Where Enemies watch
1751 Words
Chapter Eight
Where Enemies Watch
For three days, peace pretended to live at Moretti House.
Workers repaired broken walls. New glass replaced shattered windows. Burn marks disappeared beneath fresh paint. Men carried furniture in and ruined pieces out as if violence were just another household inconvenience.
The staff returned to routine.
Breakfast at eight.
Meetings at ten.
Tea at four.
Secrets at all hours.
But Elara had begun to understand something important about Lucien’s world:
Silence did not mean safety.
It meant preparation.
She saw it in the extra guards at the gates. In the new cameras installed along the halls. In the way Matteo checked exits before entering any room. In the fact that Lucien never sat with his back to a door anymore.
And she felt it in him most of all.
He was gentler with her now.
But sharper with everyone else.
⸻
“You’re staring.”
Elara looked up from the breakfast tray she was arranging.
Lucien stood in the kitchen doorway, jacket off, sleeves rolled, looking far too composed for a man who had slept only a few hours.
“I was not.”
“You were.”
“I was observing.”
“That’s a prettier word for it.”
She fought a smile. “You’re very confident this morning.”
“I’m alive this morning.”
He crossed to her and stole a piece of toast from the tray.
“That belongs to Mrs. Voss.”
“Then she should guard it better.”
As if summoned by insult, Mrs. Voss entered immediately.
“Put that back.”
Lucien bit into it while maintaining eye contact.
Mrs. Voss closed her eyes briefly, perhaps in prayer.
Elara laughed.
Lucien’s gaze moved to her at once, softening in that private way he never noticed.
Mrs. Voss noticed.
Everyone noticed.
That was the problem.
⸻
Later that afternoon, Elara found Matteo in the library checking the window latches.
“Do we expect another attack?” she asked.
“We expect everything.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only honest one.”
He tested another lock, then glanced at her.
“You should stay in the main house after dark.”
Lucien had said something similar that morning.
So had Mrs. Voss.
“I’m beginning to feel managed.”
“You are managed.”
She frowned.
Matteo grinned.
“By professionals.”
“Tell your boss I dislike this.”
“I enjoy life too much.”
She hesitated.
“Is he worried?”
Matteo’s expression lost its humor.
“He found names last night.”
“What names?”
“People who helped Adrian.”
Her stomach tightened.
“Inside people?”
“Some.”
“And outside?”
“Worse.”
Before she could ask more, footsteps sounded in the hall.
Lucien entered carrying a folder.
His eyes went first to Matteo.
Then to her.
Then back to Matteo.
“Why are you still here?”
Matteo spread his hands. “Because I enjoy danger.”
“Leave.”
He left immediately.
Elara crossed her arms.
“You dismiss people whenever I’m speaking to them.”
“No. Only men who enjoy irritating me.”
“That seems specific.”
“It is.”
He set the folder on the table.
“You’re dressed.”
“I generally am.”
“We’re going out tonight.”
She blinked.
“Out?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“A charity gala.”
She stared.
“You attend charity galas?”
“I fund them.”
“With legal money?”
He paused.
“With enough money.”
⸻
By evening, Moretti House transformed her.
A stylist sent by Mrs. Voss pinned Elara’s hair into soft waves and dressed her in a midnight blue gown that skimmed her figure like poured silk. Simple. Elegant. Dangerous in a way she had never been.
When she looked in the mirror, she barely knew herself.
A knock sounded.
“Come in.”
Lucien entered—and stopped.
For once in his life, he seemed briefly speechless.
He wore a black tuxedo cut perfectly to his frame. His hair was brushed back, jaw shadowed, cufflinks silver. He looked like power given human shape.
But it was his expression that undid her.
He was staring.
“Well?” she asked nervously.
His voice came lower than usual.
“Everyone there is going to irritate me.”
“Because of the dress?”
“Because they’ll look at you in it.”
Heat climbed her throat.
“That sounds possessive.”
“It is.”
“You promised improvement.”
“I promised effort.”
He crossed the room and adjusted a loose strand of hair near her temple.
Then his fingers lingered against her cheek.
“Stay near me tonight.”
“Order or request?”
“Plea.”
That startled them both.
She smiled softly.
“Then yes.”
⸻
The gala occupied the grand ballroom of the Valmont Hotel downtown.
Crystal lights, polished marble, champagne towers, string quartet music. Politicians, business owners, socialites, and people wealthy enough to mistake indifference for elegance.
When Lucien entered with Elara on his arm, conversations shifted like wind.
People recognized him.
Then noticed her.
Lucien felt it instantly.
Hands shook his. Men smiled too broadly. Women greeted him with practiced warmth.
He accepted it all with cold perfection.
But every few seconds his hand tightened subtly at Elara’s waist, grounding himself.
“You hate this,” she whispered.
“I hate most rooms.”
“Why come?”
“Because power unattended gets borrowed.”
She almost laughed.
A senator approached.
“Mr. Moretti. Wonderful to see you.”
Lucien nodded once.
“And who is this lovely young woman?”
“Elara.”
The senator waited for more.
None came.
He cleared his throat. “Your… assistant?”
Lucien’s gaze cooled.
“She is with me.”
The man retreated at once.
Elara looked up at him.
“You frightened him.”
“I answered him.”
“With menace.”
“That was restraint.”
⸻
For the first hour, the evening passed without incident.
Lucien tolerated speeches.
Elara discovered expensive canapés could still taste disappointing.
They danced once.
Only because a donor insisted couples join the floor.
Lucien placed one hand at her waist, the other around hers, and moved with surprising ease.
“You know how to dance.”
“I know how to survive rooms like this.”
“You’re good at many secret things.”
His eyes darkened slightly.
“Careful.”
She smiled.
“You say that often.”
“You require frequent warning.”
She stepped closer than necessary.
“Maybe I ignore it on purpose.”
His hand tightened at her back.
“Elara.”
Before she could reply, Matteo appeared at the edge of the dance floor with the expression of a man bringing bad weather.
Lucien released her immediately.
“What?”
Matteo spoke low.
“Adrian’s accountant was found dead.”
Lucien’s face changed.
“How?”
“Execution style.”
“Message?”
“One word on the wall.”
“What word?”
Matteo’s jaw tightened.
“Next.”
Elara’s blood ran cold.
Lucien turned to her at once.
“We’re leaving.”
“Lucien—”
“Now.”
No argument. No room for one.
She nodded.
⸻
The ride home was silent except for rain against the windows.
Lucien sat beside her, phone in hand, issuing clipped instructions to unseen people.
“Double the west perimeter.”
“No one enters without my approval.”
“Find who leaked the venue.”
He ended the call and stared out the window.
Elara touched his wrist gently.
“You think someone there told them where we’d be.”
“I know it.”
“Could Adrian still have people close to you?”
“Yes.”
“Then how do you know who to trust?”
“I don’t.”
The answer hurt more than she expected.
He noticed.
“I trust Matteo.”
A pause.
“And you.”
She swallowed.
“That seems unwise.”
“It is.”
He turned his hand beneath hers until their fingers linked.
“But useful.”
⸻
When they arrived home, the mansion felt different again.
Lights on in every wing.
Guards posted indoors.
Mrs. Voss waiting in the foyer like an armed spirit despite carrying only a clipboard.
“You’re early,” she said.
“Cancel tomorrow’s visitors,” Lucien replied.
“I already did.”
He nodded once and led Elara upstairs.
Inside his private sitting room, he poured whiskey and didn’t drink it.
She stood near the fire, watching him.
“You disappear when you’re angry.”
“I become efficient.”
“You become alone.”
His hand stilled on the glass.
“That too.”
She crossed the room.
“You don’t have to do that with me.”
He laughed once without humor.
“You have no idea what men become when they’re hunted.”
“Then tell me.”
He looked at her for a long moment.
“When I was nineteen, they killed my brother because they couldn’t reach my father.”
The room went still.
Elara’s breath caught.
Lucien’s gaze remained on the fire.
“I learned two lessons that day.”
“What were they?”
“Strike first.”
“And the second?”
“Love publicly, bury privately.”
Pain moved through his voice like something old and sharp.
She stepped closer.
“And now?”
“Now I brought you to a gala where enemies could watch me look at you.”
His jaw tightened.
“I made you visible.”
She touched his face gently.
“No,” she whispered. “You stood beside me.”
Something in him nearly broke at that.
He set the glass down untouched.
“You make forgiveness sound easy.”
“It isn’t forgiveness.”
“What is it?”
She rose onto her toes and kissed him softly.
“A choice.”
He pulled her into him with a low exhale, kissing her back like a man starved of mercy.
When they parted, his forehead rested against hers.
“I may not survive you,” he murmured.
She smiled faintly.
“You’ll have to. I’m expensive now.”
A real laugh escaped him.
Outside, guards paced the halls.
Inside, for one stolen hour, war waited.
- Writer
