The Compound had settled into its afternoon rhythm — boots on concrete, low voices in the halls, the hum of generators beneath the floor. But inside Lucien’s quarters, the world felt still.
Too still.
Lucien stood near the window, staring out at the forest like it held answers he couldn’t reach. His posture was rigid, his jaw tight, his hands braced on the windowsill.
He wasn’t angry.
He wasn’t tense.
He wasn’t calculating.
He was thinking.
And Lucien Blackthorn thinking was always dangerous.
I stepped closer. “Lucien.”
He didn’t turn. “Aria.”
“You’re quiet.”
“I’m trying to be.”
I swallowed. “Why?”
He exhaled — slow, heavy, almost fragile. “Because if I speak before I’m ready, I’ll say something I can’t take back.”
My heart tightened. “Lucien… you can say anything to me.”
He
