Romans & histoires Lucian Books And Wine Reviews

Adrian was a cold hard man that drove Lucian without mercy. Lucian stepped into Adrian’s study and shook his head. Even here, with the supposedly brown hues and leather furniture, was a feeling of cold ambition. He stood in the middle of the room and looked around himself, not sure where to start. Tier upon tier of books lined the study walls. Paintings done by the Masters hung perfectly as though someone had just straightened them. On the desk, everything was cleared off except for a picture of Lucian, in cap and gown with a far off look on his face. He wondered now what he was thinking at That time.

Looked at the south garden through the study window—the September version, the bones of the bed visible, beautiful in a different way. On a Friday evening she found Lucian in the kitchen at a time she hadn't expected. Not making coffee. Not standing at the window. At the table—the small one—with something in his hands, she didn't immediately recognize. She came in and looked. A book. Small. Old. The cover worn to the particular quality that said: read many times over many years. A children's book—the kind that began as a children's book and became something else through repeated reading. He looked up when she came in.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” “I am not hungry.” I made sure to full-up on energy before coming. I planned to spend the night engrossed in sexual activities. Therefore, I ate, took a shower, and loosened up. Too bad I wasted all that time shaving and preparing. I opened the red wine and started drinking. “Suit yourself.” Lucian dug into his meal. He finished his food, eating almost everything on the trolley. As I remembered, he was a heavy eater. When the bottle of red wine finished, he clasped my hand and tugged me with him up the stairs.

“Still lurking where you’re not wanted, I see.” Alistair tsked. “Oh, but I’m always wanted somewhere, darling. Unlike you. Some of us know how to be diplomatic.” He took a slow sip of his wine. “Besides, it’s not my fault the Holy Order has its knives out for your precious little house.” Lucian didn’t blink. “And you came here out of the goodness of your heart?”

He knew for sure the little Apple beside him certainly had a soft spot for him. Oddly enough he didn't mind. Raine finally gathered courage to speak again. “Are there any more questions?” Lucian hummed softly,“I already asked them.” Raine blinked,“Oh… okay.” Lucian calmly took a sip from his wine. Raine finally relaxed slightly, she watched him take another sip, her eyes widened a bit at how relaxed he looked. She thought she was the only one who didn't like the wine. Her attention drifted back to the dancing nobles, then curiosity got the better of her.

“You’re not disabled, Selene. Sit down.” “Alphas and their pride,” I grumbled, sinking into the chair, but a smile tugged at my lips. Dinner started quiet, just the clink of forks and the crackle of the fire. The wine was dark, sweet, like berries kissed by moonlight, and I drank deep, letting it warm me, soften the edges of the day. Lucien watched, his eyes steady, and after my third glass, he leaned back, one brow arched. “you should really go easy on the wine?”

Cynthia saw Isabella walking right into her trap and asked, “Since you like red wine, you must know quite a bit about it. Can you tell us about the origin and characteristics of this particular wine?” Isabella hesitated. She could tell the wine had a lingering grape fragrance and a unique bitterness, but detailing its origin was a bit challenging. Facing Cynthia’s provocation, Lucius remained calm, took the wine from Isabella’s hand, and took a small sip. He lifted his eyes and disdainfully replied, “Lafite, 1988. It’s from Italy.” Samuel, who was accompanying Cynthia, was taken aback. Lucius had actually got it right. Could he really be an expert?

That evening, as the sun fell behind the cliff walls of the vineyard, Lucien joined Seraphina in the tasting room, where the finest vintages were stored and tasted by ambassadors and moguls alike. He poured her a glass of the 1998 Nero d'Avola. She sipped, then looked at him. “They’ll retaliate.” “I hope they do.” “You’re provoking war.” “I’m inviting clarity.” She set the glass down. “If they strike back—hard—will you stop holding back?” Lucien’s eyes darkened. “I never hold back. I calculate.” “Even with me?” He took her hand, kissed her wrist gently. “With you,” he said, “I try not to miscalculate.”