Lucile’s POV
The air in the den is thick, heavy with smoke and fire settling in my nostrils. My heart hammers against my ribs, and I force it into a rhythm I can control. Caroline brought me here, yes, but I could leave if I choose. Not without consequence, but I could. I do not move. Not yet.
Lucas sits across the fire, the embers catching the sharp lines of his face. He does not rise, does not speak, only watches me. His eyes are cold, precise, like knives honed to cut flesh and pride alike. I have seen danger before, but none like this. He is the storm made flesh, and I am the twig caught in its wind.
He tilts his head, and I feel the weight of his gaze pressing against me, probing, measuring, sizing. I refuse to shrink back. I will not give him the satisfaction. I stand straighter,
