When Promises Die

Chapter 3

Looking back, I liked him from our short encounter. Even though I barely knew what he was like, my naive heart decided to flutter. Maybe it was his smile? His teasing? Or his way with words? Back then, he was a ball of sunshine, always surrounded by people.

Even when I decided to distance myself from him, our paths couldn't help but cross. And even though I knew my heart shouldn't hope, my eyes couldn't help but steal glances at him. How his serious face appeared when he played basketball, or how he showed a sly side playing pranks with his friends—all I could do was watch him. I watched, hoping this feeling would disappear, hoping I could no longer care.

But it didnt. And I don't know what changed him in the years we were apart.

His eyes and smile lost their shine, replaced by a cold, dangerous aura. Just as he said, he was closer to a demon than a human, given how our situation was playing out.

His breath, warm against my ear, closed the gap between us, as the cold steel of the gun pressed against my throat, a stark contrast to the warmth of his hand that gripped my shoulder.

After Selene left, hours passed, and he came. The men guarding outside probably notified him that his sister had visited me and that I had refused the meals they provided.

I had simply told him that it was none of his business if I died starving. Now, here he was, pointing a gun at my throat.

"You know," Lucian whispered, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, "You keep getting on my nerves."

I gulped at the sudden pressure he put on the gun against my throat. The temperature of the room seemed to drop, as my frantic heart pounded, fearing how our situation would turn out.

"I won't say a thing, so can you just let me go?" I pleaded, tears forming in my eyes.

He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. "I did not bring you here just for what you saw. I could have ended you then, but I chose not to..." His grip tightened.

"Perhaps it was your gaze that stopped me, or how you called my name?"

He shifted slightly, and I could feel the gun's barrel tracing the line of my jaw. "Or maybe it's your existence that haunts me since the moment I saw you..." His voice dropped to a near-whisper, "I simply want to know who you are to me." His words rang in the air, a chilling echo in the otherwise silent room.

I lowered my gaze and chuckled humorlessly. "I'm probably just a worthless piece of your memory," I said without a hint of fear. I looked at him intensely and smiled sadly. "Because if I were an important piece, you'd remember me by now, or you'd never have forgotten me," I hinted with remorse and disappointment.

I knew it was selfish of me to say that. I hadn't even asked him how he lost his memory or what had happened to him all these years. But for once, I just wanted to focus on my pain. All these years, I was haunted by how we ended, and knowing he forgot about me, while I was still tormented by our past, I just couldn't accept that fact. I had reached my limit of understanding. Now, I needed to be understood, or else I would shatter.

It was the first time I saw his eyes waver. He loosened his grip, and that was my cue to quickly get away from him.

I was kneeling on the floor, trying to catch my breath, when I felt him gently scoop me up and place me on the bed.

I looked at him, confused, but I couldn't seem to read his thoughts. He went outside for a moment and returned, bringing me dinner. I wanted to refuse, but my stomach was already growling, and my mouth was watering at the food in front of me.

I ate without a word, and he sat at the edge of the bed, silently watching me until I finished. The silence was thick, heavy with unspoken questions and unresolved emotions. I felt a strange sense of vulnerability under his intense gaze, a feeling that both unnerved and intrigued me.

Once I finished eating, I looked at him. "Lucian," I began, my voice soft but firm, "I need something to do. This room... it's suffocating."

He raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "What do you propose?"

"A sketchbook," I said, "or some paper and pencils. Anything to pass the time."

He paused, considering my request. "Why?" he asked, his voice laced with suspicion.

"To ease the boredom," I replied, meeting his gaze. "To keep my mind occupied. To create."

He studied me for a moment, as if trying to decipher my true intentions. Then, with a curt nod, he spoke. "I'll arrange it for you tomorrow," he said, his voice flat and dismissive, and I just softly smiled and nodded obediently.

Later, one of his men came in and brought him a chair and his laptop. He sat across from the bed and began working on his laptop. I quietly observed his subtle movements and expressions. The rhythmic tapping of his keyboard filled the room, very different from the silence that had previously enveloped us.

The air was thick with unspoken words, with the weight of our shared past and the uncertainty of our present. I found myself drawn to his focus, to the way his brow furrowed in concentration. It was a strange comparison, this man of power and danger, sitting calmly at his laptop, while I, his captive, watched from the bed.

The hours wore on, and the silence, pressed only by his typing, lulled me into a state of drowsy awareness. Exhaustion, both mental and physical, began to take its toll, and my eyelids grew heavy. But before I lost consciousness, I heard his phone ringing, mentioning a familiar name, one I knew quite well from the past. The name of the woman he first loved and the same woman who broke him.

Polaris.