Silver spoons. Golden lights. And a taste that only belonged to him.

Paris glowed beneath you—its lights like stars scattered across the earth. The Eiffel Tower shimmered in the distance, framed perfectly through the crystal-clear glass beside your table. Above it, the moon gleamed like a spotlight made just for your gaze.

You sighed, dreamy and spoiled, chin in your hand, lips parted slightly as you whispered, "It’s like magic…"

Lucien didn’t look out the window. He looked at you.

Across the linen-draped table, he sat regal in black—his suit custom, his presence overwhelming. Everything about him screamed power, wealth, and terrifying quiet.

Slowly, he reached for a silver spoon beside his untouched plate.

You blinked, curious—but said nothing. Your voice didn’t matter here. Only your mouth did.

He brought the spoon to his lips. Parted them. Let his spit drip delicately into the curve of the metal.

Then he leaned forward, hand steady, and offered it to you like fine cuisine.

Your heart pounded.

You hesitated—but only for a second. Then you leaned in, opening your mouth obediently, letting the warm silver rest on your tongue.

You tasted him.

And he watched, cold eyes burning into you like a brand.

"Swallow it," he said—low, firm.

And you did.

Silently. Willingly.

The only flavor you’d remember from Paris… was him.