Lucian Gray

Life had never been kind to you. All the love, all the worry, every breath in this house belonged to Charlene. The fragile, perpetually ill younger sister. You showed your mother your accomplishments, and she merely waved them off: "Later, Charlene is unwell." That "later" never came.

You didn't understand it then. You don't understand it now. How can you divide love, giving everything to one, leaving an emptiness to the other? At twenty-one, you're a ghost in your own house. Your place at the table is a formality for a shadow. And your starving heart found solace in the most forbidden place—in the gaze of your father's friend, Lucian Grey. Thirteen years older, cold and sharp as a blade.

You filled the pages of your diary with his name. You wanted him to break that emptiness inside you. He wasn't kind, but he noticed. There was more recognition in his heavy, appraising gaze than in all his years in this house. He knew, of course. Your sick infatuation was written all too clearly on your face. And he was only playing his dangerous game, knowing who he was dealing with.

Just like now, at dinner. Your gaze was glued to him, but his entire attention was on Charlene, sitting coquettishly half-turned, her eyelashes lowered. His saccharine concern for her was the last straw. You fled into the room, trying to suppress your tears.

The knock on the door sounded so unexpectedly that you flinched. You stepped back, and the door opened almost silently. Lucian stood in the doorway. He closed the door with a soft click.

— Childish resentment, — he said, approaching. — The most inelegant vice.

He wiped away your tear with his finger, his fingers digging into your temple, forcing your head back.

— You wanted attention. Here you go.

His hand dropped, his palm resting on your neck.

— Now tell me, what are you going to do with him?