Chapter 3: The Scar

The heavy brass deadbolt clicked with the sound of a firing pin.

I yanked the silk strap of my nightgown up, frantically covering the jagged incision and the black numbers tattooed across my collarbone just as the bedroom door swung open.

Lucien stepped into the room, filling the space with his suffocating presence. He had changed out of the ruined, blood-spattered suit. Now, dressed in dark tailored slacks and a black dress shirt rolled up to his forearms, the sheer power of his physique was even more intimidating. He carried a silver tray holding a crystal glass of water and two unmarked white pills.

"You locked me in," I accused, my voice trembling but vicious. I backed away until my spine hit the cold marble of the vanity behind me.

"I secured the room," Lucien corrected effortlessly. His dark eyes swept over me with predatory precision. He didn't miss a single detail—my racing pulse visible in my throat, my white-knuckled grip on the vanity edge, and the naked platinum ring abandoned on the marble counter.

His gaze snapped to the ring. The temperature in the room instantly plummeted.

"Put it back on." The command was soft, but it carried the weight of a physical blow.

"I am not your dog," I spat, my heart hammering violently against my ribs. "I'm not wearing your collar. I want my clothes, I want my purse, and I am walking out that door."

"You are doing none of those things." Lucien set the tray down on a heavy oak nightstand. He closed the distance between us in three long strides.

I tried to dart sideways, but he slammed both hands flat onto the vanity on either side of my hips, trapping me in a cage of pure, unyielding muscle. He leaned in, close enough that I could smell the faint trace of smoke and peppermint on his breath.

"You sustained a traumatic brain injury tonight, Nadia. Someone intentionally ran your car off a bridge. If I let you walk out that door, whoever tried to drown you will finish the job."

"You're the only one keeping me prisoner!" I screamed, pushing desperately against his chest. It was like shoving a concrete pillar. "How do I know *you* didn't drive me off that bridge? How do I know you aren't trying to kill me?"

Lucien’s jaw tightened so hard I heard his teeth grind. A flash of genuine, terrifying rage darkened his eyes. "If I wanted you dead, my wife, you would be dead. You wouldn't be standing in my bedroom, shivering in my nightgown."

He reached down, his long fingers brushing against the cold marble to pick up the heavy, vulgar diamond ring.

"Give me your hand."

"No." I curled my fingers into fists, tucking my left hand behind my back.

Lucien didn't yell. He didn't force my arm. He simply stared down at me with a gaze so dark and calculating it stripped me bare. "You are terrified. You are looking for a way out. But until you remember why you begged me to marry you, I am the only thing standing between you and a morgue slab. Now, give me your hand, or I will put this ring back on your finger myself."

A cold sweat broke out on the back of my neck. I couldn't fight him physically. If I provoked him further, he might discover the code carved into my flesh. The note in my pocket warned me he was the enemy. I needed him to drop his guard.

Slowly, my entire body shaking with revulsion, I brought my left hand forward.

Lucien’s expression softened imperceptibly. He took my trembling fingers in his massive, calloused hand. The contrast was startling—the sheer violence of him against my pale skin. With agonizing slowness, he slid the heavy platinum band back onto my ring finger.

As the ice-cold metal settled into place, a sudden, inexplicable jolt shot up my arm.

It wasn't a memory. It was an instinct. My thumb subconsciously twitched, grazing his knuckles in a motion so familiar, so terribly intimate, that my own body betrayed me.

Lucien froze. His breath hitched, his thumb pressing hard into my pulse point. For a split second, the monster vanished, replaced by a man looking at me with such raw, devastating desperation that it made my chest physically ache.

"You're in there," he whispered, his voice cracking with a painful vulnerability. "You remember."

I ripped my hand away as if he had burned me. "I remember nothing."

The vulnerability in his eyes vanished, icing over instantly. He stepped back, a mask of total, terrifying detachment falling back into place.

"Take your medication," he ordered coldly, gesturing to the tray. "There are clothes in the closet. The bathroom is through that door. You have ten minutes to make yourself presentable before my security team comes up to brief us."

He turned on his heel and strode toward the bedroom door.

"Wait," I called out, my voice cracking under the immense pressure. "If I'm really your wife... give me a phone. Let me call my best friend. Let me hear Elise's voice. If she tells me this is real, I'll stop fighting you."

Lucien paused at the door. Without looking back, he reached into his pocket, pulled out a sleek black smartphone, and tossed it onto the bed.

"Call whoever you want," he said flatly. "But she won't answer."

The heavy door clicked shut behind him, the deadbolt engaging with a sickening thud.

I lunged for the phone. My hands shook violently as I swiped the screen. It wasn't locked.

I didn't call Elise.

Instead, I opened the keypad. My mind raced back to the jagged numbers tattooed over the surgical incision on my collarbone. It was an eleven-digit sequence. Exactly the length of a phone number.

I typed the numbers in, my thumb hovering over the glass screen: 0-7-5-5-5-8-2-9-1-4-1.

I didn't even have to press dial.

The moment the last digit was entered, the phone recognized the sequence. A contact name flashed onto the bright screen.

My breath caught in my throat. I stared at the name, the room spinning wildly out of control, the phone nearly slipping from my sweaty grip.

The phone number carved into my own flesh belonged to Adrian Moreau.

The man who had shattered my life five years ago. And the one man I knew Lucien Voss despised more than anyone else in the entire world.