A Taste of my best friend.

CAELEN VALENTINE’S POV

Pain...

That’s all I feel.

A dull, soul-splitting kind of pain, dragging nausea up through my throat and crashing into my skull.

The air is ice. It lashes my bare skin, each sting like a cold blade carving into me.

And then—

A blinding light.

Focused. Hot. Cruel.

I try to open my eyes. But all I see is darkness. Thick. Heavy. Infinite.

After what feels like forever, my vision sharpens—just enough to realize the horror.

I’m naked, strung upside down by thick jute rope, the fibers digging through my skin like thorns.

My body is a battlefield—bruised, scratched, covered in red and purplish welts.

Like I fought a bear and lost. Badly.

I squint into the blackness, trying to cut through it with my gaze.

And I feel him before I see him.

Someone’s there. Watching me. Silent. Still.

But the weight of his gaze?

It sends a cold crawl down my spine.

“W-Who’s there?” I stammer, my voice shaking in the stillness.

Nothing.

“Who’s there?!” I ask again, stronger. But no response.

Then—

A flicker of flame.

A cigar is lit.

For a second, I catch a glimpse of the figure’s jaw—cut sharp like it was sculpted from stone. His lips curl into a dark smirk as the fire glows in the shadows.

He starts to walk toward me, smoke swirling around him.

Cigar in his mouth. One hand in his pocket.

As he steps into the light, I see his face fully.

And gods, I wish I hadn’t.

Lucien Thorne.

To the surface world, he’s the celebrated heir to Thorne Industries, known for revolutionizing textiles and tech.

But to those who matter?

He’s the true Godfather of the underground—ruthless, untouchable, and utterly emotionless.

Rumor has it he never blinks. Never hesitates.

Even his own men call him “the Machine.”

He stands at 6'5, massive, broad—like a god sculpted in iron and tailored in Armani.

Not that I’m short, but next to him? I feel like prey.

I’ve heard women talk about him like he’s a walking fantasy.

And I get it now.

Jet black eyes, devil-crafted bone structure, and a smile that makes you feel like sin.

Even in agony, my heart does something stupid.

It skips.

But behind all that beauty?

A monster. The kind you only read about in legends or see in nightmares.

A man who’d kill you for breathing wrong.

They don’t call him the Devil’s Heir for nothing.

As my brain scrambles for logic, he moves even closer—his face now inches from mine.

Just one shift and we’d recreate that infamous Spider-Man kiss.

Except I’m not a superhero.

I’m a man about to be torn apart.

And then—suddenly—I crash to the floor.

Mouth full of dirt and blood.

Rope sliced.

He must’ve cut me loose.

I writhe in agony.

Before I can move, he grabs a fistful of my hair, yanks me upright, drags me onto my knees.

The way he manhandled me, I am sure this man is into bdsm.

Brutal. Harsh. But Savagely handsome.

These words define him the best.

I scream.

Because I swear I felt every nerve tear.

This man doesn’t hit.

He devours.

“How dare you lay your filthy hands on my sister?”

His tone is nonchalant. Like he’s asking the time.

Sister? What sister?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I manage, voice trembling.

He just hums, takes another long puff of his cigar.

“You don’t know what I’m talking about?”

His smirk grows.

“You will. Very soon.”

I’m doomed.

Whatever I’ve done—I'm about to pay for it.

From behind him, a shadow moves.

One of his men—I assume—grabs me by the neck and drags me toward a steel tank filled to the brim.

Water.

No.

No, no, no.

Before I can struggle, my head is shoved down.

Submerged.

I flail—panicking, choking.

My lungs scream for air.

“Enough.”

Lucien’s voice slices through the chamber.

The man lets go instantly.

I collapse, coughing, gasping, trembling on the floor.

Lucien crouches down beside me.

Too close again.

His eyes burn like black fire.

“Now you remember my sister?”

The words are razor-sharp.

I nod.

Barely.

Because yes—now I remember her.

FLASHBACK

Two months ago.

A club.

It was called Dark Vibe—fitting name for a place dripping in smoke, neon, and sin.

The music was loud.

The people wilder.

Everyone was high on something—lust, alcohol, maybe both.

I sat in the corner, drowning in whiskey, freshly dumped by my ex.

She left me for my so-called best friend, Rayan.

The bastard.

Maybe it was always in the cards.

Maybe she had eyes for him all along.

I didn’t care.

I just wanted to forget.

And then—I saw her.

A gorgeous girl, early twenties, wearing a black dress so short it didn’t bother pretending.

Cleavage on display, hips that didn’t lie, and a quiet storm behind her eyes.

She sat beside me.

Ordered a whiskey on the rocks.

Power move. I liked it.

Even through my haze, I noticed her light honey eyes shining with unshed tears.

“Hey, beautiful,” I said, flashing my best charming grin.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

She turned her head. Calm. Controlled.

“No, thanks. I’m good. Just enjoying the music.”

Playing hard to get?

“Mind if I enjoy it with you? Maybe we could dance?” I pressed.

“I don’t know… I’m not really a dancer.” She hesitated.

“Then may I have the honor of teaching you, my lady?”

She chuckled.

I was in.

We danced. We laughed.

Drinks flowed.

Touches lingered.

Heat rose.

Eventually—we tumbled into bed.

It was intense.

Raw. Wild. No limits.

No names.

No regrets.

But when I woke up—

She was gone.

No number.

No goodbye.

Just sheets that smelled like her.

And now?

I’m here.

Bruised. Beaten. Broken.

And I finally know who she was.

Aria Thorne.

Lucien Thorne’s sister.

And I?

I’m the idiot who touched what was forbidden.