Chapter 5

“Normal is an illusion. What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly.”

— Charles Addams.

CAMELLIA

Lucien.

Of course his name sounded like an overpriced candle or a perfume ad. Because God forbid he be named Paul or Dave.

“Clear the room.”

Big, brawny men with tattoos curling across their arms and chests like Lucien’s own ink filed out immediately. Not a word, not a glance. Just silence and obedience that made my skin crawl.

Lucien stood bare-chested, every muscle carved like stone, coiled and ready, the kind of body that radiated power without effort.

His broad shoulders and thick, toned arms moved with predator-like precision, and his chest rose and fell under skin that hinted at both strength and raw control. He didn’t just whisper danger; he exuded it in every motion.

I should have been intimidated, but I couldn’t look away.

He stepped closer—close enough that our noses nearly brushed—and I felt the warmth radiate off him. He leaned in and sniffed my hair.

“You used vanilla today,” he murmured.

Okay. Mildly concerned had just escalated to very concerned.

“Good hands,” he said next, brushing his fingers over mine, knuckles grazing my skin. “Strong fingers.”

I tried to pull my gaze on his face, but his body, his presence, made it nearly impossible. For one brief second, I forgot exactly why I had come here.

“I just want you to stop with the gifts.”

I yanked my hand away and stepped back, giving myself what I hoped was enough space to breathe.

He tilted his head, amusement curling his lips, and let out a low, throaty chuckle.

“Why?”

I arched a brow, irritation curling beneath my skin at how unserious he made me seem. What exactly was so funny?

But then again, I was standing in a house full of odd people. It would be weird if their leader wasn’t a little unhinged.

“What do you mean, why?” I asked sharply. “You barge into my life, get me fired, and then stalk me with gifts like you’re Cupid on steroids—”

“Ugh,” a groan from behind me interrupted, dripping with sarcasm. “Those damn rogues. One of them nearly bit off my finger, and I had to return the favor.”

I spun.

A tall man appeared, covered in blood and sweat, twirling a severed finger like it was a drumstick. His tank top stuck to his skin, half his hair plastered to his forehead, grinning like this was all perfectly normal.

Logic abandoned me. I should have screamed. I should have bolted. But somehow, I was still standing.

He sniffed the finger, grimaced as he sniffed his own armpit, then sniffed the finger again, like this made sense. Then his eyes found mine, and he pointed the bloody finger like it was a microphone.

“Ayee, my boy Rowan was right. Human girls do like expensive things.”

I glanced at Lucien, expecting shock. He wasn’t shocked. He looked at me softly, worriedly, as though I was the fragile element here.

Oh, so this was normal. Just a typical weekday in a mansion full of men sculpted like Greek tragedies and saturated with murder vibes.

I bolted.

I dashed for the door, ignoring the muffled argument behind me followed by a thud that sounded suspiciously like a body hitting the floor.

Oh my God. He killed him. He actually killed him and I was next.

I sprinted past the porch, thorny bushes, and two tattooed giants playing chess on a tree stump, with my lungs on fire, heart hammering, adrenaline screaming. The wind whipped past my ears, sharp and electric.

Like someone had cracked a whip through the wind, and suddenly, the men jumped to their feet with pure, reactive obedience as they scattered like they were given a silent order.

Freedom. Almost.

Then one of the guards stepped out of the shadows, blocking my path. My relief evaporated in an instant.

I didn’t even think. I twisted and ran toward the nearest structure, a low wooden cabin, the door flung wide as if it had been waiting for me.

Inside, my body froze.

He claimed her with ruthless force, pulling her back so her spine arched like a taut bow.

Right there, on a table that looked like it had signed a consent form under duress, were two people deep in what could only be described as sin.

Skin met skin in a wet, rhythmic slap that echoed through the cabin, punctuated by gasps and moans that scraped at the air.

Her breasts bounced with every snap of his hips, nipples brushing against him as he gripped her thighs, dragging her closer, deeper.

Every shudder was raw, desperate desire, and I felt it press against my own pulse, leaving me flushed, breathless, caught in the heat of something I couldn’t, and didn’t want to, look away from.

Blood of Jesus.

“This way.”

A hand gripped mine, pulling me out before my legs even realized what was happening. My savior was blonde, tall, leather jacket, broad back with precise movement, effortlessly commanding. I didn’t see his face yet, just motion and control.

At this point, if he planned to kill me, I’d help him dig the grave.

Outside, the men froze. The stranger shielded me with a casual arm, his voice calm.

“Move.”

Well damn, now we’re both going to die.

Poor Lilah. Birthday dresses forgotten. Trauma incoming.

“I said, move.” His voice dropped an octave. He gently nudged me farther behind him, and like the untrained ragdoll I was, I obeyed.

“We don’t answer to you,” one of them muttered, but the confidence in his voice didn’t match the energy on his face.

I hadn’t even had sex yet. Bobby was going to mock me at my funeral.

The man in front of me said something, a low murmur that didn’t sound like English, but whatever it was, it worked. The men stepped back immediately, fear scrawled across their faces.

Freedom?

I finally saw him. Green eyes, sharp jaw, smirk sharper. Blonde hair soft against the chaos, but his stance told me he could crush me without trying. God-tier genetics, calm, coiled, dangerous.

“Thank you,” I muttered, still catching my breath.

He smirked, amused, stepping aside like he was opening gates to heaven or hell.

“I’d say my pleasure, but the consequences aren’t settled yet.”

“Does my savior have a name?” I asked, more sarcastic than flirty, because my body had already forgotten we were running for our lives five seconds ago.

He leaned back, arms folded, relaxed yet lethal.

“I usually don’t give my name before the damage,” he said, voice smooth enough to bottle and sell. His grin turned flirtatious. Dangerous.

“But Darius to you, love.”

I forced myself to take a shaky breath, ready to step out of the cabin and finally taste freedom.

My foot hovered over the threshold before I felt the calculated movement behind me.

Darius.

His broad frame pressed me back just slightly, a silent warning, shielding me without words.

Relief and alarm tangled in my chest; I hadn’t even realized how close I’d stepped to danger.

And then my eyes caught the shadow stretching across the doorway beyond him.

Lucien.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, lean and coiled, every muscle taut, every inch of him radiating a predator’s calm. My stomach tightened, a knot of fear and something else I wasn’t supposed to admit.

I wanted to step back, to run, to convince myself I hadn’t seen him, but Darius’ hand still hovered near mine, a quiet anchor. My heart thundered, caught between the stranger who saved me and the man whose mere presence made the air feel heavier, hotter, impossible.

Freedom was within reach, but so was the pull I couldn’t resist.