He didn't ask.
He just took her hand.
Led her down the back stairs of the hotel, away from the body, the blood, and the fear.
And she let him.
Because tonight wasn't about trust.
It was about survival.
Lucien didn't speak as they drove. The city blurred past in silence — flashing lights, rain-slicked streets, sirens in the distance. His grip on the wheel was tight, his knuckles still stained red.
He didn't look at her once.
And she didn't ask where they were going.
Not until the car turned off the main road, past a wrought-iron gate, up a private hillside driveway shrouded in trees.
They stopped in front of a stone-and-glass villa — modern, sleek, quiet. The kind of place where the world couldn't reach.
"My safehouse," he said simply. "No one knows it exists."
He opened her door. Waited for her to step out.
And when she did, she realized something terrifying:
This was the first place he brought her without controlling the moment.
No bodyguards.
No rules.
No manipulation.
Just them.
The inside of the house was silent. Clean. Expensive. But… personal.
Books on shelves. A piano in the corner. A photo on the wall of Lucien as a child — laughing, carefree, beside a woman with gentle eyes.
She paused. "Your mother?"
He nodded once.
"She died a few months after that photo. Cancer."
Ariella swallowed. "I'm sorry."
Lucien's voice was low. "She was the only softness I ever knew."
A heavy pause.
Then he looked at her.
"I never meant to hurt you."
"But you did."
"I know."
She stepped forward, heart pounding. "Then tell me why you pulled me out of that hotel tonight. Why you showed up. Why you didn't let me go."
Lucien stared at her like he was drowning in everything he'd never said.
"Because I would rather destroy myself," he whispered, "than let anyone else touch you."
The words broke something open inside her.
And before she could think—before either of them could run—she closed the space between them and kissed him.
This time, it wasn't about punishment.
Or proving a point.
It was surrender.
Lucien's hands gripped her waist, then slid up her back as he pressed her against the wall. His mouth was fire, his breath ragged, his restraint gone.
Her fingers tore at his shirt.
His lips trailed down her neck.
Her moan echoed in the quiet house like a secret finally released.
They moved blindly to the bedroom, shedding tension, pain, and clothes along the way.
When he laid her on the bed, it wasn't a claim.
It was a confession.
Because every touch was desperate. Every kiss an apology. Every breath a promise he didn't know how to say out loud.
And when it was over — when their bodies calmed and the silence returned — Lucien lay beside her, arm across her bare waist, forehead pressed to hers.
"I'm not good at this," he murmured. "I ruin things."
She touched his face. "Then don't ruin me."
His eyes met hers — vulnerable, raw, human.
"I'll try."