I can smell your arousal

Lucas’s POV

The Archives gave me nothing.

I’d known the moment I stepped through the doors and saw Harlow’s expression—a tightly pinned smile that didn’t touch her eyes, the kind of smile bureaucrats use when they’ve already decided you’re not getting what you came for. I asked for records, and she gave me policy. I pushed, and she deflected. By the time I left, it was clear: the file I needed either didn’t exist… or someone had made damn sure it disappeared.

I didn’t rage. Didn’t shout. I just nodded, thanked her, and walked out.

But inside? A colder plan was already taking shape.

Selina thought she’d won. That I’d seen a child—just a human boy—and decided to let it go. She thought silence meant surrender. But I’d learned long ago that silence could be a weapon. Sometimes, the sharpest blade was the one you never pulled.

So, I didn’t hunt. I watched.

And when the gallery opening showed up on my social radar, hosted by Carter & Co. and attended by Manhattan’s elite — including the woman who thought she’d outrun me — I decided I would attend. I wouldn’t corner her. I wouldn’t accuse her. I wouldn’t even mention the boy.

No, I would do something far worse. I’d get into her head.

The gallery was clean-lined and pretentious, all white walls and exaggerated lighting, soft music whispering through the air like the building was too refined to breathe loudly. People floated through it in couture and diamonds, sipping champagne and pretending to understand abstract grief splashed across ten-foot canvases.

I saw her before she saw me. She was wrapped in black silk, her hair swept back like a crown, her heels slicing the floor like declarations. She didn’t smile. She never needed to.

The man beside her — Jonathan — wore navy, too polished, too stiff. A prop. A placeholder. A threat she manufactured to keep me away.

She shouldn’t have brought him.

Because now I had an audience.

I didn’t approach immediately.

I made her feel me first.

Watched from across the room. Let my gaze linger. Waited for the slow turn of her head, the flicker in her expression, the moment her breath caught.

There it was. She froze for a second too long.

Her eyes found mine.

And then she looked away — a flick of her wrist, a step back toward her date, but her spine was too straight now, her shoulders too rigid.

She knew I was coming. Fifteen minutes later, I closed the distance.

I didn’t speak to Jonathan.

I didn’t need to.

He was already fading — an accessory in a war far bigger than him.

“Selina,” I said, my voice low, casual, and intimate. Like I’d never stopped saying her name. Like it still belonged to me.

She turned slowly, mask in place, eyes sharp. “Lucas.”

“Stunning exhibit,” I added, letting my eyes trail over her deliberately. “But I’ve seen more captivating pieces.”

Her gaze didn’t flinch, but I saw the breath she didn’t take.

Jonathan cleared his throat, clearly unsettled. “Selina, do you want a drink?”

She nodded once. “Red. Dry.”

He hesitated, then walked off.

Smart boy. The second he was gone, I stepped closer — not enough to touch, but enough that she’d feel me in her skin.

“You can sleep with him,” I said quietly, conversationally, as if we were talking about the weather. “You can lie beside him, kiss him, and let him believe he owns even a piece of you. Hell, you can fuck him in every position in that over-decorated condo of yours…” I paused, and then I leaned in, just enough for my words to slide past the silk of her dress and straight to her pulse. “…But we both know you’ll never be sated.”

Her breath caught. Barely. But I saw it.

“You don’t want him, Selina,” I continued. “Not when it’s dark. Not when it’s quiet. Not when it’s just your skin and your thoughts and the hunger you can’t turn off. Because your body knows the difference. Your soul knows the bond. And I don’t care how many lies you dress in Chanel and red lipstick. When you close your eyes, it’s me you feel.”

Her jaw tightened. Her posture didn’t move. But I saw her cross one leg over the other — a small shift, precise, practiced… and telling.

She was affected. She hated it. Good.

“I’m not here to make a scene,” I murmured. “I’m not here to take you.”

Her eyes flashed. “Then what do you want, Lucas?”

“To remind you that I don’t have to take anything,” I said. “Because you’ll bring yourself to me. Eventually. When you’re done pretending you can breathe without me.”

Silence stretched between us. No one around us noticed the war happening at conversational volume — not the collectors admiring oil-drenched heartbreak on canvas, not the servers weaving through with champagne flutes, not Jonathan, returning from the bar with two glasses and a smile he hadn’t earned.

“I’ll see you soon, Selina,” I said, stepping back.

She didn’t answer.

But her silence? It was loud. And this time, it was mine. I continued to walk and then mind-linked her in the process. "I can smell your arousal, mate,"

"Get out of my head, you devil!" She yelled through the mind-link, and I laughed as I walked out.