COLLATERAL BRIDE

OVER BREAKFAST

The moment his voice cut through the air, I froze like a thief caught mid-crime. My hand was still on the doorknob, my breath shallow, my pulse frantic. Slowly, I turned around, every nerve in my body screaming at me to bolt but knowing it was too late.

He was there.

Leaning against the wall on the far side of the room, half in shadow, half bathed in the pale glow of morning light. His hair was slightly mussed, his shirt unbuttoned at the top, exposing the sharp line of his collarbone. He looked nothing like the man who had held me last night in the haze of the bar, yet somehow more dangerous in this quiet calm.

His eyes—dark, sharp, unreadable—were locked on me.

“Going somewhere?” he asked, his tone even, almost bored, but laced with authority. The kind of authority that made my throat tighten.

Heat rushed up my neck. “I—I was just…” I stammered, caught between shame and panic. “I didn’t want to bother you. I thought you were gone.”

He pushed off the wall with casual grace, his presence filling the room with a weight that made my knees weak. “If I wanted you gone,” he said, crossing the space between us with slow, deliberate steps, “you would be.”

I swallowed hard, unable to look away from him. Everything about him radiated control, the kind that didn’t need to shout to be obeyed. My fingers slipped from the doorknob.

“You should freshen up,” he continued, his voice lower now, closer. He glanced at me once, then at the crumpled state of my dress. The corner of his mouth twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. “You’ll feel human again.”

“I don’t…” I trailed off, fumbling with my words. What did you even say to a man you barely knew, a stranger whose bed you had just woken up in?

He didn’t wait for me to finish. Instead, he walked over to a sleek wardrobe tucked against the wall, pulled it open, and withdrew a simple set of clothes: a white blouse, soft black slacks, and a folded towel. He handed them to me without ceremony, his gaze steady.

“Bathroom’s through that door,” he said, nodding toward the far corner. “Go. I’ll have breakfast waiting.”

Breakfast.

The absurdity of the word hit me like a slap. I half-expected him to kick me out, to call me names, to treat me the way most men would after a night like this. But instead… breakfast?

I clutched the clothes to my chest, my cheeks burning, and nodded quickly. “O-okay.”

The bathroom was sleek, almost intimidating in its spotless modernity. I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, exhaling shakily. My reflection in the mirror was a mess: mascara smudged, hair tangled, eyes dull and rimmed with fatigue. I looked like a woman who had lost too much too fast.

The hot water was a small mercy. As I stood beneath it, scrubbing away the remnants of last night, I tried to piece myself back together. The towel was soft, the blouse and slacks fit almost too perfectly, like they had been waiting for me. I didn’t want to think about what that implied.

When I finally gathered the courage to step out, I followed the faint scent of coffee and something savory down the stairs.

He was already at the dining table, seated with unnerving composure. The spread before him was simple but elegant: eggs, toast, fresh fruit, coffee steaming in delicate porcelain cups. He looked up as I entered, his gaze flicking briefly over me before returning to his plate.

“Sit,” he said, not unkindly but with the kind of tone that left no room for refusal.

I obeyed, sliding into the chair across from him. My hands twisted nervously in my lap until I forced myself to pick up the cup of coffee waiting for me. The warmth seeped into my fingers, grounding me.

For a moment, we ate in silence. I kept my eyes on my plate, too aware of his presence, of the way he moved with deliberate precision. He didn’t seem rushed. He didn’t seem hungover. He seemed… in control, like always.

Finally, he broke the silence. “Rough night?”

A laugh escaped me before I could stop it, bitter and self-mocking. “You could say that.”

He tilted his head, watching me. “You drink often?”

I shook my head quickly. “Not really. Last night was… different. I just needed to forget for a while.”

“Forget what?” His voice was casual, but the weight of the question pressed against me.

I hesitated, my instinct to shut down warring with the strange comfort of anonymity. He didn’t know me. I didn’t know him. Maybe that was why the words spilled out before I could stop them.

“My family,” I admitted softly. “If you can even call them that.”

One of his brows arched, but he said nothing, waiting.

I stared down at my coffee, tracing the rim of the cup with my finger. “They adopted me when I was twelve. And for years, they’ve reminded me I was nothing more than… charity. Every meal, every kindness, it was all a debt I was expected to repay. And now…” I swallowed hard, bitterness burning in my throat. “Now they’ve found a way to collect.”

His gaze sharpened, though his expression remained unreadable. “How so?”

I laughed again, this time without humor. “They offered me up like… like a piece of furniture. To settle a debt with the Montagues.”

At that name, his fingers stilled around his cup. The flicker was subtle, but I caught it. Still, his tone remained casual when he asked, “The Montagues?”

“Yes.” I sighed, leaning back in my chair. “You must have heard of them. Everyone has. They’re terrifying. Ruthless. The kind of people who make grown men tremble just by walking into a room.”

His lips curved slightly—not quite a smile, more like the ghost of amusement. “Is that so?”

“You sound like you don’t believe me,” I said, narrowing my eyes.

“I’ve heard things,” he replied smoothly, cutting into his toast. “But people like that… they only have as much power as others give them.”

I frowned. “Easy for you to say. You weren’t the one nearly sold off to them like livestock.”

He looked up at me then, his gaze locking onto mine with a quiet intensity that made my stomach flip. “And yet,” he said softly, “you’re here. Not with them.”

The words hung in the air between us, heavier than I wanted them to be. I shifted uncomfortably, breaking eye contact, stabbing at a piece of fruit I wasn’t hungry for.

“Anyway,” I muttered, forcing lightness into my voice, “sorry for unloading all that on you. I don’t usually spill my life story to strangers over breakfast.”

“Maybe you should,” he said simply. “Sometimes strangers are easier than friends.”

I looked up at him then, startled by the quiet truth in his words. For a moment, something flickered between us—recognition, understanding, I wasn’t sure. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by his calm composure.

I cleared my throat. “I don’t even know your name.”

He leaned back in his chair, regarding me with something that might have been amusement, or curiosity, or both. “Lucian,” he said finally. “Call me Lucian.”

Lucian.

The name rolled through me like a secret, unfamiliar yet fitting. I nodded, repeating it softly under my breath, trying it on my tongue. “Lucian.”

Something in his gaze shifted at the sound of it, though he masked it quickly with another sip of coffee.

Breakfast stretched on, the conversation weaving between light and heavy, casual and cutting. But beneath it all, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this man—this Lucian—wasn’t just any stranger. He was something else entirely.

And for reasons I couldn’t explain, I wasn’t sure if that terrified me… or thrilled me.