Chapter Eight: The Game They Play
737 Words
Aria couldn’t sleep.
The warmth of the pool still clung to her skin, but it wasn’t the water that haunted her—it was him.
Lucien.
The ghost of his touch. The fire behind his restraint. The way his mouth had brushed hers, then vanished like smoke.
She’d thought she’d feel in control by now.
She was wrong.
She wrapped herself in a silk robe and padded through the hallways barefoot, drawn to the west wing like a moth to flame. The mansion was dark, silent, except for the sound of a grandfather clock ticking somewhere deep inside its walls.
When she reached the study, the door was open.
Lucien sat inside, reading. A single lamp cast golden light across his face and the open collar of his black shirt. His expression was calm, but his eyes lifted as soon as she entered—watching her like a slow storm.
Neither of them spoke.
Aria walked to the bar, poured herself a finger of scotch. Her hand trembled slightly as she raised the glass to her lips.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” he asked, voice quiet but heavy.
“No.” She glanced at him. “I was too busy thinking about what we’re doing.”
“What are we doing?” he asked.
She hesitated. “Testing limits.”
Lucien closed the book and set it aside. “I don’t test limits. I devour them.”
“You haven’t devoured me,” she said.
“Not yet.”
That word again. Always yet.
He stood and walked to her—measured, silent.
“I don’t take what’s not given freely,” he said. “I made you a promise, Aria. You decide how far this goes.”
“And if I never say yes?”
His eyes locked with hers. “Then I’ll spend the rest of my life wanting what I can’t have.”
Her breath caught.
He was too close now, close enough that she could smell the faint scent of leather and smoke on his skin. Close enough to see the pulse in his neck tick just a little faster.
She set the glass down.
“You want to know what scares me, Lucien?”
He waited.
“It’s not you. It’s not this house. It’s not even the fact that I should hate you.”
“What then?”
“That part of me—wants you.” Her voice cracked. “And I don’t know if it’s real or if it’s just the heat of being caged too long.”
Lucien’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t touch her.
Instead, he leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of her ear as he whispered:
“Then let me show you the difference.”
His hand hovered just above her waist—waiting. Asking.
And this time, she didn’t stop him.
She stepped into him, letting her body press lightly against his chest. Her fingers found the open collar of his shirt, curling into the fabric as his hands slid to her hips, slow and reverent.
Their mouths met—not a hard kiss, but an exploration.
Soft at first.
Testing.
Then deeper. Hotter. A breath shared. A hunger revealed.
She felt herself melt against him as his hand cupped the back of her head, tilting her just right. His other hand slid up her spine, making her gasp softly.
He broke the kiss only to trail his lips down her jaw, her throat, teeth grazing her skin just enough to make her knees weaken.
Aria clung to him.
Not because she was afraid.
Because for the first time in days, she felt something close to real.
And when Lucien lifted her—effortless, powerful—and carried her to the leather chaise near the fire, she didn’t protest.
But as he laid her down, he paused. His eyes searched hers.
“Say the word,” he said. “And I’ll stop.”
Aria stared up at him, breathless, trembling.
Her heart was screaming yes.
But her voice whispered: “Not yet.”
Lucien nodded.
And instead of undressing her, he sat beside her—pulling her into his lap, wrapping a throw around them both. Holding her.
Not conquering.
Waiting.
And Aria, buried in the arms of the man who had stolen her freedom, began to wonder if he hadn’t stolen something else, too.
Her will.
Her fire.
Or maybe… her heart.
- Writer
