Lines That Shouldn’t Be Crossed
790 Words
Tris didn’t sleep.
Not after seeing the girl.
That stupid, tiny, wide-eyed prisoner with trembling hands and soft cheeks. The type of girl men protected without thinking. The type of girl Lucien might pity if she played her cards right.
And pity was dangerous.
Pity turned to softness.
Softness turned to attention.
Tris hated attention that wasn’t hers.
By 3 a.m., the entire compound was quiet. Only the hallway lights buzzed. Lucien’s men were scattered across floors, running intel, checking cameras, preparing for retaliation from Santi. Klark was holed up in the monitoring room rewinding footage for the tenth time.
Tris didn’t care about any of them.
She cared about the door at the end of the hall.
Lucien’s door.
She knew his moods better than anyone — better than he liked.
And right now?
He was on edge. Raw. Wound tight.
Perfect.
She walked in without knocking.
Lucien stood near the window, shirt off, gun on the desk, muscles tense, jaw locked. He didn’t turn. Didn’t acknowledge her. Just kept staring at the city like he wanted to set it on fire.
“Rough night?” Tris asked, voice soft in a way she only used for him.
He ignored her.
Even better.
She closed the door and locked it gently, letting the click echo.
“You’re pushing yourself too hard,” Tris whispered, stepping toward him. “You haven’t slept since the explosion.”
Still no reaction.
He wasn’t cold.
He was exhausted.
And exhaustion made him dangerous.
She moved closer, slow and deliberate, heels clicking softly on the marble floor.
“She’s just a girl, Lucien,” she said. “She doesn’t matter. Not to you.”
That made him stiffen — not because he cared, but because he hated being reminded of the mission, the loss, the revenge.
Tris smirked.
She slid her fingers across his back — warm skin, hard muscle, familiar territory. “You need to calm down,” she murmured. “You need to breathe.”
Lucien finally turned.
Sharp eyes.
No softness.
No interest.
Just frustration coiled up in a man who refused to show weakness.
“Tris,” he warned.
“Oh, come on.” She stepped into his chest, lifting her chin. “You think I don’t know you by now? You think I haven’t seen you like this before? You’re wound up. You’re angry. You want something to take the edge off.”
He didn’t push her away.
He also didn’t touch her.
Tris saw the opening.
She slid one hand around his neck, pulling him slightly down. “Let me take care of you,” she whispered, lips grazing his jaw.
His eyes darkened — not in desire, but in irritation.
Still, he didn’t move.
Tris smiled.
She stepped back, hands slipping down her dress straps, letting them fall slow, deliberate, teasing. The fabric dropped to the floor, pooling at her feet. She walked backward toward the bed, bare skin glowing under the dim light.
Lucien exhaled sharply — the first real crack in his armor all night.
Good.
She sat on his bed, leaned back, hair falling over her shoulder, one brow raised.
“You coming… or should I come get you?” she asked.
A beat of silence.
Then Lucien moved.
Not gentle.
Not tender.
Not loving.
Just raw frustration, bottled anger, a man who needed to shut off his brain for five minutes.
He crossed the room fast, hands gripping her waist, mouth crushing against hers in a kiss that tasted like fire and exhaustion. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t pretend, didn’t play.
Tris moaned — loud, triumphant — dragging him down onto the mattress.
The room filled with heavy breathing, low sounds, fabric shifting, the dull thud of a headboard hitting the wall.
Fade.
Black.
Silence.
When it was over, Lucien sat at the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, back tense again. Tris curled behind him with a satisfied smile, fingertips trailing his spine.
She thought she won.
She thought she broke through.
She thought this meant something.
Lucien stood.
No goodbye.
No kiss.
No glance.
He buttoned his shirt, holstered his gun, and headed for the door.
“Lucien?” she asked, frowning. “Where are you going?”
“Work,” he said simply, opening the door.
Tris sat up, sheet falling from her chest. “Did you even… think about me?”
Lucien didn’t turn around.
“It wasn’t about you,” he said.
And he left.
The door shut.
Tris’s smile slowly crumbled.
Her nails dug into the sheet.
If she wasn’t careful, Amara ---
That trembling little actress downstairs — would destroy everything she’d been trying to build for years.
And Tris wasn’t losing without a fight.
- Writer
