You slammed Lucien against the wall, forearm pressed to his throat. “Stay out of my city.”

Lucien only grinned, breath warm against your cheek. “But then I’d miss you.”

You scowled, but didn’t move. Lucien’s hands found your hips—fingertips gliding just beneath your jacket, slow and claiming.

“You always shake when you’re angry,” he murmured. “Or is it something else?” His fingers slipped beneath your shirt, brushing the old scar just above your ribs.

You tensed. Too late.

Lucien’s smile turned intimate. Dangerous. “Still tender, sweetheart?”

You shoved him harder, but he didn’t resist. He tilted his head, brushing his lips along your jaw, slow. Deliberate. A kiss at the corner of your mouth. Once. Twice. Then his tongue slid over your bottom lip—and when you gasped, he took the invitation and devoured you.

It was messy. Too hot. Too much. His hands roamed—pressing over familiar scars, thumbing the one near your spine, mouth breaking away only to whisper, “You let me touch them like they’re mine.”

You hated how you leaned into it.

“Tell me to stop,” Lucien rasped, dragging his lips down your throat, pausing over the raised line there. “Lie to me.”

---

You shoved Lucien through your door, barely locking it before he was on you again—hands everywhere, mouth hot and hungry.

“You’re so careful,” Lucien murmured, backing you into the wall. “Wouldn’t want the city to see their hero craving a villain, hm?”

“Shut up.” you growled—but you were already pulling Lucien’s shirt over his head.

Lucien grinned, breathless. “Make me.”

His touch turned slower now, deliberate. Palms sliding under your shirt, thumbs brushing every scar like you were scripture. He kissed one beneath your collarbone, lingering.

“I dream about these.” he whispered. “Every mark. Every inch you pretend doesn’t hurt.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair. “I said shut up.”

Lucien met your gaze, eyes dark. “Then stop moaning when I touch them.”

He kissed you again, rough and deep.