook.
Lucien wanted to scream. Tear his own hair out. His words, his insults, all slid uselessly off this man like water off glass. It wasn't just irritating—it was humiliating. As if he were the punchline to some private joke Nikolai kept tucked behind that mask. And worse—his own body betrayed him, tugged forward by the invisible leash of that floral haze.
So when Nikolai stepped away, Lucien's feet betrayed him and followed. He bit down hard, lip splitting, to keep another insult from spilling, because he knew—if he gave this maniac more to work with, he'd be stuck here, snared in his game until the moon came out. Still, curses bled low under his breath, a bitter soundtrack of restraint.
His silver-lavender eyes narrowed. "And exactly how the fuck do you even know this?" His voice was rough, sharp. "You're just some gambler. Who's feeding you? Or are you stringing me along for laughs?" His lip curled. "I swear, Nikolai, if you're trying to fuck with me, next time it won't end with just a punch."
Nikolai tilted his head, card glinting in hand. Truth was, his intel was stitched together from scraps—half-baked reports, vague sightings, enough to sketch a blurry picture of where the rats had scurried. Hardly solid, but enough to bait a hook.
And then, for flourish, he tugged down the mask. The bruise Lucien had planted still glowed red on one cheek—but opposite, a fresh, ugly swelling had blossomed, split lip dark and raw. Something recent. Maybe that same day.
A new wound to add to the collection.
"Take it as an apology for ruining my handsome face, yeah? Why not enjoy some free food and booze on someone else's dime." Nikolai's shoulders tilted toward a narrow side street, chin jerking toward a tiny tteokbokki joint that clearly had his attention.
When the mask came off, the rest of his face was laid bare—split lip, swollen cheek, skin mottled with fresh damage. Lucien's gut twisted despite himself. The idiot wasn't bad-looking—annoyingly enough—but right now he looked like a damn poster boy for Who the Hell Did You Piss Off This Time?
Without thinking, Lucien's hand lifted, fingertips brushing against the tender redness. His brows pinched, expression souring.
"Who else did you piss off, huh? This can't just be from my punch." The words came out low, edged with irritation. "Can't you behave like a normal person for once?" He drew his hand back quickly, as though scorched by his own slip of softness. "You should get a cold patch before that blows up. It'll swell." His tone was clipped, pragmatic—anyone with half a brain would say the same. Just basic logic. Not concern. Definitely not.
Nikolai smirked, lips curling with infuriating ease. "Are you worried about me?"
Lucien's eyes narrowed, jaw locking. Being ignored—again—and brushed off with a smirk only wound the spring tighter in his chest. He huffed, pressing his lips into a thin, angry line. "Who the hell is worried about you? I'm only here because you promised information. Don't forget that." His voice dropped into a mutter as he pulled a step ahead, forcing space between them.
But Nikolai's grin only deepened, eyes alight like a cat playing with string. "You know what? I'm in such a good mood I'll even humor you. I'll tell you why you're smelling and feeling like that." His tone slid between honesty and mischief, each word wrapped in silk. "Of course… backing out is always an option. Cowardly. But still an option. So what's it going to be, my dear princess?"
Lucien's scowl sharpened, brimming with heat. "Princess, my ass. Who the hell do you think's running away? You damn lunatic." Rage snapped through him, sparking his stride into a storm as he barreled down the street.
Lucien's eyes locked on the back of the blond's head, jaw clenched, thoughts snarled into knots he couldn't undo. Ever since that night at the casino, Nikolai—finally, a name to the chaos—hadn't grown any clearer. If anything, he was worse. A walking riddle in a battered body, every piece of him designed to aggravate. And that scent—Christ, that scent—still clung, crawling beneath Lucien's skin, teasing his nerves raw. What the hell even was it? Some kind of drugged-out pheromone trick? A perfume meant to mess with him? Why only him?
The heat in his chest, the restless coil that wouldn't ease, it all churned into a relentless storm with every step toward the restaurant. It wasn't attraction, it wasn't curiosity—it was disorder. A sabotage that lived in his bloodstream, every breath a reminder.