Chapter 2 Chapter 2

Lucian

Blood

I loved the smell of it. The way it clung to my skin, thick and warm, seeping into the creases of my knuckles. How it glowed under the dim light, a dark, intoxicating reminder of what I had done. Of what I was.

I wasn't a vampire. But I had bathed in enough blood to call myself one.

In this world, power was worth more than life. More than loyalty. More than love. My father had built his empire with that belief carved into the bones of the men who had crossed him. And I had learned to live by it.

I was born into a world of violence, my fate decided before I could even walk. My father, Ambrose Benedict, ruled with power. His empire was built on blood, betrayal, and fear. And I was meant to follow in his footsteps.

There was no childhood in the Benedicti Famiglia only training. Only expectations. While other boys played in the streets, I was learning the weight of a gun in my palm, the art of breaking a man without leaving a mark. I was raised by enforcers, men who had spent their lives carving out power with violence, and they made sure I understood what it took to survive in this world.

By the time I was twelve, I had already pulled a trigger. By fifteen, I had buried my first body. My father never praised me for it. There was no affection, no approval. Only a nod a glance that told me I had done what was expected.

Affection was a weakness. Love was a liability. I had no mother to teach me otherwise. She had died when I was a child, though my father never spoke of her. The only lesson I ever learned about love was from the way he destroyed anyone who dared to love him.

I had power, wealth, control everything most men craved. But none of it was truly mine. Because no matter how much blood I spilled, no matter how many battles I won, I would always be in his shadow.

That was the truth of my existence.

I wiped my hands with a cloth, watching as the crimson faded into nothing. Another loose end tied up. Another problem erased. It should have felt routine by now. Maybe it was.

But today wasn't like the others. Today, my father was taking a new wife.

I hadn't seen her before. Didn't know her name until this morning. Valentina Gabriel. A girl from a family desperate enough to sell their daughter to a man like him.

I didn't expect to care. I didn't expect to feel anything at all. And yet, when I walked into that reception hall—when I saw her standing beside my father something in me slowed.

She wasn't what I pictured. She wasn't old money. She wasn't the type of woman who would scheme her way into my father's world. No. She was something else entirely.

Young. Innocent. Trapped. She didn't belong here. And yet, she did now.

When my father told me to take her home, I didn't hesitate. I never did. Everything he told me to do, I did it. Without question. Without complaint. That was how I was raised. How I survived.

Now, as I drove through the streets, silence lingered between us. She hadn't said a word. Not when I opened the door for her. Not when I pulled out of the driveway. Not even when I caught her stealing glances at me, as if trying to figure out what kind of man I was.

I told myself I didn't care. She wasn't my problem.

And yet, despite everything, despite my own warning to stay out of it I found myself asking, "What was your price?"

I didn't look at her, but I felt her stiffen. "What?" Her voice was soft, but it was the first sound she had made since we left.

"How much did my father pay for you?" I clarified, keeping my eyes on the road. "Or was it your family who named the number?"

She sucked in a breath. I could feel her gaze burning into the side of my face, but I didn't turn.

For a long moment, she said nothing. And then, "Does it matter?"

I didn't answer. Because we both knew it didn't. No matter the price, no matter the deal she was already his.

The car rolled to a stop in front of the Benedict estate. The gates had already been opened, the staff and a few family members waiting like vultures pretending to be well-wishers. I stepped out first, not sparing her a glance as I walked around to her side and opened the door.

She hesitated before stepping out. I could feel her nerves, even if she didn't show them.

They greeted her at the entrance smiles too wide, voices too sweet. Some of my the family staffs. A few guards. They welcomed her like they meant it.

But I knew better.

Without a word, I left her there still standing at the doorway, surrounded by people she didn't know and would never truly belong to. I didn't stay to play nice.

I went straight upstairs. Straight to my room. No second glance.

**

I didn't know how long I'd been in the shower. Long enough for the water to run cold.

The steam clung to the mirror, fogging up the sharp lines of my face, softening them. But I knew what lay underneath nothing soft about it. Just a man carved from expectations, from blood and silence.

I stepped out, dried off, threw on a clean black shirt. I didn't bother buttoning it all the way. My father didn't care how I looked, as long as I showed up.

Dinner was a tradition in the Benedict house. No matter how busy, no matter what hell we were knee-deep in, we all had to gather at the long, heavy table like some twisted version of a normal family.

The dining hall was already full my father at the head, of course. Cousins, step-siblings, and Valentina.

She looked up when I entered, her gaze brushing mine. And maybe I should've looked away. But I didn't.

For a second too long, I stared.

The dress she wore wasn't meant for this house. It was soft and innocent, like her. But the neckline dipped low, revealing the gentle curve of her cleavage.

My jaw tightened. I looked down, then looked away completely, swallowing hard before I made it to my seat. I sat at the far end of the table without saying a word. The air was stiff. The kind of silence that pressed down on your skin.

Then my father cleared his throat. "As you all know Valentina is now part of this family. I expect her to be treated as such."

No one said a word. Of course they didn't. They wouldn't dare.

He turned to her, eyes cold but calm. "If you need anything and I'm not around, you can speak to Lucian." Its just a matter of time before he show her the real Ambrose Benedict.

Her eyes flicked toward me at the mention of my name. And like a damn fool, I looked back.

Our eyes met again. Longer this time. There was something there curiosity, confusion... maybe even challenge.

I didn't flinch, didn't look away. But I felt something twist in my gut. And I hated that I didn't know what it was.

The rest of the dinner passed with business conversation. That was the only thing that ever occurred at the table. Nothing more than that.

Father, of course, was the first to leave, after openly pecking his wife as if he wasn't the same man with three different children from different mothers.

Maybe my stepbrothers still craved that affection. But I had long been shown ruthlessness over love. Affection is a weakness. So I left.

I reached my room, fingers curling around the door handle, ready to shut out the world. Then her voice floated up behind me soft, but clear.

"Is the family always this cold?"

I didn't turn. My jaw tightened. "Get used to it," I muttered.

There was a pause, then the sound of her footsteps, light against the marble floor. "I have questions."

"Don't ask," I said sharply, still not looking back.

"Are you always this cold?"

This time, I turned. And instantly regretted it.

Her hair was loose now, framing her face. That damned dress still hugged her in all the wrong ways. Or maybe all the right ones. Her arms were crossed under her chest, lifting the curve of her cleavage just enough to drag my gaze there before I forced it away.

I swallowed hard, my fingers still on the doorknob. I didn't say anything right away.

Because the things running through my head... they weren't appropriate. Not for her. Not for my father's wife. And yet, I kept staring.

"I'm not cold," I said finally. "I just don't pretend."

"I don't pretend either," she shot back, her chin lifting slightly.

Our eyes locked. The space between us felt heavy. Tense. I should've turned around. I should've walked into my room and shut the door in her face.

Instead, I stepped forward. Slowly. One step, then another. Each one tightening the air between us until we were just a breath apart.

I didn't touch her. I didn't have to. She was my father's wife. My stepmother.

Her scent was already messing with my head, making it hard to think straight. Her chest rose and fell, and her eyes never left mine.

"You think you're brave?" I said quietly. "Trying to get under my skin?"

"I wasn't trying. Trust me, if I had the choice, I'd rather be six feet underground than be stuck here. I'm just—curious about—"

"Whatever it is," I cut her off sharply, my voice a cold slash, "Save it for your husband."

Her lips parted, but no words came out. "Stay away from me," I added, voice low and final. "For your own good."

And then I turned, opened my door, and disappeared inside. Slamming the door shut behind me.