Page 36 of Irrevocably

She is passionate, but I am not, so I can’t give her that in return. But I can give her something else she needs, something that she can only get from me. I know pain, I know it well. I have taken it – Enzo made sure of that – and I have given it, and I know how to do it so that it doesn’t leave scars.

She shouldn’t have those scars marring her pale skin.

I gave her pain with her pleasure, so she could have both, and she was so fucking beautiful with it. I made her lose her mind. I made her scream my name. And I didn’t stop, even when I heard the chief get up and start prowling around. She liked that, too, the dangerous nature of nearly getting caught.

She’s got a little piece of darkness in her and that fascinates me. I want to keep pushing, see how far that darkness goes. Yet … I’ve taken my pleasure. I’ve indulged myself, had my release. It’s over. It’s done.

So why did you make her promise to come to you?

I lift my head and look down at her. She has her eyes closed and she’s still breathing fast. She’s all pink and white and silver, her hair a cloud on the pillow around her head. I can see blood on her bottom lip from where I bit her, and another kick of heat goes through me at the sight.

I made her promise, because I wanted her to come to me for what she needs. I wanted to be the one to give her scars, make her bleed. I wanted to be the one who makes her scream the way she did when she came.

I deal out death, yet the novelty of giving pleasure winds around the empty place in my chest where my heart used to be. It’s almost as if being with her gives me hope that I’m something more than just a gun in someone else’s hand.

But that’s what you are.

Yes. And I’m Enzo’s gun, and until I fulfil my promise to him and deliver my family into his hands, that’s all I’ll ever be. Maybe after, when he releases me finally, I’ll be able to figure out what else I am, but until then I can’t afford hope. I never could.

Her lashes flutter then lift, and she looks up at me, her eyes still dark. There’s something in them that I don’t understand, as if she’s discovered something profound.

This is a mistake. She’s not mine and I’m not hers. This is just a fuck and now it’s done.

I pull out of her, then push myself away, turning to deal with the condom by tossing it into the wastepaper basket beside her desk. And I’m about to move off the bed when I feel her hand touch my bare shoulder, her fingertips finding and tracing one of my own scars.

“What’s this?” she asks.

The ones on my back are from a whip. They were from the punishment for my father’s indiscretions that Enzo delivered. Not even Enzo’s soldiers are immune from his justice, and he made pains to show me that while I was growing up. There was a price to be paid, and I was the one who paid it. In blood.

I endured it. I showed him that he couldn’t break me, no matter what he did, and he did a lot. I impressed him, though, and that’s why he began my training as one of his soldiers, and soon I was the one dealing out pain instead of delivering it.

No one has ever touched my scars, except the tattooist who did my ink. I didn’t have the tattoos to hide them, but to turn them into reminders of how beautiful pain can be, how it can be art. Evidence of endurance and strength.

But of all that is personal and this has already become far too personal for my liking. She might have given me pieces of her soul, but I’m not giving her any of mine. I don’t have much of it left to begin with.

“Nothing,” I say curtly, pushing myself off the bed and reaching for my clothes.

“Didn’t feel like nothing to me,” she says.

I don’t reply as I tug my underwear on and pull my jeans up.

“Lucien?” Her voice is hesitant and uncertain.

I grit my teeth as I zip up my fly, then turn to her.

She’s on the bed with the patchwork quilt wrapped around her, a crease between her brows, and it takes me a moment or two to realise that the crease is concern, and that concern is directed at me.

Tension crawls along my shoulders. I can’t have her concerned for me. I can’t have her feeling anything at all for me.

“This is just sex,” I say bluntly, so she knows. “Understand? It’s not personal and it doesn’t mean anything. It also won’t happen again.”

An expression like hurt flickers across her face, then it’s gone. Too bad. She was the one who initiated this, who begged me. She must know that there can’t be more between us than a quick fuck. I’m hardly boyfriend material.

Still, she doesn’t look away. “You made me promise not to cut myself. You said I could come to you if I need … pain.”

“I changed my mind,” I say harshly as I reach for my T-shirt.

“But I⁠—”