Burning Hearts

Chapter Six

The door opened soundlessly, like always. As effortlessly as if it led to a hotel suite, not a prison room.

Lucian Thornewell stepped in. In his hand, a black tray—on it, a covered porcelain plate, a bottle of mineral water, a glass, a small dish with sliced bread, butter, and an apple. Nothing fancy, but fresh. Warm. And... human.

As he shut the door behind him, his gaze immediately drifted to the table. The gun was still there. Exactly where he had left it.

Untouched. That was an answer, too.

Andromeda was sitting on the edge of the bed, arms crossed over her chest. Her hair clung damp to her shoulders, her face still pale—but her eyes... her eyes were no longer afraid. Not even desperate. They were furious.

Lucian walked to the table and placed the tray down. He nudged the gun aside with one finger, like it was just a pencil.

“You didn’t even touch it,” he noted, without looking at her. Andromeda didn’t answer.

Finally, Lucian turned to her and sat down in the chair across the small table. The whole situation felt almost... calm. Two people sitting at a table. One of them hungry. The other armed.

“Interesting,” Lucian continued, twisting the cap off the water. “Most people would’ve at least looked at it. Tried it. Taken it. Waited for someone to look away.”

Andromeda slowly raised an eyebrow.

“What for? There wouldn’t have been any bullets in it, right?”

Lucian’s lips twitched.

“So, you’re smart. I had a feeling.”

Silence. That same oppressive, electric kind.

Lucian leaned back. He looked at the tray, then at her again.

“This is an offer. A simple deal. If you tell the truth—everything you know about your brother, his money, the debt, where he is, his plans—then the tray is yours. Water. Food. A soft bed. Understanding.” A pause. “If not... you don’t get it. Not now. Not later.”

Andromeda didn’t move. Her stomach growled painfully, as if trying to speak for her, but she resisted. Then, quietly, she let out a dry, bitter laugh. Real.

“Seriously? You really think you can blackmail me with food?”

Lucian’s gaze hardened.

“This isn’t blackmail. It’s a choice.”

“Bullshit.” Andy stood up abruptly, the chair screeching behind her. “This isn’t a choice. It’s a power play... and I’m so f*****g sick of everyone thinking that starving and dehydrating someone will make them talk.”

Lucian’s face didn’t change a shade.

“It works on most.”

“Then you’ve dealt with a lot of idiots.”

The air in the room seemed to grow thicker. Her voice wasn’t loud, but every word was sharp as a blade. Her eyes sparked with fire, her chest rose quickly.

“You know what your problem is?” Andy continued, riding the momentum like she couldn’t stop herself. “You think the world is built on orders and obedience. That everyone breaks the same way. That information is just a matter of money or threats.” Lucian said nothing. “But people don’t work like that. And especially not me. So if you think I’m gonna lick your hand for a warm meal... then you’ve got the wrong woman in mind. It’s not me.”

Lucian leaned forward. In one fluid motion, he reached for the gun and, with a click, pulled a full magazine from his inner jacket pocket. Slowly—almost theatrically—he loaded the bullets one by one. One... two... three... four. The sound of metal echoed in the silence, almost choking.

Then he slid the magazine in, locked it. The gun tightened in his grip. But he didn’t aim it.

Didn’t even raise it. He placed it on the table. In front of her. Just like the food.

“Now it’s a choice,” he said softly, steel lacing his voice. “Loaded. You know what it does. And if you think this is just some psychological game... I suggest you don’t test where the line is.”

Andromeda didn’t flinch for a second. Her eyes stayed locked on his. Her heart pounded in her throat, her stomach clenched—but her legs didn’t tremble.

“Guess what?” she hissed. “I’d still rather starve than submit to you.”

Lucian’s eyes darkened a shade. The corner of his mouth twitched—but it wasn’t a smile. More like something threatening. Dangerous. Unpredictable. He stood. Slowly, calmly, not a flicker of hesitation. He slid the gun back into his belt. Looked at the tray, then at Andy.

“You can still change your mind,” he said, already by the door. “But not for long. Because there’s a point where even I lose my patience. And when that happens... there’s no more deal.”

The game had just officially begun.

Lucian’s fingers drummed silently on the edge of the tray, as if counting the seconds until he snapped.

Andromeda still said nothing. She sat with arms crossed, watching him like she knew every unspoken second was eating away at him.

“So that’s your game,” Lucian growled eventually. “Sitting there like some proud martyr, thinking that wins you anything?”

“I’m not playing,” Andromeda shot back. “You’re the one making rules for a game I never signed up for.”

The Desert Eagle lay on the table like a third participant, ready to cut into the conversation at any moment.

Lucian snatched it up. The metal clanged coldly in his hand as he pointed it at Andromeda—not as a warning. Reflexively. In anger.

She didn’t flinch.

“Really?” she hissed. “That’s your strategy now? When blackmail fails, aim a gun?”

“Enough!” Lucian barked, stepping toward her. “Everything’s a battle with you, isn’t it? Every word a target, every line a door to kick down?”

“What did you expect? That I just quietly say goodbye to my self-respect while you dangle food, wave a gun, and look at me like I’m a damn tool?”

Lucian slowly lowered the gun, but his voice still cut like a knife.

“You really think this is about you? That I enjoy you being here? That this is some twisted power game?”

“If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

Lucian moved. Fast. He was in front of her in an instant—so close she could feel his body heat, the simmering rage in his skin.

“Your brother lied. Stole from me. No one’s looking for you. And you’re the one they brought here. You want the truth? The only reason you’re still breathing is because I’m curious what kind of person goes missing and nobody gives a damn.”

That hit. For a moment, the words landed deeper than any fist or bullet could.

But Andromeda clenched her jaw. Didn’t back down. Her voice was sharp, dark.

“Your problem is you think the world’s made of traitors and scapegoats. That if no one’s searching for someone, they’re worthless. But you don’t know a damn thing about me.”

Lucian’s eyes flickered.

“Then say something. Anything. Convince me not to see you as just a hostage.”

“And if I talk, then what? You’ll believe me? Trust me?”

“No.” The answer was immediate. “But at least I’ll know where to start breaking your walls.”

That was when Andromeda surged forward, her voice practically bursting out of her.

“I’m not your experiment! I’m not a puzzle for you to solve just so you can figure out how to use it against me!”

Lucian grinned. But it wasn’t joy. It was the kind of smile a blade makes before it cuts.

“Oh, but you are.”

Silence. Too long. Too suffocating. The Desert still rested in his hand. Then... Lucian stepped back. But not like he was backing off. More like he’d just realized something.

“Fine,” he said slowly. “Then know this... If you don’t start talking about Elliot Carter right now, next time I won’t aim this gun beside your head. I’ll aim for your knee.”

Andromeda’s eyes narrowed.

“Then you’d better aim right. Because if you miss... I’ll come for you.”

One breath. Two predators. One room. No sound. The air was a blade being pulled taut. Lucian slowly holstered the Desert Eagle. His hand still tense. His eyes never closing. But now he knew. This woman wouldn’t break easily. If he wanted anything, he’d have to dig deeper. Smarter. More ruthlessly. Or... more dangerously.

He looked at the tray. Then back at her.

“The food stays. But that was your only mercy. Tomorrow, we talk differently.”

He sat down again. Leaned back. Watched Andy like a challenge growing more and more interesting. And she stared back. The game had officially begun. Lucian didn’t move.

He just sat there, body relaxed, but his gaze... it was a prison made of blades, one he was trying to trap her in. The air thickened again, like a blackout waiting to explode.

Andromeda didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just held his gaze, every nerve straining not to show how tightly her stomach clenched. The tray was still there.

The food no longer smelled tempting. It smelled sickening. Because she knew what it cost. And what was expected in return.

Lucian moved suddenly.

He stood, slowly but with purpose. The motion wasn’t loud—but somehow it shattered the silence like a scream. He circled the table and stepped up to her.

Andromeda reflexively wanted to pull back—but there was nowhere to go. Lucian stood before her, then suddenly grabbed her chin. His fingers tilted her face up, forcing her to meet his eyes.

“Look at me,” he hissed, low, with suppressed fury. “Look, if you’re really not afraid.”

Andromeda’s eyes widened—but not in fear. She didn’t give him that satisfaction.

Lucian leaned in, his gaze scanning her face fast and sharp. Her skin was pale, her lips dry—but her eyes... Her eyes held a storm.

Anger. Suppressed fear. And something else... something deeper, wilder, harder. Desperation that turned not into begging—but resistance. Lucian didn’t speak for a moment. He just stared. This wasn’t a look he was used to. Not pleading. Not broken. Not shattered.

It was... a survivor. And that annoyed him.

He let go of her chin. Grabbed her arm in one swift motion—surprisingly strong—and yanked her from the bed’s edge.

“Come on,” he growled. “If you’re so tough, then eat like it.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Dragged her to the table, forced her into the chair. The chair creaked. The tray rattled. Lucian stepped around to the other side and slowly, almost provocatively, sat across from her. The Desert Eagle now lay before him. Black, gleaming, like a disturbing reminder.

For a few seconds, they just stared at each other.

Andromeda’s lips were pressed tight, her chest rising sharply. Lucian’s face was cold, but behind his eyes—something burned. Something he didn’t want to show. Then, still staring at Andy, he lifted the Desert.

His fingers expertly released the safety. A click. A metallic, sharp sound. Not loud—but louder than anything in that silence.

And he didn’t put it back on the table. He lowered it beneath, aimed at her leg.

Directly.

“Eat,” he said softly. Ruthlessly. Andromeda didn’t move. Lucian’s voice dropped lower. Darker.

“Eat, or I shoot your pretty little leg. Just under the left knee. Not fatal. But I guarantee, you won’t walk in heels again.”

Silence. Andromeda’s eyes sparked. Her lips trembled with restrained fury. Her voice shook. Not from fear—but from rage.

“You’re sick,” she said, slowly, every word like a blade. “You really think that makes me believe you’re in control?”

Lucian didn’t answer right away. He just stared at her.

“No. I think you already know I am.”

Andromeda turned her head away—but only for a second. Then she reached out and grabbed the bread. Not gently. Not quietly. Like it wasn’t submission—but a declaration of war. One bite. Then another. Finally, she drank, clutching the bottle like it held balance itself.

Every move was slow. Painful. But deliberate.

Her choice.

Lucian didn’t show a single reaction. Just watched. And the only thought pounding in his head was this:

This woman won’t be broken easily. And that made him want to break her even more.