Lucien had always had a sharp sense for danger. He wasn't a coward, but he'd been raised a pacifist, and that instinct had stuck. Trouble was a fire he never liked to play with—so he avoided situations, and especially people, that could drag him into the flames.
And Nikolai—every nerve in Lucien's body screamed that he wasn't the kind of mistake you could walk away from.
Because damn it, he didn't want to think about him. Didn't want to replay that grin, those words, or the way the bastard's presence hooked claws into his focus. He wanted this finished. Information, food, done—cut him loose and never see him again. But even as he repeated the thought like a mantra, some grim instinct whispered otherwise. That was a fool's hope. Too naïve. Too easy.
His gaze bored into the back of Nikolai's head, suspicion bubbling under his skin as he picked up his pace and strode ahead. What's your deal? What do you want from me? He couldn't tell if it was simple interest, some twisted game, or something deeper. The wig hadn't been obvious until he'd gotten close—so what else was this bastard hiding?
Nikolai, meanwhile, was still reeling from Lucien's words. Concern.
It was foreign. An entity that had no place in his vocabulary. His upbringing had been one long arm's length—guardians who kept their distance, who offered neither comfort nor warmth. Enemies in every direction. Humans with false empathy, skating by on dry sympathy and ulterior motives. His world had been a barren stretch, dull as the desert, with mounds of sand cascading endlessly while vultures and scavengers circled overhead, waiting for him to falter.
This was why he clung to Lucien.
Lucien wasn't a mirage oasis shimmering out of reach the closer he walked, nor was he another starving parasite hiding behind hollow praise and shallow admiration. No—Lucien was the storm that tore through the desert and gave it its first taste of rainfall. And just like the desert, Nikolai's deprivation, his thirst, made reason impossible when it came to this sharp-tongued kitten.
Had Lucien approached him the way those wretched women his grandfather paraded in front of him did—smiles too polished, voices too sweet—Nikolai would've cut ties without hesitation. But Lucien? A stranger who could care less about him, who treated him with defiance instead of reverence—that was different. That was dangerous. That was a leash Nikolai hadn't even realized was being slipped around his neck.
All it had taken was a spilled drink and a look that burned hotter than fire, and Nikolai was hooked. The added bonus, of course, was the man's scent—so maddeningly enticing it made his teeth ache.
Maybe he was the one who'd been baited, seduced, dragged in without realizing.
But would he ever let Lucien know that? Not a chance in hell.
By the time they reached the restaurant, Lucien spun on his heel, glare sharp enough to cut glass. "Can you walk any slower? Do I need to carry you?" His tone was all bite and impatience—but it wasn't just the blond that grated. His own body still wasn't steady, not fully. And with Nikolai trailing behind like a smirking disaster, Lucien couldn't shake the gnawing thought: maybe, just maybe, he was being played.
"To be carried by you? What an honor." Nikolai's snicker dripped mockery. "Maybe I'm the princess and you're my knight in shining armor." He clutched his chest in false dramatics before flashing another grin as he Lucien giving him death glare and quickly added."Sorry, sweetheart, if I happen to walk slow. Seems your punch made me weak in the knees—weak enough I almost fell for you."
It was a light joke, tossed out like a toy, but the half-confession still needled Lucien. Meanwhile, Nikolai's sluggish pace wasn't laziness at all. It gave him cover to signal to his men lurking nearby, eyes fixed on every twitch of his lips, hands, and posture—reading messages only they could decipher at such a distance.
Lucien bristled instantly, eyes rolling so hard it hurt. "Princess, as if! Who the hell wants to be your knight? You seriously have a talent for shit-talking." His voice was level, forced calm, because he knew if he snapped, Nikolai would only spin him tighter in his games—dangling the information he needed just out of reach. Still, that teasing half-confession stirred his blood. Irritation tangled with disgust until it etched clear across his face. He could practically see himself making good on the threat of kicking those weak knees in for real.
Instead, he turned his focus to the restaurant—warm, cozy, the kind of place he'd once brought his girlfriend to. A date spot. Of all the places, of course this bastard had picked somewhere like this.
The waiter led them to a booth in the back, the privacy request fulfilled without question. Nikolai slid into the plush seat like he owned it, casual, unconcerned, his attention fixed not on Lucien's obvious desperation for answers about Mark and the others, but on treating the whole encounter like a leisurely night out. Patting the seat beside him, he flashed a cheeky grin, teeth sharp in the bruised wreck of his face.
"Wanna sit next to me? Reserved just for you. L-u-c-i."
Even swollen, split, and aching, Nikolai still played the same damn clown, needling, provoking, observing every flicker of Lucien's reaction.
Lucien's eyebrow twitched. He shouldn't have been surprised—this was exactly the kind of idiocy he'd come to expect from the blond. His expression said what his lips didn't: Do you really have to act like this?
And yet, despite his distaste, Lucien forced himself to be civil. This was a restaurant. A restaurant mostly filled with couples. He exhaled hard through his nose, trying not to grind his teeth down to dust.
Then, just as suddenly as he'd put the mask on, Nikolai's expression shifted—the wide grin collapsing into a pressed, thin smile. The change set Lucien on edge. His eyes narrowed. What now?
But rather than ask, he set his phone on the table and dropped into the seat opposite him, shoulders tight.
Nikolai however had caught a whiff of something, the gleam in his sterling gray eyes shifting from a playful glint to a stern, distant–somber reflection. Just as fast it came, his expression returned, shifting back to his whimsical behavior. "Just kidding~ Hurry hurry, sit down and look at the menu unless you want me to order everything on it for you." His own eyes scanned the list of specialty dishes, skimming the prices and ingredients, his hands holding the large menu item in front of him to obscure Lucien's visual of him."So…what's the first question, Lucien Hale." The tone, soft yet frigid and withdrawn–disdained, there was no warmth with every timbre spoken. Even the name held indifference.
After all…Lucien insisted it wasn't a date.
Lucien's lips pressed into a flat line at the irony, brows twitching when that tone slid out of Nikolai's mouth—serious, detached, carrying an edge that prickled the hairs on his nape. What kind of bipolar shit was this now?
"You're insufferable," he muttered, dragging his eyes away at last. He had barely even sat down, and already the bastard was pulling stunts.
He wanted to ignore it. God, he wanted to ignore it. But his body refused him that mercy.
So, without another word, he rose and strode toward a waiter, voice low and deliberate. "Can I get some ice for my friend?"
When he returned, he didn't even hesitate. He slid into the booth beside Nikolai, exhaling a long, tight sigh as he pressed the cold glass against the swelling bruise. His lips pursed in irritation, but his hand stayed steady, firm.
For Nikolai, it was like being blindsided. Lucien leaving had left him assuming the man had gone to relieve himself or maybe bolt altogether. In his brief lapse of mood, he'd busied himself with the menu. But then—weight. The seat dipped beside him, and every sense went on alert, not in alarm but in a rush of surprise and delight.
And then—sharp frost. The sizzling, crisp bite of ice against his raw cheekbone. Nikolai hissed through his teeth at the sting.
"First, let's deal with your swelling. How the hell are you even going to eat like this, huh?" Lucien's voice was flat, all surface annoyance, but the words… the words betrayed more. "And I don't want people staring weirdly. For God's sake, I already heard someone whispering domestic abuse."
Lucien clicked his tongue, sharp and irritated, shaking his head. "Domestic abuse—for fuck's sake." His grip tightened on the glass, as if punishing himself for even bothering in the first place.
A part of Nikolai wanted to pull back, to escape the freezing bite of the ice. The other half wanted to stay, to sink into the numbing relief that dulled the ache in his jaw. He didn't dare look at Lucien, though. He was too close. Too intoxicating. The scent—rainfall spiked with pine—wrapped around him like chains. Too dangerous. Too much.