Bruises beneath silk
1209 Words
Chapter Three
Bruises Beneath Silk
Morning arrived gray and restless over Moretti House.
Rain tapped against the tall windows. Wind bent the garden roses low. Inside, the mansion moved with its usual order—maids dusting marble rails, guards rotating posts, Mrs. Voss commanding breakfast like a general.
But Elara felt none of the routine.
She felt only the memory of Lucien’s fingers brushing her neck.
She carried linens down the second-floor corridor with burning cheeks and a heart that would not settle. Every sound made her glance up. Every shadow made her wonder if he was near.
It was foolish.
He was her employer. A dangerous man. A man who spoke of betrayal as casually as weather.
And yet…
“Watch where you’re going.”
Elara gasped as a shoulder slammed into hers.
The basket slipped. Towels spilled across the floor.
A maid named Clara stood over her with narrowed eyes. Clara was older, elegant in a sharp-faced way, and had disliked Elara since the day she arrived.
“I’m sorry,” Elara said quickly, kneeling to gather the towels.
“You’re always sorry.”
Clara crouched too, but instead of helping, she gripped Elara’s wrist hard enough to hurt.
“You think being pretty will save you here?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.”
Her nails dug deeper.
“Elara.”
The single word froze the corridor.
Clara released her instantly and stood.
Lucien approached from the far end, dressed in black, coat open, expression unreadable. Two men followed behind him, then wisely stopped several paces back.
He looked first at the towels scattered across the floor.
Then at Elara’s reddening wrist.
Then at Clara.
“What happened?”
“No—nothing, sir,” Elara rushed.
Lucien ignored her.
“I asked her.”
Clara swallowed. “An accident, Mr. Moretti.”
He stepped closer.
Even from where Elara knelt, she could feel the cold force of him.
“You injured something that belongs to me,” he said softly.
The corridor went dead silent.
Elara stared up at him.
Belongs to me?
Clara’s face drained of color. “Sir, I didn’t mean—”
“Mrs. Voss.”
The housekeeper appeared almost instantly, as if summoned by fear itself.
“Yes, sir.”
“Clara is dismissed.”
“Sir, please—” Clara’s voice broke.
Lucien didn’t even look at her.
“Today.”
Mrs. Voss nodded once. “Come with me.”
Clara was led away trembling.
Lucien finally turned to Elara.
“Stand.”
She obeyed shakily.
He took her wrist in one hand. His touch was firm but careful. He examined the marks, jaw tightening slightly.
“It will bruise.”
“I’m fine.”
“I wasn’t asking.”
His thumb brushed the tender skin once, then released her.
“Come with me.”
⸻
He brought her to the west wing.
To his private bathroom.
Elara stopped at the doorway, stunned by polished stone, steam curling from a sunken tub, shelves lined with expensive bottles.
“Sir…”
“Sit.”
She perched nervously on a velvet stool.
Lucien opened a small cabinet and removed ointment.
“You don’t have to do this,” she whispered.
“I know.”
He knelt in front of her.
Elara nearly forgot how to breathe.
This man—this feared, ruthless man—was kneeling at her feet.
He took her wrist again and spread cool ointment over the forming bruises.
His hands were large, scarred, unexpectedly gentle.
“You let people hurt you too easily,” he said.
“She was angry.”
“At what?”
Elara hesitated. “You.”
His eyes lifted to hers.
“Explain.”
“She thinks…” Heat rushed to her cheeks. “She thinks you favor me.”
A dangerous stillness entered the room.
“Do you?”
The question escaped before she could stop it.
Lucien capped the ointment slowly.
Then he rose to full height.
When he spoke, his voice was low.
“If I favored you, Elara, everyone in this house would know.”
Her pulse fluttered wildly.
He stepped closer.
“And if I wanted you…” His gaze dropped to her mouth. “You would know that too.”
The room turned too warm.
Elara stood too quickly, nearly stumbling.
“I should return to work.”
“You should.”
But neither moved.
For one suspended second, it seemed he might touch her again.
Instead, he stepped aside.
She fled.
⸻
That evening, the mansion prepared for guests.
Men in tailored suits arrived one by one. Expensive cars lined the drive. The air sharpened with tension.
Elara helped serve drinks under Mrs. Voss’s watchful eye.
“Eyes down,” the housekeeper murmured. “Tonight matters.”
She didn’t need telling.
Every guard carried visible weapons. Every smile in the ballroom looked false.
Lucien entered last.
Conversation died.
He wore a black suit cut to perfection, silver cufflinks glinting beneath the chandeliers. He moved through the room like a king among men pretending to be kings.
Then his gaze found Elara carrying a tray.
And held.
Only for a second.
But long enough to make her hands shake.
A guest noticed.
He was older, broad-faced, with slicked hair and hungry eyes.
He intercepted her near the staircase.
“You’re new.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Pretty little thing.” He lifted a hand toward her cheek.
Another hand caught his wrist midair.
Lucien.
He had crossed the room without her seeing.
The guest forced a laugh. “Moretti, I was only greeting your staff.”
Lucien’s grip tightened until the man winced.
“You touched what is mine twice tonight,” he said quietly. “There won’t be a third.”
The room had gone silent again.
Lucien released him with a shove.
The guest staggered back, humiliated.
Elara’s breath trembled.
Lucien turned to her.
“Go upstairs.”
“Sir—”
“Now.”
She obeyed.
⸻
From the landing above, she heard raised voices below. Men arguing. Chairs scraping. Then sudden silence.
Later, long after the guests left, a knock came at her door.
Her heart leapt.
She opened it.
Lucien stood there alone.
No jacket. Tie loosened. A faint cut marked one cheekbone.
She stared. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s bleeding.”
He looked past her into the room.
“May I come in?”
The question shocked her more than the blood.
She stepped aside.
He entered, filling the tiny room with danger and expensive cologne.
Elara closed the door softly.
Neither spoke.
Then she reached for a cloth.
Lucien caught her wrist before she could move.
“You should be afraid of me,” he said.
“Maybe I am.”
“No.” His thumb traced the inside of her pulse. “You’re not.”
She looked up.
They stood impossibly close.
Then, very gently, she touched the cut on his cheek.
Lucien went still.
“It needs cleaning,” she whispered.
His eyes darkened.
“Elara…”
But she had already seen it.
For the first time since she arrived—
The monster was trembling too.
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