In His Clutches

I came to with a gasp, sharp and sudden like breaking through the surface of deep water. The cold clung to me. It soaked my bones, curled into my lungs, and settled behind my eyes like frost. My limbs were heavy, sluggish, as though I’d been swimming through snowdrifts in a dream I couldn’t claw my way out of.

Stone pressed against my back. Smooth. Cold. Familiar in a way that made dread twist in my stomach. My arms were stretched above me—bound. Chains, silver-wrought, humming with enchantments. I could feel them burning faintly against my wrists, draining the strength from me one drop at a time.

The room was dim, lit only by the flickering glow of a hearth tucked into the far wall. The fire burned low, its flames more for show than warmth, casting dancing shadows across the high vaulted ceiling and the towering bookshelves that lined the walls. Everything about this place was too quiet. Too deliberate.

And then I smelled him.

Not blood. Not decay. No, Lucien Arceneaux always smelled like midnight rain and the first breath after a kiss—intoxicating in a way that made my mouth dry and my instincts scream. He was here. He’d been watching me.

“You sleep like the dead,” came his voice—low, amused, maddeningly close.

I turned my head. Slowly. Carefully.

He stood by the fire, hands clasped behind his back, posture perfect and still as ever. The light kissed the edge of his cheekbone, catching the glint in his black eyes. He was dressed in the same dark clothes I’d seen him in before, though now his collar was slightly open, the line of his throat exposed like bait.

He looked unbothered. Relaxed, even. But I knew better. Lucien was a serpent coiled beneath silk.

“How long?” I asked, my voice rough, cracked at the edges.

“Just a few hours,” he said, finally turning toward me. “I thought about waking you sooner, but you looked so… peaceful. I’ve never seen you so still.”

I yanked at the chains on instinct. They clinked, tight and unmoving, the silver burning hot for one brief, punishing moment. I hissed but didn’t give him the satisfaction of a groan.

“I should’ve killed you in that chapel,” I said.

“You should’ve,” he agreed, stepping closer. “But you didn’t. And we both know why.”

He was in front of me now. Too close. I could see the tiny, ancient scars on his hands, the faint shimmer of the rune ink just beneath the skin of his wrists. Power hummed off him like heat from the fire. I could feel it curling around me, just shy of touch.

“I came here to end you,” I said, lifting my chin. “That hasn’t changed.”

Lucien studied me for a long moment. His gaze dipped to my lips, then slowly, dangerously, rose back to my eyes. Under his scrutiny, I suddenly became aware of how vulnerable I truly was. The tan flesh of my palms curled around nothing, no weapon or claws to defend myself with. He had unbuttoned my blouse to expose the bleeding skin of my neck, leaving my cleavage visible atop my corset.

“You say that,” he said, almost thoughtfully, "but you keep giving me chances. Is it mercy, Arabella? Or curiosity?”

I swallowed, and hated how dry my throat felt. Hated that he could still affect me like this, even now.

“You really want to test what happens when I stop showing mercy?” I said, voice like a blade drawn in the dark.

That earned a soft laugh from him. He leaned in slightly, just enough for me to feel his breath brush my cheek.

“Oh, Arabella,” he whispered. “I’ve always wanted to see what you do when you stop holding back.”

His breath ghosted over my skin, maddening in its nearness. Every instinct in me screamed to recoil, to spit a threat into his face, to remind him I wasn’t something to be toyed with. But my body betrayed me. A shiver danced down my spine, sharp and involuntary.

Lucien smiled as if he felt it. He probably did. Bastard.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, his voice a velvet blade. “Is it the chains… or me?”

I met his gaze and forced a sneer. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, I don’t need to,” he said, his tone dipping low. “Not when your heartbeat sings every truth your mouth won’t say.”

He reached out, fingertips brushing the edge of my jaw. I flinched, not because I feared him, but because I feared the heat that bloomed under my skin at his touch. It had always been this way with Lucien—violence tangled with hunger, fury laced with something more primal. Dangerous.

I turned my face away, straining against the silver that held me.

“You really think you can seduce me into forgetting what you are?” I asked, voice sharp.

“I don’t want you to forget,” he said. “I want you to remember everything. Every hunt. Every wound. Every time you swore you’d kill me—and didn’t. I want you to remember the taste of what we could be if you’d stop lying to yourself.”

I laughed, bitter and low. “Is that it? You want a lover instead of an enemy?”

“If you think this is seduction, you're going to struggle terribly over the next few days, my Belle."

He stepped closer. I could feel the heat of him now—his power, his body, his presence. It wrapped around me, a living thing, seductive and terrible. His hand rested just above the hollow of my throat, not touching, but close enough to feel the tension coil between us like a drawn bowstring.

“I’ve lived long enough to know real desire when I see it,” he whispered. “And what you feel for me, Arabella, is not something you walk away from. It’s the kind of need that eats you alive. You've devoted your entire life to me. The poets would find it terribly romantic.”

“Then I’ll burn with it,” I said, breath catching. “But I’ll drag you into the fire with me.”

His eyes flared—amused, intrigued, but not mocking. He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of my ear.

“Darling,” he said, “I’ve been burning for you for years.”

My pulse spiked. I hated it. I hated him. I hated how badly I wanted him to say more.

Instead, I said nothing, because anything I said would be a crack in the wall I couldn’t afford to let fall.

Lucien drew back just enough to meet my eyes. “So what happens now?” he asked, like he didn’t already know. “Do I free you? Let you try to kill me again? Or do I show you what it means to surrender... not to me, but to this?”

He gestured between us, subtle but clear.

“I’d rather die,” I said, but my voice was hoarse, the lie barely holding its weight.

“Then die,” he whispered, eyes locked on mine. “But do it in my arms.”

And with that, he leaned in—slow, deliberate—giving me every chance to pull away.

But I didn’t.

Not yet.