Chapter 4 :The Man I Wasn't Supposed to Trust

"About me."

Lucien's words hung between us.

I stared at him.

Then I laughed.

Not because anything was funny.

Because sometimes your brain doesn't know what else to do when your entire understanding of reality decides to collapse at once.

"That's your answer?"

"Yes."

"You're the villain."

"I didn't say that."

"You practically did."

"I said you shouldn't trust me."

"That's worse."

He looked at the photograph in my hand.

"Give it to me."

"No."

"Serena."

"No."

He held out his hand.

I tucked the photograph against my chest.

"You're going to have to do better than that."

His eyes narrowed.

"You're enjoying this."

"Not even slightly."

"Liar."

"Maybe."

He stepped closer.

I didn't move.

There was something infuriating about the way he could make a room feel smaller without touching anything.

"Give me the photograph."

"Why?"

"Because you don't know what it means."

"Then tell me."

"I can't."

"Of course."

I turned away.

He caught my arm.

I spun around.

"Don't."

His grip loosened immediately.

"Sorry."

The apology surprised me.

So did the expression on his face.

For a second, Lucien didn't look like the cold, untouchable man everyone in the city seemed to fear.

He looked tired.

Not physically.

Something deeper.

Like he'd been carrying a secret for so long that it had become part of his bones.

I softened despite myself.

"Who was she?"

He looked at me.

"Who?"

"The little girl."

His silence answered before he did.

"You."

My heart skipped.

"I know that."

"No."

He stepped closer.

"That isn't what I mean."

I frowned.

"The photograph was taken seventeen years ago."

"Yes."

"I was seven."

"Yes."

"So what's confusing?"

His eyes stayed on mine.

"The girl in that photograph disappeared."

I went still.

"What?"

"You disappeared from this house."

"But I grew up."

"I know."

"Then what are you saying?"

Lucien looked toward the door.

"I'm saying that nobody knows how you left."

A cold sensation crawled up my spine.

"My mother took me."

"Your mother disappeared too."

"Maybe she took me somewhere."

"Maybe."

"Then why don't I remember this place?"

"Because someone made sure you wouldn't."

I stared at him.

"Who?"

He didn't answer.

I stepped closer.

"Who?"

"My father."

The room seemed to tilt.

"Why would your father erase my memories?"

Lucien's jaw tightened.

"He wasn't a good man."

"I already know that."

"You don't know enough."

"Then tell me."

"I've spent years trying to."

"Trying to what?"

"Find you."

My breath caught.

"What?"

His voice became quieter.

"After my father died, I found records. Photographs. Letters."

He looked at me.

"Your name appeared everywhere."

I couldn't speak.

"Why didn't you contact me?"

"I didn't know where you were."

"You found me now."

"I didn't."

My brow furrowed.

"What?"

Lucien glanced toward the photograph.

"You came here."

"I applied for a job."

"Exactly."

A chill went through me.

"You're saying someone sent me here?"

"I'm saying I don't believe in coincidences anymore."

I looked at the photograph again.

Three people.

My mother.

Gabriel Blackwood.

And me.

There was something written in the corner.

A date.

Then underneath it, in faded ink:

The binding begins tonight.

I looked up.

"What does that mean?"

Lucien's expression changed.

"Where did you find that?"

"On the photograph."

He took it from my hand.

His fingers brushed mine.

Neither of us moved.

Then he looked down.

The handwriting on the back seemed to disturb him more than anything else had.

"Lucien?"

He folded the photograph.

"Forget you saw this."

I laughed.

"Are you kidding?"

"Serena."

"No."

I stepped toward him.

"You don't get to drag me into this house, tell me my mother disappeared, show me a photograph of myself that I shouldn't exist in, and then tell me to forget it."

"I didn't drag you here."

"You knew I was coming."

"I suspected."

"You knew."

He looked at me.

"Yes."

"Why?"

His answer came quietly.

"Because I dreamed about you."

I blinked.

"What?"

"Before you arrived."

I stared at him.

"You dreamed about me?"

"Every night."

Something warm moved through my stomach.

I hated it.

"What kind of dream?"

His eyes held mine.

"You standing in this room."

My heart beat harder.

"What else?"

"You were older."

"Obviously."

"You were angry."

"Also obvious."

A faint smile appeared.

"You were always angry."

I narrowed my eyes.

"You've got a lot of opinions for someone who barely speaks."

His smile disappeared.

"In the dreams, you always asked me the same question."

"What question?"

He stepped closer.

His voice dropped.

"Why did you let me go?"

My breath caught.

I didn't know what to say.

Because somewhere beneath the fear, beneath the questions, beneath every rational part of me—

something about those words felt familiar.

I looked away.

"I don't remember you."

"I know."

"Then why does it feel like I should?"

He didn't answer.

I looked back at him.

He was closer now.

Much closer.

Close enough that I could feel the warmth of his breath.

"Lucien."

"Yes?"

"Are you afraid of me?"

His eyes dropped to my lips.

"No."

"Then why do you keep backing away?"

"Because I'm trying to do the right thing."

I almost smiled.

"You're terrible at it."

His gaze returned to mine.

"You have no idea.