The apartment was quiet, too quiet.
Lila lay sprawled on the couch, the dim lamp beside her casting soft amber across her bruised skin.
She hadn't bothered to change out of her bloodied clothes after Matthieu had left and she had the cruel realization that she was afraid. His bandages were still tight, neat against her ribs and thigh, the scent of antiseptic lingering in the air like a reminder of her vulnerability. She hated it. Hated that she needed help at all, hated the sting of flesh reminding her she wasn't untouchable. She never was.
Her hand hovered above her thigh, over where the bullet had grazed, now firmly tied with gauze pulled into a flimsy knot.
It pulsed, not painfully anymore, but enough to irritate her. Enough to remind her she'd been lucky.
And Lila Rousseau despised luck.
The silence pressed in, heavy, broken only by the soft ticking of the clock. Midnight had passed. The city outside whispered—distant cars, muffled laughter from the bar across the street, the rustle of wind in the trees. But within these four walls, she was alone.....
Or so she thought until the faintest scrape of a chair reached her ears. Not the building settling. Not pipes. A shift. A sound. Too deliberate. Like they wanted her to know they were there.
Her eyes snapped open.
She didn't move. Didn't tense. She let her breathing remain slow, measured. If someone thought her asleep, she'd let them think so. Works in her favour anyways.
She reached casually for the pen lying on the coffee table—the one Matthieu had tossed there after scribbling notes for her earlier. It wasn't much of a weapon, but she'd made do with less.
Another shift. This time it was closer.
The shadows bent near her kitchen doorway, and then he was there—lean, sharp, his presence like a cut through silk.
Jace Durant.
He stepped into her living room as if he'd been here before —and that thought felt threatening than any other thing, his dark jacket blending with the night, eyes glinting in the dim light. He carried no weapon in his hand, but his confidence alone was the weapon.
"You're awake," he said softly, his voice curling with amusement.
Lila let her eyes flick toward him, slow, deliberate. "You walk into a woman's apartment uninvited at midnight and that's your opening line?"
"Well, I expected you to be half dead and on your way to hell now. Just said what popped up. "
" I'd not leave this world without dragging y'all son of a bitches with me"
He smirked, the corner of his mouth tilting in that infuriating way. "I expected screaming. Or maybe a gun aimed at my head. Not sarcasm. Refreshing. "
"You're assuming I don't have a gun." She twirled the pen between her fingers, casual, but her gaze stayed locked on his. Firm and unrelenting.
"Cute." He tilted his head, dark hair falling slightly across his brow. "But unless you've started using Bic pens as firearms, I'd say you're improvising in a new dimension tonight."
Her jaw tightened, but she didn't give him the satisfaction of a retort. Instead, she rose slowly from the couch, the movement steady, betraying nothing of the ache in her body. The lamp lit half her face, throwing the other half into shadow. She looked every bit the predator, even wounded.
Jace's eyes flickered, just briefly, to the bandages at her side. He didn't comment, but she caught it. He noticed everything and his expression seemed to harden for a moment.
"You should leave," she said flatly.
"And miss the chance to congratulate you?" His smile sharpened. "Surviving two ambushes in one week. Impressive. Though reckless and not very… professional, for a Rousseau."
Her nostrils flared in annoyance. "You've been watching me."
"Of course." He took a step closer, the sound of his boots soft against the hardwood floor. "You make it hard not to. Setting fires everywhere you go. Blood, whispers, danger. It's like a trail you're daring me to follow."
Lila's grip tightened around the pen. "And like a fool, you followed."
His smile widened. "Maybe I like playing the fool. Feels more thrilling y'know?"
The tension in the room coiled tighter, each word stringing them closer to something dangerous. Lila moved first, striding toward him, her limp slight but her glare fierce. She jabbed the pen toward his chest, stopping just short of touching him.
"You think this is a game? You think breaking into my home is charming?" Her voice cut sharp, low. "Do you have any idea whose apartment you just stepped into? I let you off the other time doesn't mean it's cute when you try again."
Jace didn't flinch. He leaned down slightly, meeting her eyes, his breath brushing her cheek. "Do you have any idea who you're speaking to? And I'm anything but cute."
And then, before she could react, his hand shot out, gripping her wrist, twisting it just enough to make the pen fall from her fingers but not hurting her. It clattered against the floor, useless. In the same motion, he slammed her back against the wall, pinning her there.
The impact made her ribs scream, but she refused to show it, showing weakness was a sign of surrender. Her chin lifted defiantly, her gaze locked on his.
"There," he said, voice low and dangerous. "Now we're speaking the same language."
Lila's lip curled. "You think pinning me to a wall makes you powerful? That it frightens me?"
His grip tightened, not crushing, but unyielding. His face hovered inches from hers, shadow and lamplight cutting across the sharp lines of his jaw. "No. I think it makes you angry. And I wanted to see what your anger looks like this close."
Her heart pounded, not from fear but fury. Fury at being handled. Fury at his audacity. Fury that he wasn't entirely wrong.
"You should pray Matthieu finds you before I tear you apart myself." she hissed.
"Matthieu," he repeated softly, his smile returning like a blade sliding back into its sheath. "Always Matthieu. Loyal dog. Protector. But he's not here now, is he?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Don't mistake his absence for my weakness."
For a moment, they stood locked in that taut silence, predator against predator. His body pressed her against the wall, his hand firm on her wrist, her glare unyielding. Neither gave an in or moved an inch.
Then Jace eased, just slightly, releasing her hand, but not the tension. He stepped back, slow, deliberate, watching her like one might a storm cloud about to break.
"You're hurt," he said at last, his tone shifting into something softer. "You shouldn't even be standing."
Lila pushed off the wall, reclaiming her space with steel in her posture. "And yet, here I am. Still standing. Still breathing. And definitely still not yours to toy with."
He studied her, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. Admiration, maybe. Or calculation. Perhaps both.
"Fine" he murmured. "Not tonight." He bent, picked up the pen from the floor, and placed it back on the table. "But I'll be seeing you, Little Tigress."
The nickname curled off his tongue with deliberate insolence, mocking both her father's and Matthieu's pet name for her.
Her blood burned, but she didn't move. She stood her ground, chin high, gaze cutting like glass.
"Get out," she said, her voice steady, final.
He held her stare a moment longer, then turned, his steps silent as shadows as he slipped back into the dark.
The apartment door never made a sound.
When he was gone, Lila let her shoulders fall, just slightly, the ache in her ribs flaring again. Her hand drifted unconsciously to the bandage beneath her shirt. She exhaled slow, controlled.
And then she whispered to the empty room, to herself more than anyone—
"Qu'est ce qui vient de se passer?. Comment sommes-nous arrivés à ce niveau?"
What the fuck just happened? How did we get here?.
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