Escape (Sort Of)

I waited.

Waited for his guard to drop, even for a second—for that ever-so-human moment when desire dulled caution. And it came, as it always did. His eyes flicked to my mouth, lingering just a breath too long, and I moved.

I twisted hard, a snarl tearing from my throat as I threw my weight into the silver chains. Pain flared, searing where the enchanted metal met flesh, but I welcomed it. I’d lived in pain. I’d trained in it. The chain over my right wrist gave just enough for me to wrench my hand free, blood slicking my skin as I dropped low and reached for the hidden blade in my boot—the one no one ever found.

My fingers curled around the hilt, and I lunged upward in one fluid motion, the blade aimed straight for Lucien’s heart.

But he caught my wrist before I even got close.

Steel and ice—that was what his grip felt like. His other hand clamped down around mine, twisting the blade away with the ease of someone who had seen this move a hundred times. His eyes, those bottomless black wells, flared with something dark and furious.

“Still the same dance,” he muttered, voice low, dangerous. “Still you.”

I bared my teeth. “I’m not here to dance. I’m here to kill you.”

“Then perhaps you should stop making it so easy for me to win,” he said, and with a sharp twist, the dagger clattered to the floor between us, useless.

His hand shifted from my wrist to my throat—not crushing, not even threatening, just… there. A stillness meant to hold me. His thumb brushed my pulse, not by accident. A reminder. Of what he was. Of what he could do. Of how close I was to death—and something else entirely.

I wanted to spit in his face. I wanted to hate the way my breath quickened, the way heat coiled low in my belly. But I couldn’t deny what lingered between us: old tension sharpened by too many near-deaths and not enough distance.

And then, the door flew open.

“Well, this is dramatic,” a voice drawled, amused and thoroughly unimpressed.

Lucien’s head snapped toward it, fury hardening his features. I turned too, breath caught in my throat.

A man stood in the doorway, casually leaning against the frame as though he hadn’t just walked in on a murder attempt. He was tall, strikingly so, with tousled red hair that curled at the edges and a mouth made for mischief. His shirt was rumpled, half-buttoned, sleeves rolled up to the elbow like he hadn’t bothered with decorum. His presence filled the room effortlessly, as though he’d always been there.

“Well?” he asked, stepping fully inside. “Am I interrupting foreplay or a homicide?”

Lucien exhaled sharply, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “Gwynne. Not. Now.”

Gwynne strolled forward, hands in his pockets. His gaze flicked to the chain still holding my left wrist and the bruising burn around my freed one, then to the dagger on the ground. His brows lifted slightly. “Oh, you weren’t joking. She really is trying to kill you again.”

“She doesn’t stop trying,” Lucien muttered, releasing me with a shove that wasn’t quite rough. “And you barging in doesn’t help.”

Gwynne stopped beside me, turning to Lucien with a grin that dared him to pick a fight. “What can I say? I have impeccable timing.”

Lucien ran a hand down his face, clearly at the end of his patience. “I have other things to deal with.”

“Of course you do,” Gwynne said smoothly. “I’ll take it from here.”

Lucien’s eyes flicked to mine, unreadable. For a moment, I thought he might say something else—but instead, he turned sharply on his heel and strode out, the heavy door slamming behind him.

The silence that followed was thick, tense.

Gwynne exhaled a theatrical sigh. “And they say I have a flair for the dramatic.”

He knelt in front of me, examining the silver cuff that still held my wrist. His fingers were gentle as he brushed mine, and something shimmered under his touch—not magic, exactly. Not the way Lucien’s power felt, old and overwhelming. Gwynne’s was subtler. It slipped beneath your skin like a warm breeze through a cracked window, a coaxing heat that made your thoughts drift. His eyes met mine, golden-brown and far too knowing.

“Relax,” he murmured, his voice softer now, and rich with something… heady. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

I blinked, and for half a second, I believed him. Completely.

Then I scowled and yanked my hand back, or tried to. The chain held fast.

“I don’t need your charm tricks, vampire.”

Gwynne’s mouth curved. “Wasn’t trying. That one was free.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny, intricately worked key. “Lucien keeps spares. He doesn’t know I know that.”

The lock clicked. The cuff fell away.

I rubbed at the raw skin, glaring up at him. “Why are you helping me?”

“Because if I left you chained to a wall, you’d try to bite off your own hand just to spite him.” He stood, offering me a hand. “And because—let’s be honest—I’m your best chance of surviving this place.”

I didn’t take his hand. I pushed myself up instead, wincing as my legs reminded me just how long I’d been strung up. Gwynne didn’t comment, but I saw the flicker of concern in his eyes, buried beneath the playful smirk.

“Careful,” he said. “Lucien may be brooding in a hallway, but he’s not done with you.”

I squared my shoulders. “He’s not the only one with unfinished business.”

Gwynne chuckled, stepping back to give me space. “Gods, you’re a menace. I like you already.”

And strangely, I didn’t hate the sound of that.

Not at all.