Shiver Through Burn

Chapter 15

“Tell us something about yourself, Lucerio,” Patina spoke up, her tone light but her gaze razor-sharp. She swirled her drink like she was bored, but I knew her well enough—she never asked without purpose.

Lucerio didn’t flinch. He lifted his glass, tilted it lazily.

“I enjoy... excellence,” he said, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world. His voice was calm, bored almost. Then, without warning, he turned his head—and locked his eyes on me.

A smirk curved the edge of his lips.

“And chaos.”

I stiffened.

"That sounds like Pyra," Ridge quipped, grinning as he took a sip of his drink. Like he hadn’t just dropped a live grenade on the table.

Patina barked a laugh. “Goddamn, you’re right.”

Lucerio’s smirk deepened. It was slow, deliberate—the kind of expression that didn’t ask permission before getting under your skin.

“Exactly,” he said.

My jaw locked. That was enough.

I stood up, slow and cold. “I’m going out for a smoke.”

I didn’t look back. But I felt it. That heavy gaze tracking my every move like he’d already predicted it all.

Because of course he’d follow.

Lucerio De Chavel was incapable of staying where he was supposed to.

The balcony behind the club was dimly lit, shadows hugging the corners. A broken wall light buzzed overhead, and the streets beyond glowed under the warm tint of old sodium lamps. I sat on the concrete ledge, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it with steady hands. Smoke curled in front of my face like a veil.

Footsteps echoed behind me. Steady. Predictable.

I didn’t turn.

“What are you doing here, Lucerio?” I asked flatly, exhaling smoke into the humid Manila night.

He caught the cigarette I flicked at him with annoying ease, lighting it like he’d done it a thousand times. Always cool. Always composed. As if he belonged in every room he entered, even this one.

“Getting drunk,” he replied.

I let out a short, humorless laugh. “You’re not even good at that.”

He leaned on the railing beside me, casual as hell.

“And yet, I’m still here.”

“You don’t belong here,” I muttered, eyes on the city beyond.

“Neither do you.”

That made me pause.

He looked at me, head tilted. “What’s the congressman’s golden girl doing in a place like this? Underground fights, smoke, liquor… broken people.” His voice dropped, taunting. “You slumming it for fun, or are you actually trying to feel something?”

“Mind your own business.”

“But you’re fascinating,” he said quietly, like it was a fact, not a compliment. “So controlled. So perfect. And yet, here you are. Mask off. Looking for something to hit you back.”

I exhaled a puff of smoke and stood, crushing the cigarette beneath my heel. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

He followed. Of course he did.

“I know enough. 18 years, Guilermo."

"Almost 2 decades of watching you ace every test, lead every org, walk around like you’re untouchable.” He stepped closer. “And four years of witnessing your fights.”

I turned toward him, eyes flashing. “You don’t get to talk about that.”

“Why?” he asked, voice low. “Because it ruins your image? Because someone finally sees behind the mask?”

“I said drop it.”

“But you won’t.” His eyes were dark, relentless. “You can’t. That’s why you keep coming back here. Hoping someone hits hard enough to make you feel something real.”

“Stop projecting your emotional repression onto me, De Chavel,” I snapped.

He laughed. “Cute deflection. But let me guess—your father doesn’t know, right? The respectable Guilermo heir trading ballrooms for blood?”

“Keep my family out of your mouth.”

“Fine. Let’s talk about you then.” He took a step closer, his tone colder now. “You act like you’re in control. But I see how your ribs bruise in places no punch ever landed. I see how you limp when no one’s watching. How your eyes mourn every single day.”

I stared at him. He was too close. Too right.

He leaned forward, voice a whisper now. “Don’t play with fire you can’t handle, Guilermo.”

I didn’t flinch. “And you think you can handle me?”

“I’m not here to handle you,” he said, almost reverent.

"I'm here to witness what happens when even the warmth of fire can no longer silence the shiver that comes from the coldness of your own lies."

His voice dropped, almost reverent—like he wasn’t afraid of the flame I’d spent years holding back.

I stepped closer until the space between us was barely a breath. “You think I’ll fall apart just because you’re watching?”

“No.” His lips curved into something sharp. “I think you’ve been begging to.”

I didn’t blink.

"You want someone to see you bleed, Guilermo. Not the version on stage. Not the girl built by applause. You want someone to look past the speeches and medals—to see the one who’s dying to scream but doesn’t."

He tilted his head slightly.

"That’s why you fight barefaced. That’s why you keep coming back here. You’re not running from pain."

His eyes dropped to my lips, then rose to meet mine again.

"You’re chasing it."

I clenched my fist, but my face stayed still. Calm. Controlled.

"Are you that numb," he added with a biting softness, "that you need pain to feel anything at all?"

“Keep talking,” I whispered, voice low. “I dare you.”

He smirked again—that infuriating smirk that made people want to kiss him or punch him or both. “I’ve watched you long enough to know that the only reason you’ve lasted this long is because no one’s dared to touch you where it hurts.”

“And what, you're volunteering?” I asked. “That what this is? Your little fantasy of breaking the untouchable girl?”

“I’m not here to break you,” he said, and for the first time, something like honesty laced his voice. “I’m here to witness it. To see what happens when you finally stop pretending.”

My fists clenched. “You don’t get to psychoanalyze me like you know me.”

“But I do,” he said. “I know that your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. I know you flinch when people touch your left side. I know you’re quieter on rainy days, and I know you look up at buildings like you’re daring yourself to jump.”

My throat tightened—but my face stayed still.

He tilted his head. “You’re not afraid of falling. You’re afraid that when you do… no one will be watching.”

A silence stretched between us—heavy, thick, pulsing with everything unsaid.

Then I took a step back.

“I may tremble,” I said, voice like steel, “but when I burn—people disappear.”

His grin faltered for the first time.

Good.

I turned, started to walk, but his voice chased after me.

“I was there, you know.”

I paused.

His words came slower now. “Your first underground fight. Pasig. You were wearing red. No name, no fanfare. Just fists and fury.”

I turned back, barely.

“You were there?”

He nodded. “And I placed a bet.”

“Let me guess,” I said. “You bet against me.”

“Of course.” He gave a sheepish shrug. “I didn’t think someone like you could survive that ring. I thought it was a phase. A rebellion.”

“And?”

“I lost.” He smiled, adjusting his glasses. “Best loss I ever had.”

Something inside me stilled.

“I knew then,” he said, quieter now. “You weren’t fighting to win. You were fighting to feel. And I knew I had to see what would happen when someone finally pushed you too far.”

“You think that’s going to be you?”

“I think I’ve already started.”

His confidence wrapped around every word like a noose. But I didn’t flinch.

Instead, I stepped forward again, toe to toe, eye to eye.

“You want to see me shatter, De Chavel?” I whispered. “You better pray you're not standing too close when I do.”

His breath caught for a half-second. Just enough.

But then he leaned in, smug returning like armor. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

His hand hovered for a second—just near my jaw, not touching, just close enough to make my nerves scream.

“I’m not trying to expose you, Soreia,” he murmured. “I’m trying to unearth you.”