Lucian Books And Wine Reviews Novels & Stories

“I thought we deserved a nice dinner.” Finished work. The phrase twisted in my head. I wanted to ask what exactly he meant, what “work” looked like for him in the eastern city. Did he seize another village? Enslave more people? A waiter appeared with a bottle of neat whiskey. He poured a glass for me, more for himself. I stared at the amber liquid, its smell stirring old memories. “We can’t give the baby alcohol,” I muttered, eyeing the drink with a frown. Lucian chuckled softly. “It’s just a toast, Seliene. Half a glass, nothing more.”

“You can’t run the four-hundred-meter race and be somewhere else at the same time, it doesn't just work” Lucien was quiet for a moment. “No,” he said. “I suppose you can’t.” He said it like he wasn’t talking about running and Eli heard exactly what he meant. The shortbread tin got significantly lighter, and the conversation moved from the festival to a book Lucien had been reading that he described as competent but overrated. “You describe everything as competent but overrated,” Eli said. “That’s not true.” “Name one thing you’ve described as not overrated.” “Coffee and Mathematics” he replied immediately.

The room was a mess, with no light except for the sunlight peeking through the closed curtains. Lucian, who was sitting on the floor leaning against the bed, narrowed his eyes when he saw me enter. One of his hands was still holding a bottle of alcohol, while several empty bottles of well-known alcohol brands were scattered around him. I also saw several cigarette butts there. This was terrible. "Oh? Am I seeing things?" he muttered as he rubbed his eyes roughly. He was completely drunk. I didn't answer. I immediately placed the food tray on the nightstand and walked over to open the curtains.

I followed him out into the kitchen, where a small table had been set with an almost haunting precision. It was a strange, domestic sight in the middle of a shadow war. A bottle of vintage red wine, a plate of sliced bresaola, sharp Pecorino cheese, and crusty bread that looked hauntingly like the loaves I used to bake in Newark. Luciano poured two glasses of wine, the deep red liquid catching the light. He handed one to me, his fingers lingering against mine, a silent spark of electricity passing between us. "To the survivors," he said quietly. "And to the things they can't take from us."

Chapter 3 Lucian's POV I let out a deep sigh after going through the contents of the letter in my hand. “How was the meeting with the other Alpha and the Council Elders?” I asked my Beta and best friend Freya, who looked at me and gave out a tired sigh of her own.

Jessica replied with her voice down. The receptionist then brought out the wine and dropped it just in front of Lucian, who quickly opened it. Lucian began drinking from it slowly. “You shouldn't drink; it's not good for your health.” Lucian warns with a low tone. He drew his lips closer to Jessica and whispered into her ears, with the receptionist just smiling at them. “Let's just go back up, please, but if you don't want to, then I won't be forcing you.” Lucian spoke with a light smile on his face.

She looked up at Lucian, her breath catching in her throat. Lucian didn't look at Kira. His gaze remained locked entirely on Yolande's face. He took a slow sip of the deep red wine, and as he lowered the glass, his tongue slowly darted out, licking a lingering crimson drop from his beautifully sculpted lips. The casual, intensely sensual gesture sent a violent wave of heat straight to Yolande’s lower stomach. "Yes," Lucian murmured, his deep baritone vibrating with a raw, heavy gravity. "The world became entirely too loud, and she was the only quiet place left."

It was almost midnight when Lucian was sitting on the floor, leaning his back against his bed with the wine bottle in his hand. He tried to forget the sadness and pain in his heart by getting drunk, but it was no use. His heart was still crying in pain. Lucian didn't care when Albert entered his room. He kept drinking the wine that was in the bottle in his hand. Albert sighed with sadness and worry in his eyes, seeing Lucian like this. He crouched down near him, staring at him. “Young master, please stop drinking. You haven't eaten your dinner. You must eat now or you'll get sick,” he said in worry.

"Whatever, set it down. Let's eat." "Wait, you're not impressed," he frowned, taking in my bored expression. "Do you know what kind of wine this is?" I gave him a blank look. "Tell me what kind." "This is Cruz wine Scarlett. Vintage classic red wine," he held the bottle out in front of him, dangling it as if that was going to make me know the value. "Okay, it's vintage wine great," I shrugged. "Let's have our food now." Luca gave up and then came to take his seat, but then the moment he took his fork, he said, "do you realize that I'm opening up my most special and treasured wine because of you and you're so nonchalant?"

"I have never missed a dose. Every morning, like clockwork. I don't leave things to chance." "And yet, here we are," Lucian countered, stepping right into her space. The overwhelming scent of his damp skin and expensive soap crowded her senses. He held the test up between them. "Logic says there's a variable. Did you forget? One night of too much wine? One morning where you were in too much of a rush?"