The heavy glass doors of the boutique swung open, and the warm sunlight spilled onto the pavement. Lucien stepped out first, his presence commanding even in the daylight. Kelsey followed, shielding her eyes momentarily as they adjusted to the brightness.
He reached for the passenger door, opened it with silent grace, then made his way to the driver's side_ but before he could enter, his phone buzzed.
He answered with a curt, "Yes?"
His voice lowered, sharp and cold as he muttered into the phone. His tone was devoid of warmth, his expression darkening by the second. Whoever was on the other end of the call, it wasn't a friend.
Lucien ended the call with a swift swipe and slipped into the driver's seat beside her, the leather creaking beneath him. He didn't say a word.
Neither did she.
The car was swallowed in silence, except for the low hum of the engine and the subtle sound of tires rolling over smooth road. Kelsey stared out the window, her eyes tracing the patterns of the city's skyline, refusing to glance his way. The tension was subtle but heavy, like fog that pressed against the glass.
By the time they arrived at the mansion, the mood hadn't shifted. But as Kelsey stepped out, something about the estate struck her differently than it had before. Maybe it was the warm light casting golden hues on the marble walls, or the soft breeze that stirred the air, but she could finally appreciate the mansion's beauty.
Two women appeared from inside_ both dressed in simple, elegant uniforms. They bowed slightly as Lucien motioned toward the car trunk. With swift efficiency, they began unloading the shopping bags.
Lucien turned toward Kelsey, his lips curved into that maddeningly soft smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I have some business to attend to," he said coolly. "Try not to miss me too much."
Kelsey watched as he slid into the car and drove off through the automatic iron gates. They clanked shut behind him with finality.
The car traveled fast, weaving through side streets, until finally arriving at a warehouse far from the polished luxury of his estate. It stood isolated, with tall concrete walls, steel gates, and the hum of security systems vibrating through the air.
As the car rolled to a halt, Lucien stepped out.
The wind caught the hem of his black shirt as he rolled his sleeves up slowly, his movements precise. He reached into the glove box, pulled out his custom-made sunglasses, and placed them smoothly on his face. There was something lethal about him now_ like a predator walking into its domain.
In the center of the room, tied to a steel chair under a spotlight, was the prisoner. Bloodied. Bruised. A halfling_ part vampire, part human. His head hung low, but he flinched as Lucien's footsteps echoed closer.
"For a weak halfling," Lucien said, voice low, dangerous, "you've got guts coming after me."
His tone was calm_too calm. The kind of calm that made your spine itch.
He turned toward his men. "Has he told you why he thought he could kill me?"
"No, sir," one of them replied, adjusting his stance nervously.
Lucien exhaled through his nose. "Maybe you weren't... hospitable enough."
Without warning, he reached for a long, silver instrument_ a bone splitter. A cruel, archaic tool used for cracking joints and splitting bones without piercing the skin. Its presence alone made the prisoner tremble.
Lucien knelt beside him. "Let's try again."
The first crack came from the shoulder. The halfling screamed, the sound slicing through the empty space like a knife. Lucien remained unfazed, almost bored as he twisted the tool with expert precision.
"I was just... promised money!" the halfling sobbed. "That's all."
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "By who?"
There was silence.
He turned the handle.
The sound that followed was worse than the first, bone grinding against bone.
"Who?" he demanded again, voice razor-sharp.
The prisoner choked. "I... It was Mr. Hart."
The air seemed to go still.
Lucien stood up and turning to his guards, he said with finality, "Finish him off."
The last sound the halfling made was a pleading scream that quickly faded.
Lucien walked out without watching. His eyes were dark, unreadable. The mention of Mr. Hart didn't surprise him. Hart was a rival. A fellow vampire. Equally ruthless, but with less control when it came to underground businesses. He could tell by the choice of the bullet that was targeted to kill him that it was not a humans doing but a vampire's work.
He drove off again, this time toward his company headquarters.
As Lucien stepped into the grand lobby of his vehicle cpmpany, a hush fell over the space. Workers on the ground floor lowered their eyes, unsure if they should greet him. His presence demanded silence_ his tailored suit still sharp, his expression unreadable.
He didn't pause.
He walked straight to the private elevator, metal doors parting like they were made to obey him alone. Without a single word, the elevator took him to the top floor.
Lucien's day was a whirlwind of order and command. From the moment he stepped into the heart of his empire, he became something else entirely_ not just a man, not just a creature cloaked in shadows _but a monarch of industry, ruling with precision and unrelenting expectation.
He attended meetings with board members. Contracts were brought to him _some worth millions, some cloaked in grey areas of legality _and he scanned every line, correcting, rejecting, or signing with the stroke of a fountain pen that gleamed like obsidian.
His desk was rarely empty. Piles of documents awaited him_ blueprints, acquisitions, market predictions, and private reports on competitors. He read them all. Lucien was no figurehead; he knew every cog in his empire and how they turned.
But the part that truly ignited something in him was the manufacturing floor.
Later in the afternoon, he personally made his way to one of his luxury vehicle production sites. Engineers and supervisors turned tense as his dark eyes swept over every chassis, every unfinished body of the machines that bore his name. He examined every line of their progress, leaned in to inspect welding joints, asked sharp, unnerving questions that no CEO should have time to ask.
Lucien demanded perfection. Not because he needed it. But because he was it.
When night fell, it did so dramatically. The sky outside his glass office burned into deep purples and navy blues. The city stretched beneath him like a reflection of stars, lights flickering in a dance that never stopped. He stood before the tall window, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other bringing a cigar to his lips.
The sharp flick of a golden lighter echoed, followed by a curl of smoke that wound upward like a spirit being released. The cigar tip glowed red in the darkened room as he inhaled deeply, eyes locked on the horizon.
He took another drag and exhaled slowly, as if the smoke could carry his frustrations with it. He wasn't content. Not with the blood. Not with the victories. Not even with the control.
A knock echoed against the silence.
And withiut turning, he said, "Come in."
The door opened and the heels that entered made no attempt at discretion. The woman who stepped in was stunning_ curves beneath a silky navy dress, her raven-black hair cascading in waves.
Lucien turned, taking one last puff of the cigar before walking back toward his desk. He snuffed it out in a crystal ashtray with one swift motion, smoke still coiling around his fingers like mist reluctant to leave him.
"Am I here for blood, or for sex?" the woman asked smoothly, her voice sultry.
Lucien's eyes glinted.
He opened a drawer and withdrew a small silver knife, then slid it across the desk to her.
"For blood."
He responded. His voice devoid of any emotion.
The woma smiled faintly, though it didn't reach her eyes. "No fun, then," she teased, but her fingers moved deftly, grabbing a glass from the bar cart beside his desk.
"You're not going to drink directly from me?" she added, lifting a brow.
Lucien's lips curved into a mocking smirk that lasted less than a breath. "No."
She knew better than to push him. She had known him long enought to know that he didn't like getting questioned.
With practiced ease, she slit her wrist lightly and let the crimson liquid pour into the glass. The metallic scent filling the room. He took the glass from her as soon as it was full and downed it in a single motion, the blood coating his throat with warmth and fire, yet, it was barely enough to quench his thirst.
The woman raised an eyebrow, already slicing again, this time letting more blood flow, filling a second glass. She handed it over, then pressed a handkerchief to the wound to stanch the bleeding.
Lucien drank. Slower this time. As if hoping to taste something more. But again, there was that sharp flicker of dissatisfaction in his gaze.
It wasn't her blood. He could not help but wonder about how her blood tasted. He craved for it.., craved for her.
"You may go," he said, voice clipped.
She bowed her head. She did not take offence.
Once she was gone, Lucien poured himself a drink_ an expensive single malt whiskey_ but even that couldn't numb the simmering storm under his skin. The alcohol touched his tongue and burned on its way down, but it did nothing to quench his thirst.
Eventually, he grabbed his coat, left the glass half full, and exited the building.