Serving his desires

Chapter 8

The sound of rain hitting the windows filled the quiet mansion as I moved through the dimly lit hallway, my arms full of freshly laundered sheets. The house always felt eerily silent at night, but tonight, something felt different.

I had just reached Lucian’s room when I heard a crash from inside. My body tensed.

Was he—?

I knocked hesitantly. "Sir?"

No answer.

I knocked again, my pulse picking up. When the silence stretched too long, I pushed the door open just a crack.

Lucian was standing by the window, his back to me, his shirt unbuttoned at the top, exposing a hint of his sculpted chest. A broken glass lay shattered on the floor near his feet, dark liquid seeping into the expensive rug.

I hesitated. "Are you okay?"

His voice was low when he finally spoke. "Leave."

But something about the way he said it didn’t sit right with me. His posture was tense, his shoulders rigid.

I stepped inside despite myself. "You're bleeding," I said, noticing a thin trail of red on his palm.

Lucian exhaled sharply, finally turning to face me. His eyes were darker than usual, unreadable. "It’s nothing."

I glanced at the broken glass. "Did you—?"

He ran a hand through his hair, frustration clear on his face. "I dropped it. Not your concern."

But it was. I wasn’t sure why, but it was.

I swallowed and moved to grab a cloth from the tray I had brought. He watched me, not stopping me as I carefully reached for his injured hand. His skin was warm under my touch, the contrast of his cold demeanor making the moment even stranger.

For a man who seemed so in control all the time, he looked... exhausted.

I cleaned the wound in silence, aware of how close we were. He was letting me touch him, letting me see a vulnerable moment—however small.

When I finished, I stepped back, suddenly unsure what to do with myself.

"You should go," he said, quieter this time.

But as I turned to leave, he added, "Mara."

I looked back at him, waiting.

His gaze flickered, like he wanted to say something but thought better of it. Finally, he exhaled. "Nothing. Good night."

I nodded and turned to leave, but even as I walked away, I knew this wasn’t nothing, something was really bothering him and it was making me worried for his mental health.

I had barely made it a few steps down the hall when his voice stopped me.

“Mara.”

I turned. He was still standing by the window, his expression unreadable, his hand now wrapped in the cloth I had used. The way he was looking at me made my stomach tighten.

“Come back,” he said.

It wasn’t a request, it was a stern command in that deep husky voice.

I hesitated for only a second before stepping back into the room, my heart hammering for reasons I didn’t quite understand. Lucian motioned toward a chair near the window, and I obeyed, lowering myself onto it as he ran a hand through his hair.

The silence stretched for a bit.

For a moment, I thought he had changed his mind about saying anything at all, but then he finally spoke.

"I’m bored," he muttered, his voice low, almost distant.

I frowned. "Bored?"

His jaw tightened. “Not in the way you think.” He turned his head slightly, his gaze flickering to the window. “It’s my marriage. It’s… at the verge of collapsing. Has been for a long time.”

Something heavy settled in my chest.

"My wife left," he continued, his tone devoid of emotion, as if stating a fact. "She walked out weeks ago. But the papers haven’t been signed. It’s still unfinished.”

His voice held no bitterness, no anger—just exhaustion. I was surprised he was even finally opening up to me.

I shifted in my seat, unsure of what to say. It wasn’t like I hadn’t noticed the tension between them before she left. I had seen their arguments, the way they barely acknowledged each other in passing. But hearing him say it out loud made it feel different.

"Why?" I found myself asking.

Lucian let out a sharp breath, pressing his fingers against his temple as if trying to ward off a headache. "She wanted something from me that I couldn’t give."

I swallowed, watching him closely. "Like what?"

He turned to me then, his dark eyes meeting mine. “Love.”

The word felt heavy, as if it had been weighing on him for a long time.

I wasn’t sure what to say. It felt too personal, too raw. What did he mean love?

"She knew who I was before she married me," he continued. "She knew I wasn’t built for… affection. That I wasn’t the kind of man to give her what she wanted. And yet, she still thought she could change me." His lips pressed together. "It was foolish."

There was no emotion in his voice, but the way he exhaled, slow and tired, told me more than his words did.

I looked at him, really looked at him carefully. He wasn’t just cold.....he was exhausted. Worn down in a way I hadn’t noticed before.

Without thinking, I reached for the glass of whiskey sitting on the nightstand and pushed it toward him. "Drink."

He blinked at me, surprised.

"It won’t solve anything," I admitted. "But maybe it’ll help, even if just for a second."

For a moment, I thought he would refuse. But then, wordlessly, he picked up the glass and took a slow sip, his gaze still locked onto mine.

"Why are you still here?" he asked after a beat.

I hesitated. "You told me to sit."

His lips twitched....just barely, just enough to make me wonder if it was amusement or something else entirely.

"I did," he murmured.

Silence settled between us again, but this time, it felt different because his eyes were still settled on me as he drank from his glass.

I should have left. But I didn’t. Terrible mistake.