Lucian Books And Wine Reviews Novels & Stories

"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?"

“I thought you were going to order the same thing.” “I have had the steak more than two times, it’s good but I was in the mood for lamb. I just wanted you to try it.” Our wine comes and the waiter pours a little into our glass. Luciano sips it and nods his approval to the waiter. He fills each glass half way and drops the bottle in the ice bucket before taking off. “I don’t know why i bought you that day. I did not even know there would be an auction. I dropped in to talk to Carter about a land issue.”

For Lucan to do something like that, it meant he was trying to fool him and everyone at the organization, so his location can't be accessed. ___ Meanwhile, Jason descended the creaking grand staircase again, his flashlight beam sweeping across the echoing foyer before settling on the library doors. Pushing them open, he stepped back into the room filled with the scent of decaying paper and leather. This time, he wasn't just scanning shelves. He moved along the walls lined with built-in bookcases, running his hands over the dark wood, feeling for seams, irregularities, anything out of place. He tapped panels, listened for unusual sounds. He pulled out a few strategically placed volumes, check

“Since when does a man handwrite nothing serious?” “Lucian—” “Go on, open it,” he said, voice tight. Eva hesitated, then broke the seal. Inside, the ink was careful, graceful — Alistair’s trademark. For a woman who carries truth like a torch — another mind worth your fire. A rare collection on postwar journalism, one I think you’ll devour. — A. Lucian gave a short, bitter laugh. “Of course. Books. Notes. Gifts. What’s next? A crown?”

My hands are still outstretched, and I can immediately tell that she isn't going to take my hand. I quickly withdraw it. “I believe that my outfit should be the least of your worries. But how about I order some good wine for us?” I ask, and I can immediately feel Lucien's eyes on me. “That's not why I call you here,” he is saying, but I am not even looking over at him. Giuliana looks between the both of us, and I see a small smirk leave her lips. “A La Tâche 2013, please,” she says, and I give her a small nod. Just as I am walking away, I hear Lucien speak up.

“Because you’re here to relax. And relaxing doesn’t mean staying cooped up like some crypt keeper.” Julian laughed. “Says the guy who hasn’t cracked a smile since the flight.” Lucian almost smiled then. Almost. Julian slowed his steps as they passed a wine-tasting booth. “I feel like you’re hiding something.” “I’m not,” Lucian said, grabbing a sample cup of wine and handing it to him. “You’re just not used to people doing things for you.” Julian took the wine but didn’t drink. “Is this about Cassiel?”

He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms against the counter. “Aiden was drunk,” he said calmly. “He didn’t know what he was saying.” I didn’t react. My eyes remained fixed on him. He continued gently. “You saw how much he drank.” His voice stayed steady. “Three glasses of that alcohol would make anyone lose their senses.” I swallowed slowly. My throat felt dry. “But he sounded very sure,” I said quietly. Lucian’s gaze held mine. “He wasn't,” he replied. “He was confused and angry.” He paused slightly. “And drunk.”

“Did I stutter?” That shut everyone up instantly. The attendant handed him the bottle so quickly she almost dropped it, and Lucian didn’t even give her a glance. He just took the wine with that controlled, effortless confidence he always had—like he was born knowing the world belonged to him. Then he uncorked the bottle again, tilted it toward my glass, and poured the dark red liquid with precision, like he’d done it a thousand times. “Drink,” he said. Not a suggestion. Not an offer. A command.

"You were halfway to the Dead Lands. One word from me, delivered by a child, and you’re back on your knees at my feet." Lucian turned his head, his nose brushing Phineas’s cheek. The smell of him—smoke, leather, and something primal—flooded Phineas’s senses. "Don't mistake loyalty for weakness, Phin." "I don't." Phineas pulled back, walking toward the small side table where two glasses of deep red wine sat. He picked them up, the crystal clinking softly. He handed one to Lucian. Lucian took it, his large hand dwarfing the glass. He didn't drink. "What's this? A final toast before the execution?"

she asked. Lucian pushed out a small smile. “Just had my men teach him a lesson,” he responded. “In what way?” she asked, and the fake smile vanished. “You don’t have to worry yourself about it, Princess,” Lucian shut down the conversation and walked away. He returned a few minutes later with two bottles of alcohol and a glass in his hands, sleeves rolled back. He returned to his seat, and Aurelia glanced at him as he opened the bottle. Her gaze rested on his veiny hands for a moment before she pulled herself together and looked away.