The folder was heavier than I expected, not in weight but in the way it pressed against my chest. Every document, every photograph, every note inside carried the kind of intimacy that made my stomach twist. My whole life, spread out like some open book - my grades, my jobs, my social media, my foster care history, even old hospital records.
I stared at it, unable to move, unable to breathe properly.
"Why… why do you have all this?" I whispered, my fingers trembling.
Lucien Blackwood didn't sit. He leaned against the windowsill, his arms crossed, watching me like a storm waiting to break.
"Because I need to know what I'm protecting," he said. His voice was low, calm - but it carried the weight of authority that made me flinch.
"You're not protecting me," I shot back. "You're controlling me!"
He didn't respond immediately. He just tilted his head, eyes narrowing.
"Control isn't protection, you think?" His words were quiet, but sharp. "Try running. You'll see how quickly your life falls apart without someone watching over you."
I swallowed hard. My pulse raced, mind flaring with panic and frustration.
"Running isn't the point!" I said. "I can take care of myself!"
Lucien stepped closer. The faint scent of cologne - wood, spice, and something dark - hit me like a wall. I wanted to step back, but my body refused. He was too close to me. Too commanding. Too… impossible to ignore.
"You've already seen," he said softly, "that threats exist you can't even name. That's why I'm here."
I clenched my fists. "Then tell me! Don't... don't just stand there like some untouchable god and remind me I'm weak!"
His eyes darkened. For a moment, something unspoken passed between us - a mixture of warning, frustration, and something I just couldn't name.
"You're not weak," he said finally. "But if you think you can handle this alone, you're already dead wrong."
The words landed harder than any threat. I felt my stomach knot, my chest tighten, and my pulse spike. I wanted to argue, to deny, to scream - but part of me knew he was right.
I hated that I knew it.
I opened the folder anyway, forcing myself to face it. Photographs of me from school, candid shots I didn't know existed, lined on the first page. Then came letters from social workers, evaluations, reports on my grades and jobs. Each piece was clinical, precise, and unflinching.
Lucien didn't move. He didn't speak. Just watched me absorb my life in someone else's words.
"This…" I whispered. "…this is too much."
"You need to understand what's at stake," he said. "Not just for you, but for everyone who touches your life."
A photograph slipped from my fingers, landing face up. It was my mother, younger, smiling faintly. I hadn't seen her like that in years. My throat tightened.
"She's… she's gone because of people like you," I said, voice shaking. "Why are you even involved?"
Lucien's jaw tightened. His gaze flicked to the photo, and I caught something I hadn't seen before: guilt.
"I'm involved because someone had to be," he said quietly. "Because if I hadn't been, you wouldn't even be sitting here right now."
I wanted to scream. Wanted to demand he explain everything. But the words caught in my throat.
"You saved me?" I whispered.
He didn't answer. Not with words. Instead, he leaned against the wall again, eyes tracing me as if measuring the distance between defiance and submission.
"Why does it feel like you're saying that to hurt me?" I finally asked.
He shrugged faintly, almost imperceptibly. "I'm not saying anything. You're the one realizing it."
I could feel my anger rising, sharp and bitter, but also… something else. Something I wasn't ready to admit.
"What am I supposed to do with this?" I asked, gesturing at the folder.
"Keep it," he said. "Learn from it. Understand that knowledge alone won't save you."
I looked up at him, and our eyes met - holding, clashing, burning. The distance between us felt both electric and impossible.
"I don't need protection," I said, almost bitterly. "I need answers."
Lucien's gaze softened. Or maybe it hardened - I couldn't tell. "Answers come with consequences. Protection… is the only thing keeping those consequences from hitting you first."
I wanted to argue. I wanted to run. I wanted to leave this house, this life, this prison made of marble and shadows he made me live in.
But I didn't.
Because deep down, I knew he was right.
And that terrified me.
He stepped closer, closer than he had before, and I could feel the heat radiating off him. Not touching, not threatening, but present - so overwhelmingly present that my body betrayed me with a shiver I couldn't hide.
"I'm going to be honest," he said quietly, almost a whisper. "You're not ready for the world out there. You think you are, but you're not. And I… I won't let anything happen to you."
My chest tightened. My pulse hammered. Part of me wanted to retreat, the other part wanted to reach out. I hated the tension, the magnetic pull between us, the silent war of emotions that neither of us would admit.
"Then why are you so close?" I whispered, more to myself than to him.
His eyes held mine, unwavering, unflinching, unbroken.
"Because it matters," he said softly. "Every step you take, every breath you draw - it matters."
I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. I wanted to rip the folder into pieces and throw it out the window.
But before I could do anything, his phone buzzed.
Lucien's eyes darkened as he read the screen. His jaw clenched.
"Problem," he said quietly.
"What kind of problem?" I asked, though I immediately regretted it.
He didn't answer. Instead, he pressed a finger to the folder, to me, to the space between us—and for the first time, it felt like everything was on the line.
"Get ready," he said, his voice low, deadly calm. "Because whatever's coming… is bigger than both of us."
I froze.
Before I could ask what he meant, the lights flickered - and for a single heartbeat, the house felt less like a fortress, and more like a trap.
And then a shadow moved across the doorway behind me.
I spun around -
and froze. Someone was standing there. Watching. Waiting.
The click of a heel echoed down the marble hallway.
And the moment ended with Lucien's hand on my shoulder, firm, protective - and utterly terrifying.
"You shouldn't have seen that," he said.
I didn't ask why. I didn't need to.
Because I knew - whatever it was, whatever had just walked in - nothing in this house, nothing in my life, would ever be safe again.