Chapter Four: The Wound Beneath the Suit

The sound of shattering glass came just after midnight.

Emilia shot upright in her bed, heart thudding.

Another crash. This one is closer.

She grabbed her robe and crept out of her room, bare feet soft against the marble floor. The house was dark, eerily so. Only the faint glow from the study door spilled into the hall.

It was open.

Inside, Lucien stood with his back to her. One hand gripped the edge of the desk. The other was bloodied, dripping slowly onto the floor. A broken glass lay in shards beside him.

She forgot herself.

“Sir…”

He turned sharply. “I told you to stay in your room.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“It’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing.”

She stepped in before he could argue, grabbing a cloth from the cabinet in the corner. “Sit.”

He didn’t move.

She raised her eyes to him. “Please.”

For a moment, he stared at her like he might refuse. But then, without a word, he sank into the leather chair.

Emilia knelt in front of him, gently taking his hand.

The cut ran across his palm, deep enough to sting. She cleaned it in silence, her fingers light, careful.

Lucien watched her.

The way her brow furrowed in focus. The way her lips pressed together when she was nervous. The way her touch didn’t flinch, even when his blood stained her skin.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he said quietly.

She looked up, startled. “Should I be?”

He didn’t answer.

So she did.

“I was,” she said. “But not like this. Not when you’re bleeding. Not when you’re… human.”

That word hung between them.

Human.

He chuckled once, a sound like gravel. “No one’s called me that in a long time.”

She met his gaze, the cloth still in her hand. “Then maybe they’ve never looked properly.”

Lucien leaned forward suddenly, his face inches from hers.

“You don’t know what I’ve done.”

“I don’t need to.”

“You should.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s dangerous to care about monsters.”

The words were soft, broken.

And Emilia, without thinking, whispered back, 

“Then maybe the monster needs someone who still cares.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Electric.

Lucien’s breath caught.

Her hands still held his.

For one insane second, he almost leaned in.

But then he stood, fast. The chair scraped back, and he turned away.

“This was a mistake,” he said, voice hard again. Cold. “Go back to your room.”

Emilia hesitated.

Then she rose slowly, the bloodied cloth still clutched in her fingers.

At the door, she looked back.

“I’ll come check it tomorrow,” she said gently. “In case it reopens.”

He didn’t respond.

Didn’t move.

But when she was gone, Lucien looked down at the spot where she had knelt, her warmth still lingering like a curse he couldn’t shake.

And he hated the way his chest ached after she left.

***

The next morning, Emilia rose early.

She didn’t wait for Rosa’s summons. She went straight to the study with clean bandages and a quiet determination she didn’t quite understand.

He didn’t answer when she knocked.

So she opened the door slowly, and froze.

Lucien wasn’t alone.

Two men stood across from him, one of them the same smug one from yesterday, the one who’d touched her. The other looked older, quieter, but his voice carried low and sharp like a knife.

“She’s just a girl,” the older man said. “Why keep her here?”

Lucien sat behind the desk, his fingers steepled. His expression is unreadable.

“She’s not just a girl.”

The younger one scoffed. “She’s the daughter of a traitor, isn’t she? Her father tried to run with your money. And now you’re keeping her like a trophy?”

Emilia’s breath caught.

Lucien’s voice dropped, cold and final. “She’s under my protection.”

“Why?” the older man pressed. “This isn’t like you, Lucien. You don’t keep the children of men who betray you. You bury them.”

A long silence.

Then Lucien said, slowly, “Because she didn’t ask to be part of any of this. And because there are worse things in this world than owing a debt.”

“She’s leverage.”

“She’s not.”

“She’s soft,” the younger man said, sneering. “Too soft. You’ll get yourself killed if you keep letting your guard down.”

“I’m not the one who should be worried about dying.”

The threat in Lucien’s voice made Emilia shiver.

The two men didn’t argue again. They left, boots heavy against the marble floor.

Emilia ducked into the next hallway before they could see her. She pressed a hand to her chest, her heart thudding like a drum.

Daughter of a traitor.

She didn’t remember her father. Barely even had a name for him. He’d died when she was a child, at least that’s what she was told.

But now…

Now she wasn’t sure of anything.

That evening, she found Lucien alone in the garden again.

He didn’t hear her at first. He was sitting on the bench, head tilted back, eyes closed. For a moment, he looked peaceful. Young.

Then he said, without opening his eyes, “You were listening.”

She froze.

“I didn’t mean to…”

“I know.”

He looked at her now. “How much did you hear?”

“Enough.”

Lucien’s jaw tightened. “I suppose you hate me now.”

She stepped closer. “Why would I?”

His brows lifted, amused. “Because I keep you in a house you didn’t choose. Because I let dangerous men talk about you like you’re property. Because I’ve killed people.”

“I think…” She hesitated. “I think you’re the only one in this house who hasn’t treated me like I’m nothing.”

He looked at her then, truly looked.

And for the first time, his voice softened. “You remind me of someone I lost.”

Emilia sat beside him, careful not to get too close.

“Who?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared at the dying roses.

But then, quietly, he asked, “If I let you go… what would you do?”

She blinked. “You want to let me go?”

“I didn’t say that.” His voice was distant. “But if I did?”

Emilia looked down at her hands. “I don’t know. I don’t know what’s out there for me.”

Silence stretched between them.

And then he whispered, “Neither do I.”