Breaking Point

Amara exhaled slowly, frustration burning her throat. “If you’re angry, then be angry.

Don’t stand there and freeze me out like I don’t exist.”

Lucian’s eyes locked onto hers, a storm brewing, but he forced the words down.

“This isn’t the place.”

It was colder than fury.

She bit her lip, her chest aching.

“Then when is the place? When is the time, Lucian? Or will you keep pretending you don’t care until there’s nothing left between us?”

He turned away, his silence cutting deeper than any argument.

The drive back to the mansion was silent. Amara stared out the window, her reflection faint in the glass, her thoughts tangled.

Lucian didn’t speak once. He sat beside her like a shadow carved from ice, his expression unreadable, his body rigid.

By the time they stepped into the grand hall, the silence had grown unbearable.

Amara turned toward the staircase, ready to disappear into her room, when his voice stopped her.

“Don’t walk away from me.”

She froze, her hand on the banister. His tone was calm, but beneath it, the steel was unmistakable.

Slowly, she turned to face him. “What else is there to say, Lucian? You made it clear—you don’t care.”

Something in his eyes snapped.

He crossed the space between them in long strides, his hand catching her wrist before she could retreat.

His grip was firm, not cruel, but heavy with restrained fury.

“You think I didn’t see it?” he demanded, his voice rough. “Him, sitting by her bed.

Acting like he belongs there. Acting like he belongs with you.”

Her heart pounded, but she refused to look away. “Because you left that space open, Lucian. You left me to carry it all alone, and he stepped in where you wouldn’t.”

His jaw tightened. “He’s using you.”

“Maybe,” she shot back. “But at least he doesn’t pretend I don’t matter.”

His breath hitched, his eyes blazing. “You think you don’t matter to me?”

She blinked, startled by the rawness in his tone. For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them, heavy and unsteady.

Then his grip loosened, his voice dropping lower. “You drive me insane, Amara.

You fight me, you defy me, and then you let him into places he doesn’t deserve.”

Her chest burned. “And what about you, Lucian? Do you deserve them? Do you deserve me?”

The words hung between them, sharp as glass.

Lucian’s hand moved from her wrist to her jaw, tilting her face up toward his.

His touch was rough, desperate. “I don’t know what I deserve,” he admitted through clenched teeth.

“But I know I can’t stand the thought of him touching what’s mine.”

Her breath caught. The nearness of him, the fire in his eyes—it pulled at her, even as his words stung.

“I’m not yours,” she whispered, though her voice trembled.

His thumb brushed her cheek, unsteady. “Then why does it feel like you are?”

For a moment, the world tilted—tension, fury, desire, all colliding in the space between them.

For a long moment, Amara stared at his back, her fists clenched at her sides.

She wanted to scream, to shake him, to force him to say the words she needed. But she didn’t.

Instead, she sat back down beside her mother, choosing the comfort of that fragile hand over the man who stood like a statue in the corner.

Lucian remained there, unmoving, watching both of them with an intensity he refused to voice.

Inside, his fury clawed at him—at Ethan, at Amara, at himself. But outwardly, he was stone.

Because if he let himself break, even for a second, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop.

Amara’s pulse raced, but she tore herself free, stepping back. Her voice was cold, steady. “Because you’ve convinced yourself possession is love. But it isn’t.”

Lucian stood there, his chest heaving, his fists clenched at his sides. For once, he had no reply.

Amara turned and walked away, her steps firm, her back straight.

This time, he didn’t stop her.

But the fire in his eyes promised—he wasn’t done.

Not by far.