Playing with Fire
935 Words
The silence in the kitchen wasn't empty. It was heavy, charged with the crackle of the fireplace and the unspoken threat hanging in the air.
Lucian set a bowl in front of Elara. It was simple—a hearty beef stew, rich and dark, smelling of red wine and herbs. But the way he placed it, with a deliberate gentleness that belied his size, made her breath catch.
"Eat," he ordered, leaning back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. The movement pulled the gray knit sweater tight across his biceps, emphasizing the sheer power radiating off him.
Elara took a hesitant spoonful. The warmth spread through her chest, chasing away the last of the chill from the snow. "You cook," she murmured, surprised.
"I live alone," Lucian replied, his voice a low rumble. "In the mountains. Survival skills include more than just hunting."
"Hunting?" Elara glanced up, her spoon pausing halfway to her mouth. "Is that what you do up here? When you're not... hitting people on the ice?"
A corner of Lucian's mouth twitched. It wasn't quite a smile, but it softened the harsh lines of his face. "Something like that."
He watched her eat with an intensity that made her skin prickle. It wasn't polite dinner conversation. It felt like he was memorizing the movement of her throat as she swallowed, the way her tongue darted out to catch a drop of broth on her lip.
"Stop staring," Elara whispered, setting the spoon down. Her pulse fluttered in her throat. "It's unnerving."
"I can't," Lucian said simply. He pushed off the counter and took a step closer, invading her space again. He smelled of woodsmoke and rain. "You are in my house, wearing my name, eating my food. Do you have any idea what that does to a man like me?"
Elara’s breath hitched. She should be scared. She was alone with a stranger who admitted to violence. But all she felt was a strange, magnetic pull.
"A man like you?" she challenged, tilting her chin up. "A hockey player with a temper?"
Lucian’s laugh was dark, humorless. He braced his hands on the island on either side of her, trapping her on the stool. His face came down close to hers, his amber eyes burning.
"If only it were that simple, petite."
He reached out, a large, calloused thumb brushing her cheekbone. His touch was scorching. Elara gasped, her eyes fluttering shut.
"You have a question," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. "Ask it."
Elara opened her eyes, meeting his intense gaze. "Why are you really here, Lucian? Alone. In a blizzard. On Christmas."
His hand stilled on her face. For a moment, she saw something raw in his expression—loneliness, exhaustion, a deep, primal hunger.
"Because I break things," he whispered, leaning in until their lips were a breath apart. "And I came here to make sure I didn't break anyone else."
His gaze dropped to her mouth. The air between them crackled. Elara’s heart hammered against her ribs so hard she thought it might bruise. She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to bridge that tiny gap and consume her.
But just as his head dipped lower, a loud CRACK echoed through the chalet.
The lights flickered and died.
Total darkness plunged the room into shadow, illuminated only by the dying embers of the fire.
Elara yelped, instinctively grabbing Lucian’s forearms. They were rock hard, the muscles jumping under her touch.
"The generator," Lucian growled, pulling away from her abruptly. The loss of his heat was instant and cold. "The storm must have damaged the line."
He moved through the dark with unnatural ease, his footsteps silent. "Stay here," he commanded from the shadows. "Don't move."
"Lucian?" Elara called out, panic rising in her chest. "I can't see anything."
"I can," his voice came back from the darkness, calm and terrifyingly assured. "I see everything."
A moment later, a match flared. Lucian’s face was illuminated in the sudden burst of light, the shadows dancing across his sharp features. His eyes seemed to glow, reflecting the flame with an eerie, animalistic shine.
He lit a lantern on the table, the soft yellow light casting long shadows across the room.
"We have no power," he said, turning to face her. "No heat. And the temperature is dropping."
He walked back to her, the lantern swinging in his hand. The playful tension was gone, replaced by something primal. Survival.
"We need to share body heat tonight," he stated, his voice devoid of suggestion but thick with implication. "The guest room fireplace is blocked. The only working hearth is in my room."
Elara stared at him. "You want me to sleep in your bed?"
Lucian’s jaw tightened. He set the lantern down on the island with a heavy thunk.
"I want a lot of things, Elara," he said, his voice rough. "But right now, I want you alive. And that means you are sleeping with me."
He held out his hand, palm up. A challenge. An offer.
"Unless you'd rather freeze?"
Elara looked at his hand—large, scarred, capable of violence but offering warmth. Then she looked at the dark, freezing chalet around them.
She took his hand.
Lucian’s fingers closed around hers, engulfing them. He didn't pull her. He just held on, as if anchoring her to him.
"Come," he said, leading her toward the stairs. "Before the cold sets in."
As they walked into the darkness of the hallway, Elara realized two things:
She was terrified.
She had never felt more alive.
- Writer
