CHAPTER 80 : “THE PLACE HE NEVER SHOWED ANYONE”

The morning after the girls’ first day of school felt strangely quiet.

A stillness had settled over the house — the kind of soft silence that comes only after a storm of excitement. I woke before the sun was fully up, slipping out of bed carefully so I wouldn’t disturb Lucian. The curtains were slightly open, letting in a faint glow of dawn, and for a moment, I stood there just breathing, feeling the lingering peace of the night before.

I padded downstairs, expecting to be the first awake.

But Lucian was already at the kitchen island, leaning forward on his elbows, staring at something on his phone with a crease between his brows. He didn’t notice me at first. The house was too quiet, like it was holding its breath around him.

“Morning,” I whispered.

He looked up instantly, the frown smoothing out as if it had never existed. “Morning, angel.”

I slid into the chair beside him. “You’re up early.”

He hesitated — a tiny flicker I almost missed. “Couldn’t sleep.”

There was something in his voice. Something weighted. Something he wasn’t saying.

I studied him. “What’s wrong?”

Lucian didn’t answer right away. He pushed his phone aside, stood, and walked toward me. His hand reached for my face, thumb brushing my cheek in a slow caress.

“There’s somewhere I want to take you today,” he murmured.

The softness in his voice tugged at my chest. “Where?”

He shook his head. “I’ll show you.”

“Is it… good?” I asked carefully. “Or bad?”

His jaw flexed. “It’s something real. That’s all.”

Those words sat heavy in the air between us.

Lucian wasn’t one to share freely. Not his past. Not his fear. Not the pieces of himself he built walls around. So if he wanted to take me somewhere personal… it meant something.

Something big.

“Okay,” I whispered. “Let’s go.”

He gave a tiny nod — grateful, relieved, maybe both — and reached for my hand.

“Get dressed,” he said quietly. “Something warm.”

We drove for almost an hour.

Past the city limits.

Past the quieter suburbs.

Past roads I hadn’t seen before.

Lucian’s hand stayed on my thigh the entire time — grounding, warm, like he needed the physical contact as much as I needed the reassurance of it.

He didn’t speak for most of the drive.

Neither did I.

Sometimes silence wasn’t absence — it was a form of trust.

After winding up a long forest road, he finally slowed the car and parked beside an old, rusted gate that looked like it hadn’t been touched in decades.

I looked around. Trees towered overhead, shadows stretching long across the ground. The air smelled like pine and something older — a scent I couldn’t place.

Lucian stepped out and opened my door for me. He didn’t let go of my hand once we started walking.

The forest swallowed us almost immediately.

“Lucian,” I said softly, “where are we?”

He took a slow breath before answering. “Home.”

I blinked up at him. “But… you didn’t grow up anywhere near here.”

“No,” he said. “I didn’t mean home like that.”

We walked until we reached a clearing — and then I saw it.

An old cabin.

Abandoned.

Weather-worn.

The wood was splintered with age, the windows fogged and cracked. Moss crept along the roof like time refusing to let go.

Lucian stopped at the edge of the clearing, staring at it like it held every memory he ever tried to bury.

“This,” he said quietly, “is the place I came to when I had nowhere else.”

I squeezed his hand gently. “Lucian…”

He didn’t look at me.

“I was seventeen,” he continued softly. “Adrian had already left home. Cassian was trying to hold everything together. And I… felt like I was drowning.”

It hurt hearing that — imagining a younger version of him, alone, carrying weight no teenager should’ve carried.

“This cabin was empty,” he said. “No one cared about it. No one used it. So I fixed what I could and… stayed. Nights I couldn’t breathe at home. Days where everything felt like too much.”

He finally looked at me then.

Storm-dark eyes.

Softer than I’d ever seen them.

“This place saved me,” he said. “When nothing else did.”

My throat tightened. “You came here alone?”

“For years.”

“And you brought me here now,” I whispered, “because…”

He lifted my hand to his lips. Kissed it. Held it against his heart.

“Because I trust you with parts of me I don’t trust with anyone else,” he said. “Because you’re the only person I want to see the pieces that made me.”

My breath hitched.

A warmth — deep, overwhelming — spread through my chest.

“Lucian…” I stepped closer. “Thank you. For sharing this. For trusting me with it.”

He looked at me like the world made sense again.

“You make things easier to carry,” he said quietly.

We went inside.

The door creaked on its hinges, but Lucian steadied it with a gentle touch — like muscle memory. Like he’d done it countless times before.

Inside, it was small.

Minimal.

But clean.

Simple wooden shelves.

A mattress on the floor — old but maintained.

A single lamp.

A folded blanket on a chair.

Artifacts of a boy who raised himself.

My heart ached.

“This is where I learned to fight,” Lucian said softly. “Not the physical kind. The quiet kind. The kind where you get up every day even when you don’t want to.”

I walked deeper inside.

“Lucian… I wish I could’ve been here. I wish I could’ve helped you.”

He shook his head. “I don’t.”

I blinked, confused.

He stepped toward me, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear.

“If you had been here,” he said gently, “you would’ve tried to fix me. That’s who you are. You heal things. You stay. You love. And if you’d tried to do that for me back then…” He exhaled shakily. “I would’ve dragged you down with me.”

My chest tightened painfully. “You wouldn’t have.”

He gave me a soft, sad smile. “I would’ve.”

Silence again.

Heavy with emotion.

Then he cupped my face — both hands — forcing me to meet his gaze.

“But now…” he whispered, “I can let you in without hurting you. Without hurting myself.”

I leaned into his touch. “Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

His breath trembled.

And then he kissed me.

Not rushed.

Not hungry.

Soft.

Slow.

Meaningful.

Every second wrapped in unspoken words.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against mine.

“There’s more,” he whispered. “Something I want to give you.”

“Lucian, you don’t have to—”

“I want to,” he said softly. “Come on.”

He took my hand and guided me out of the cabin, back into the forest, deeper this time. The air grew colder as the trees thickened, but his hand stayed wrapped around mine.

After a few minutes, we emerged into a second clearing.

And my breath caught.

There was a glass greenhouse — new, beautiful, glowing under the dappled morning light like a secret sanctuary.

Inside were flowers.

Hundreds of them.

Colors bursting like a painting.

A bench.

Books.

Candles.

Soft blankets.

A sanctuary.

For me.

I put a hand over my mouth. “Lucian… you built this?”

He stepped behind me, arms circling my waist, chin resting on my shoulder.

“I started it months ago,” he whispered. “Every night after you fell asleep. I wanted you to have something that was yours. Something peaceful. Something untouched by your past… or mine.”

Tears blurred my vision.

“You built me a haven,” I whispered.

“No,” he murmured, brushing his lips against my cheek.

“I built you a place to come home to — when the world feels too loud.”

I turned in his arms, burying my face in his chest.

“I love you,” I breathed into him, the words slipping out, honest and raw.

His arms tightened around me.

“I’ve loved you,” he whispered back, voice shaking, “longer than I’ve admitted to myself.”

I closed my eyes.

And for the first time, truly, deeply—

I understood him.

Not the stoic man.

Not the protector.

Not the fighter.

But the boy who survived.

And the man who chose to love me anyway.

We stayed inside the greenhouse for a long moment, wrapped in the kind of silence that didn’t ask to be filled. Lucian’s arms stayed around me, solid and warm, grounding me even as emotion swelled in my chest.

When I finally lifted my head, he brushed my tears away with the gentlest touch—like he was afraid he might break me if he pressed too hard.

“This place is yours,” he murmured again, as if he needed me to understand. “Not borrowed. Not shared. Yours.”

I turned slowly, taking in every inch of the greenhouse with new eyes.

Sunlight filtered through the glass in soft gold ribbons, landing on petals in shades so vivid they almost glowed. Deep purples, soft pinks, whites like fresh snow. Vines climbed the metal supports, leaves glinting as the light shifted.

It didn’t feel like something built—it felt grown.

Loved.

Cherished.

My throat tightened. “How long did this take you?”

Lucian stepped beside me, sliding his hands into his pockets. “Since the night the girls first slept in their new beds.”

My eyes widened. “Lucian… that was months ago.”

He nodded, almost sheepishly. “Yeah.”

“Every night?”

He swallowed. “Almost. Adrian helped with the structure when I needed an extra hand. Cassian took the girls on ‘secret missions’ so they wouldn’t ask where I was.”

I pressed my fingers to my lips. “All this… for me?”

He hesitated—just for a breath—and then said something that hit so deeply my knees nearly buckled.

“I wanted you to have something beautiful,” he said softly. “Because you’ve lived through too much ugliness.”

My eyes burned again.

He reached for my hand. “Walk with me.”

We wandered through the greenhouse, fingers intertwined. Every plant seemed placed with intention—lavender near the entrance, roses in the corners where sunlight pooled, delicate orchids near the back where the air stayed warm.

“What made you choose flowers?” I asked quietly.

He gave a soft shrug. “They’re alive. They grow. They heal the air around them. They’re stubborn. Resilient.”

Then, with a tiny smile:

“Kind of like you.”

My heart stumbled over itself. “Lucian…”

He led me to a small wooden box tucked beneath the bench. I watched as he pulled it out, set it on the seat, and opened it with a careful hand.

Inside were notebooks.

Dozens.

Some old and frayed, some newer. Each one labeled with a date. My breath caught when I realized what they were.

“Your journals,” I whispered.

He nodded.

“I never liked writing,” he admitted softly. “But back then… it was the only way to get the noise out of my head.”

I didn’t touch them. Not yet. It felt sacred—too sacred to rush.

“You’re giving these to me?” I asked.

“No.” His hand brushed mine. “I’m showing them to you. You don’t have to read them unless you want to. But I want you to know they exist. That I trust you with them.”

A tear slipped down my cheek.

And then another.

He reached out and caught each one with his thumb.

“I love you,” he said again, the words a soft confession. “And loving you means letting you see where I come from. Even the parts I wish I didn’t remember.”

I touched the covers of the journals softly. “Thank you. For trusting me. For… letting me see everything that shaped you.”

His voice was low. “You’re the only one I want to see me.”

My chest tightened. I leaned into him, pressing my forehead to his chest, breathing him in.

After a moment, he wrapped his arms around me again, chin settling on top of my head.

We stayed like that until my breathing steadied.

Then Lucian pulled back slightly, cupping my face again.

“Come on,” he murmured. “There’s more.”

I blinked, startled. “More?”

“Just one more thing.”

He took my hand once again and led me to a door I hadn’t noticed before—small, tucked behind a wall of climbing vines. He unlocked it with a key from around his neck.

Inside was a tiny room—bare except for a small wooden table and two chairs.

On the table were two mugs.

A thermos.

And a small sketchpad.

“What’s this?” I asked.

Lucian exhaled softly. “This is where I used to sit when I couldn’t sleep. Instead of drinking or fighting or… breaking something… I’d sit here and draw.”

I turned slowly.

“You draw?”

He looked almost embarrassed. “Not well.”

“Can I see?”

Another breath.

Then he nodded.

I flipped the sketchpad open gently.

The first page was a forest scene—shaky lines, rough shading.

The second page was better.

The third… better still.

But the fourth page stole my breath entirely.

It was me.

Not a perfect rendition.

Not a flattering or glamorous one.

But real.

Me holding Aria as a baby.

Me laughing with Cassian in the kitchen.

Me sitting on the porch steps staring at the sunset.

Me asleep on Lucian’s chest.

My throat tightened so painfully I had to sit down.

“You draw me,” I whispered.

He stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, eyes soft. “I draw what matters.”

My heart felt too full, too fragile, like one wrong move would shatter the moment.

“Lucian…” My voice cracked. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.” He walked toward me, kneeling in front of my chair. “Just let me love you. At my pace. In my way.”

I touched his cheek gently. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

His eyes softened in a way so few people ever saw. He leaned in, pressing his forehead to mine again.

And in a quiet, trembling whisper, he said:

“I’ve never shown this place to anyone. Not even Adrian. Not even Cass.”

My breath caught.

“Why me?” I whispered.

He closed his eyes.

“Because you’re the first person who made me think I deserved to be seen.”

I didn’t realize I was crying again until his thumb brushed my cheek.

He stood slowly, pulling me with him.

“Come with me,” he murmured. “I want to show you something else.”

I followed him out of the room, down a narrow path at the back of the greenhouse. He stopped at a small tree—newly planted, delicate, its leaves a soft, vibrant green.

“What’s this one?” I asked.

He gently touched a leaf. “A new beginning.”

I blinked. “Whose?”

His eyes met mine.

“Ours.”

My breath left me in a soft, stunned exhale.

Our beginning.

Planted.

Growing.

Alive.

And suddenly I was kissing him again—soft but urgent, emotional but steady—because love didn’t always need the perfect words. Sometimes it needed wonder. Sometimes it needed tears.

Sometimes it needed this.

His hands settled on my waist, pulling me into him, grounding me again. I felt the soft warmth of his breath against my lips as he whispered:

“Stay with me. Here. For a little while.”

I nodded.

There was nowhere else I wanted to be.

Not anymore.

We sat beneath the young tree—our tree—for a while, the quiet settling around us like a second skin. The greenhouse hummed softly with life. Every petal, every leaf, every breath of warm air felt like a secret we were sharing.

Lucian leaned against the bench, legs stretched out, his hand lightly brushing my thigh. Not possessive. Not demanding. Just… there. Present. Anchoring.

I leaned my head onto his shoulder.

“Lucian?” I whispered.

“Mhm.”

“When did you start this place?”

His chest rose slowly. “A few weeks after your father returned.”

That surprised me.

“Why then?”

He swallowed. “Because I realized something that night. When the villain came to our door… when everything could’ve gone terribly wrong… I understood how quickly I could lose you.”

My breath caught.

He ran a thumb along my knee, slow and thoughtful.

“I’ve lost before, Sophie. Too much. Too young. Enough that I learned not to build anything permanent.”

My heart cracked at the edges. “Lucian…”

“But that night,” he continued quietly, “while you were upstairs with the girls, while I stood between you and danger… I realized I didn’t want temporary anymore. I wanted roots. I wanted something lasting. I wanted you. All of you.”

I stared at him, stunned by the raw tenderness in his voice.

He turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss into my hair. “So I built this. Something that grows. That heals. That lives. Something I could give you—a place untouched by the past.”

A slow, trembling breath left me. “You made this because you wanted a future.”

He nodded once, jaw tightening with emotion. “Our future.”

That was when something shifted inside me.

A small, delicate flame of hope.

Of belonging.

Of certainty.

I interlaced my fingers with his. “Lucian… you don’t have to prove anything to me. I already know the kind of future I want.”

His fingers stilled in mine.

He turned to look at me fully, his eyes dark and searching. “And what kind is that?”

I swallowed, suddenly shy and bold all at once.

“One you’re in.”

For a moment, he just stared—like the world had stopped spinning for him alone. Then he exhaled shakily, as if something inside him had unknotted.

He didn’t say anything.

He didn’t need to.

His hand rose to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone with a touch so reverent it nearly undid me.

He leaned in.

And the kiss he gave me then wasn’t urgent or hungry or desperate like some of our others.

It was soft.

Slow.

Intentional.

A promise more than a kiss.

When we finally parted, I was breathless in the quietest way.

Lucian rested his forehead against mine. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

I smiled softly. “Maybe I do.”

He gave a low hum—half amusement, half something deeper—and pulled me into his side again.

For a long while, we simply sat in quiet contentment.

Then, suddenly, Lucian shifted. His body tensed—just slightly, but enough for me to feel it.

“Lucian?” I murmured. “What is it?”

He hesitated.

His eyes drifted to the far corner of the greenhouse, where a small wooden box sat tucked beneath a cluster of vines.

He didn’t look away.

“Lucian?” I repeated gently. “Talk to me.”

He exhaled slowly. “There’s… something in that box.”

“Okay,” I said softly. “What is it?”

He finally looked at me.

And what I saw in his eyes wasn’t fear—but vulnerability.

Something rare. Something raw.

“It’s the other reason I built this place,” he said quietly. “Something I wasn’t ready to show you until now.”

My heart skipped.

“What’s inside?”

He stood slowly, holding his hand out for mine. “Come. I’ll show you.”

I took his hand, letting him guide me across the warm wooden floorboards. When we reached the box, he knelt and opened it carefully—like he was unearthing something fragile.

Inside was a small stack of envelopes.

Each one sealed.

Each one addressed to me.

Written in Lucian’s handwriting.

My breath hitched. “Lucian… what are these?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking younger—like a boy caught doing something earnest and vulnerable.

“They’re letters,” he said. “On nights when I didn’t know what to say out loud… I wrote instead.”

Oh.

Oh god.

My eyes burned instantly. “Lucian…”

“Some are from before we were even together,” he said with a soft exhale. “Some from after. Some from nights when I didn’t know if I’d ever be brave enough to say the things I wrote.”

I touched the top envelope with shaking fingers.

“You wrote all this… for me?”

“For you,” he said. “Because you changed everything.”

Tears slipped down my cheeks before I could stop them.

Lucian gently wiped them away.

“You don’t have to read them now,” he murmured. “Or ever. Just knowing they’re here—knowing you know they’re yours—is enough.”

I shook my head fiercely. “Lucian, I want to read them.”

He blinked slowly, emotion tightening his features.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Then read the first one.”

I opened it with trembling hands.

The handwriting was careful, deliberate.

Sophie,

Tonight I watched you fall asleep on the couch with Arian in your arms.

I don’t know how someone can look that strong and that gentle at the same time.

I don’t know why I can’t stop looking at you.

I don’t know why it terrifies me.

But I think…

I think I’m starting to want things again.

—L

My chest broke open.

A sob slipped out before I could muffle it.

Lucian pulled me into him immediately, arms wrapping tight around me as he murmured into my hair.

“Hey… hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to cry.”

But I did.

I cried because no one had ever loved me like this.

I cried because this man—the one made of shadows and fire and quiet fury—had poured pieces of his heart into paper for me.

Because he trusted me with his softness.

His fears.

His hope.

And then—

When my tears finally slowed—

Lucian kissed the top of my head and whispered:

“There’s one more thing I need to tell you.”

I stiffened slightly, pulling back to look at him. “What is it?”

He held my gaze for a long, steady moment.

“Tomorrow,” he said softly, “I want you to come with me somewhere. Somewhere important.”

“Where?” I asked, heart quickening.

His eyes softened.

“To meet someone.”

“Who?”

A breath.

Quiet.

Weighted.

“My mother.”

My heart stopped.

Oh.

Oh.

This—

This was more intimate than the letters.

More vulnerable than the journals.

More monumental than the greenhouse itself.

“Lucian…” I whispered. “Are you sure?”

His jaw flexed—fear, determination, love all swirling beneath the surface.

“Yes,” he said. “Because you’re the one person I want her to know.”

My lips parted, breath catching.

I reached for his hand.

He squeezed back—tight, warm, certain.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow would change everything.