Shiver Through Burn

Chapter 14

"Here’s to the champ!"

That brief, hard-earned moment of peace shattered like glass under a hammer when Ridge appeared out of nowhere—grinning like the walking embodiment of chaos. He dropped three bottles of Sunset Rum on the table with a loud thud, as if it were a celebration. Or a warning. Maybe both.

Patina didn’t even flinch. Her eyes locked onto the bottle like it had personally insulted her.

"There’s no way we’re drinking that straight," she said, tone flat, unimpressed.

Ridge immediately dropped into the seat beside me, far too comfortable for someone who had no concept of personal space or social cues. It was like boundaries had never been invented.

"Wow. You guys are weak," he teased, nudging my arm like we were old drinking buddies. "Where’s that energy you had in the ring, huh?"

Patina arched a brow. "We left that in the ring, genius."

"Speak for yourself," Ridge chirped, already twisting the cap off the bottle like it was a soda. "I came here to show some very supportive appreciation for my dearest friend."

"I’m not planning to get drunk tonight," I muttered, eyes still trained on the whiskey I’d barely touched since sitting down. I didn’t even bother looking at him. If I did, I might punch him.

Ridge, ever the agent of chaos, just waved a hand. "But this isn’t just about you," he said with a theatrical sweep of his arm. Then he leaned in closer, his grin wicked. "Because my friend here? He’s willing to drink."

My stomach dropped.

Against every screaming instinct, I looked up.

And there he was.

Lucerio.

Standing just behind Ridge, hands in his pockets like he had every right to be here. He looked…different. He’d taken off his signature glasses and tied his hair back, the layered strands of his mullet now tucked into something neater. His shirt hung slightly open, a few buttons undone, just enough to be noticed.

Gone was the pristine academic golden boy. In his place stood something sharper, more unreadable. Like a threat wrapped in silk.

He didn’t belong here.

But suddenly, he did.

I clutched the glass in my hand, keeping my posture relaxed, my expression blank. He wanted a reaction. He wanted to shake me.

Not tonight.

Ridge, still oblivious to the storm now brewing between me and my worst rival, threw a casual hand between us like he was hosting a game show.

"This is Patina," he said proudly, like he was showing off a rare collector’s item.

Patina raised her glass, unbothered. "Feisty? Careful. I’ll throw this glass at your head."

"She’s joking," Ridge said quickly—then whispered, not very quietly, "She’s not joking."

Lucerio offered a polite nod. "Noted."

"And this one," Ridge continued, gesturing to me, "is Pyra. Don’t let her silence fool you. She can literally kick your ass."

I gave a curt nod without lifting my eyes to meet his. I stared at the reflection of firelight dancing on the rim of my glass, pretending not to notice how his presence was everywhere now.

In the chatter of the bar.

In the tension of my breath.

In the grain of the table wood, which somehow looked smug now, too.

Lucerio had no business being here.

This place was mine. My hidden world. My escape from the suffocating perfection of Soreia Guilermo—the golden daughter, the puppet on strings, the flawless face of a powerful family.

But Lucerio? He crossed a line just by walking in.

This wasn’t his courtroom of classrooms. This wasn’t his academic arena. This was my battlefield—raw, loud, violent. The only place I could truly breathe.

And now he sat across from me, calm and collected like he wasn’t violating the only part of my life I didn’t let anyone touch.

I felt rage pulse in my jaw. I could still taste the blood from the fight earlier, but this? This was fresh. Hot.

Ridge broke the moment with his usual tactlessness. "What’s wrong with your face?"

Patina gave me a side glance, her teasing smirk fading into curiosity. "She’s got that look."

"What look?" Ridge blinked.

"The one that says she’s about to commit a felony."

I didn’t argue. I didn’t need to.

Because I could feel it: every muscle in my body was tight, coiled like a spring. My fists still ached. My silence was louder than any scream.

Lucerio didn’t flinch. He simply poured himself a drink like he belonged here. Like he wasn’t tearing the air apart just by existing in this room.

He looked at me.

And I looked right back.

There were no words. Only the kind of silence that splits atoms. The kind that burns behind your ribs.

His eyes scanned me, searching. Studying. Trying to understand a version of me that didn’t exist on paper or in podiums.

'Good luck.'

"You look like someone just died," Ridge muttered, spinning his drink and completely missing the tension that could’ve sliced his fingers off.

"Maybe someone just doesn’t know their place," I said coolly, my gaze never leaving Lucerio.

He didn’t bite. Just leaned back, perfectly composed, like this was his table.

Ridge clapped his hands once. "Anyway! Since we’ve all awkwardly met and definitely don’t have unresolved emotional drama, who wants to get irresponsibly drunk?!"

"Only if there’s juice in that rum," Patina said dryly. "I’m not trying to meet God tonight."

"Juice?" Ridge gagged. "What are you, five?"

"Says the man who passed out last time," Patina shot back, unimpressed.

"That liquor was demonic. Brewed by Satan’s interns!" Ridge argued.

Patina laughed. "Just admit your alcohol tolerance is as weak as your flirting game."

Ridge dramatically clutched his chest. "I feel personally attacked."

"Then sit down and cry about it, golden retriever," she said, smirking.

Lucerio remained silent through it all. He lifted his glass, took a slow sip, and watched.

Watched me.

Like he was still trying to peel away the layers.

But as I sat there—pretending I wasn’t cataloguing every angle of his face, every breath he took—I realized something far more terrifying than his presence.

I wasn’t sure who was more confused.

Him... or me.

Because here, in this world of neon lights and bruised knuckles, we were both lying to ourselves.

And worse—

We were starting to believe the lie.

Lucerio poured himself a drink—slow, methodical, like the world would wait until he was ready to look up.

Ridge leaned back in his chair, letting it creak under him with a flair that screamed drama. The music throbbed through the club, bass pounding like a second heartbeat. But for a moment, everything else blurred. My eyes locked on Lucerio.

He wasn’t even looking at me.

Good. Maybe I wouldn’t have to do damage control tonight.

Then again, this was Lucerio De Chavel. He didn’t just break tension—he handcrafted it.