Young Master Lucien’s Bride

Chapter Thirteen

Lila’s POV

The fact that Lucien didn't absolutely lose his mind over the yearbook thing completely threw me off my game. I spent the rest of that night tossing and turning in the massive bed, wrapped in his heavy college jersey, completely unable to sleep because my brain wouldn't shut up.

I had been so certain I had him figured out. He was supposed to be the cold, ruthless, emotionless billionaire who bought my life to use as a corporate prop.

But the guy who just stood there, smiling softly at his own embarrassing middle school photos? That didn't fit the script. Now I was stuck trying to figure out what his actual deal was, and I absolutely hated not knowing.

The next morning, the confusion only got worse.

There was a soft knock at nine, and Maya wheeled in a silver breakfast cart laden with pancakes, fresh fruit, and a tall glass of orange juice. But right next to the plate, stuck directly onto the metal dome cover, was a small, bright pink sticky note.

I picked it up, frowning as I recognized the sharp, bold handwriting. 'Adjusted the house temperature to a comfortable seventy-two degrees. Let Arthur know if you still require the arctic gear. — L.'

I read the words twice, and I actually choked on my first sip of orange juice, coughing violently as the sweet liquid went down the wrong pipe. Maya immediately panicked, rushing forward with a napkin, but I waved her off, my face burning as I stared at the stupid piece of paper.

Seventy-two degrees. He had actually gone and changed the central thermostat just because I complained about the cold for two minutes. It was infuriating how a stupid sticky note could make my chest feel so weirdly tight.

"Is everything alright, madam?" Maya asked nervously, backing away toward the door.

"Fine," I wheezed, wiping my mouth. "Everything is perfectly fine, Maya. You can go."

Once she slipped out, I forced myself to eat, and then I spent the entire afternoon sitting at the desk, doing my online college orientation on the high-tech tablet.

I clicked through modules, read syllabus outlines, and filled out introductory forms, trying my absolute best to focus on my future. But it was a total-lost cause.

Every ten minutes, my brain kept drifting right back to the way he looked in the lounge last night. He had been totally relaxed, his shoulders dropped, his voice rough but surprisingly gentle. He had looked almost... human.

"Stop it, Lila," I muttered to myself, slamming the tablet face-down on the mattress. "He's the enemy. He trapped you here."

To break the weird, suffocating trance I was falling into, I decided I needed to get out of the room and do something physical. I changed into a black sports bra, a loose grey tank top, and a pair of athletic shorts. I remembered seeing a private gym on the lower level during my accidental tour the day before, so I grabbed my sneakers and slipped down the hallway, figuring a solid hour of boxing would clear my head, burn off this restless energy, and remind me that I was supposed to be hating this guy with every fiber of my being.

The mansion's gym was just as ridiculous as the rest of the house. It was massive, lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors, top-of-the-line weight machines, and a full-sized boxing ring right in the center. A heavy leather punching bag hung from a steel beam in the corner, and that became my immediate target.

I didn't even bother with hand wraps. I just shoved my hands into a pair of heavy red gloves I found on the rack, stepped up to the bag, and started swinging.

Bam. Bam. c***k.

I was absolutely destroying the heavy punching bag, throwing every single ounce of my frustration into the leather. I threw left hooks for my dad's desperation. I threw right crosses for Jason's disgusting insults at the restaurant. And I threw heavy, brutal combinations for Lucien Knight and the legal marriage contract that currently bound my life to his. Sweat was pouring down my neck, completely soaking through my tank top, and my breath was coming out in ragged, angry gasps. It felt amazing. It felt like I was finally fighting back against everything that had broken my life apart in the last week.

I dropped my shoulders, bouncing on the balls of my feet, preparing to throw a massive turning kick into the center of the bag, when the heavy glass gym doors suddenly swung open.

I froze mid-stance, turning my head, and my jaw almost hit the polished hardwood floor.

Lucien walked into the room, and for a second, I forgot how to form coherent thoughts. He wasn't wearing his suit. In fact, he was wearing next to nothing. He was just in a pair of low-slung, light grey sweatpants that hung loosely off his hips, his feet bare against the floor, and his hands already tightly wrapped in white athletic tape.

My eyes wide, I completely stared. The man was built like a literal Greek god. His shoulders were incredibly broad, his chest heavily muscled, and his abs looked like they had been chiseled out of solid marble by a classical sculptor. But what caught my attention even more than the ridiculous physique were the faint, faded scars scoring his skin. There was a jagged mark across his left shoulder and a long, thin line running down his ribs. They didn't look like surgical marks; they looked like survival marks. It made him look way more dangerous, way more volatile, than a typical wealthy CEO sitting in a sterile corporate boardroom.

Lucien stopped dead in his tracks when he noticed me standing in the corner. He blinked, clearly not expecting to find his wife tearing up his private gym. His dark eyes darkened further as he took me in, giving me this slow, intense, appreciative sweep from my sneakers all the way up to my sweating face. It was a look that felt like a physical touch, making my skin instantly prickle with heat.

A slow, maddening smirk spread across his handsome face.

"Am I interrupting something, Lila?" Lucien asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that echoed out of the mirrors. He raised his wrapped hands, leaning casually against the ropes of the boxing ring. "You look like you're trying to murder that bag. Do you want a sparring partner, or are you just going to keep staring at my abs all day?"

The spell broke instantly. My cheeks flared with a hot, furious blush as I realized I had been completely caught ogling him like a total schoolgirl. I narrowed my eyes, my anger rushing back to rescue me from the embarrassment.

I scrambled to strap my boxing gloves on tighter, pulling the Velcro strips with my teeth and jerking my wrists until they were secure. I stepped away from the punching bag, marching right toward the center of the room with my chin held high.

"I would love nothing more than an excuse to legally punch you in the face again, Knight," I snapped, stepping up to the edge of the boxing ring and glaring up at him through the ropes. "In fact, I've been practicing."

Lucien didn't get mad. He didn't even look insulted. Instead, he just let out a low, genuine chuckle that vibrated through his chest—a sound that did weird things to my stomach. He grabbed the top rope, vaulting over it with an effortless, athletic grace that was entirely unfair, and stepped into the center of the canvas. He raised his wrapped hands in front of his face, shifting his weight into a perfect, flawless fighter's stance.

"Alright then, sweetheart," Lucien murmured, his dark eyes flashing with that same playful spark from the night before. He motioned with his left hand, tilting his head slightly. "Step inside. Let's see what you've got. Give it your best shot.”