Chapter Three: Crack In Glass
912 Words
I made a mistake.
Not during the interview. Not even during the review meeting afterward with Dr. Meyers or the ethics board, who all patted my
shoulder and called me brave for even attempting a one-on-one with Lucien Thorne.
No—the mistake came after.
When I walked into my apartment, locked the door, dropped my bag, and realized my first thought was: I wonder if he’s thinking about me right now.
The idea felt like a pressure point between my thighs. I hated that. Hated how easily his voice had made its home in the back of my mind.
He spoke like sin remembered. Like silk soaked in blood.
And worse: I wanted more.
Back at the facility, the cameras had caught nothing unusual in our last session, just the expected levels of predatory eye contact, power projection, and surface-level flirtation. But the woman reviewing the footage—Riley, our newest tech—had raised an eyebrow while watching a slow-motion segment of Lucien standing behind me.
“You weren’t scared?” she asked.
I shook my head. “No. He doesn’t scare me.”
“Then he’s already winning,” she muttered.
I returned to his chamber the next day, earlier than scheduled. My badge still worked. No one questioned me anymore. That should’ve been a red flag.
Lucien was seated in the far corner, barefoot today, shirtless under his restraint vest. His chains looked almost ornamental, draped like jewelry. His eyes opened the moment I entered.
“Couldn’t stay away,” he said.
“I have a job to do.”
He rose slowly. “You wore perfume today, Sienna.”
I froze.
It was true. I never did. It had been automatic—something light, something soft. But the fact he noticed made something low inside me twist.
“Habit,” I lied.
He stepped forward until the chains groaned with resistance, stopping inches short of me. “No. You wanted me to smell you.”
I flushed. “Is this how you manipulate all your handlers? Psychological projection, s****l tension, psychic hooks?”
Lucien smiled lazily. “No, Doctor. You’re special. You’re not just tempted. You’re curious. You want to know what it feels like to give in.” He tilted his head. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
I opened my mouth—and couldn’t find the words.
Instead, I turned to the monitor and pressed record. “Let’s begin.”
“What was the name of the woman with the red ribbon?” I asked.
Lucien’s smile vanished.
“Why?” he asked. “So you can compare yourself to her?”
My throat tightened. “No. I want to understand what made her survive longer than the others.”
Lucien looked at me for a long time. Then, quietly: “Her name was Evangeline. She liked being hurt. She called it devotion. I called it worship.”
“You fed from her?”
“Daily.”
“Did she love you?”
“She thought she did.” He leaned forward. “But it wasn’t love. It was obsession. And once she gave me everything, there was nothing left of her. That’s what always breaks them.”
“And you?” I asked, voice low. “What do you give?”
Lucien paused. “I give them what they’ve been taught to fear. And then… I teach them not to fear it anymore.”
A full-body shiver ran through me.
Halfway through the session, his voice softened. “You’re tired,” he said. “Come here.”
“I’m fine.”
He nodded toward the chaise in the corner of his chamber—part of the modified comfort unit designed for low-threat days. “Sit. Rest.”
Something about his tone made it feel like a suggestion wrapped in velvet. My body obeyed before my mind could argue.
I sat.
Lucien remained standing, towering above me. I looked up and he looked down, and the space between us thrummed with things unspoken.
“You don’t realize it yet,” he said. “But your energy… it feeds me more than blood ever could.”
I swallowed. “You can’t feed on humans in this facility.”
Lucien’s lips curled. “Not physically.”
Later, I stayed behind after our time was up. I told the guards I was compiling extended data.
The truth?
I sat in the dark, watching the playback footage.
Rewatching the moment he looked at me like I was already his.
Replaying the sound of his voice when he said my name.
When I got home, I did something reckless.
I searched his name.
Not the sanitized version we were fed. The dark web forums, the hidden archives, the censored case files.
I found stories. Whispered warnings.
One said his original name was “Lucien of Thorne Hall,” a warlord-turned-vampire who once ruled a territory with bondage and blood rites.
Another said he was the lover of a vampire queen—and that he killed her slowly, over years, using only silk.
None of them sounded fake.
All of them sounded like the man I met.
But the worst part?
I kept reading.
I woke up at 3 a.m. in a cold sweat, panting, a dream still echoing behind my eyes.
Lucien. Kneeling. Arms behind my back. Eyes glowing, but gentle.
“Say it,” he whispered.
I didn’t remember what I said in return.
Only the feeling of surrender.
- Writer
