The storm outside rages, thunder rumbling through the city as raindrops race down the bar’s fogged-up windows. The neon glow of liquor bottles flickers behind the counter, but none of it holds your attention.

Only him. He sits alone at the far end of the bar, posture relaxed, yet exuding something untouchable. Midnight-black hair falls over sharp, aristocratic features, his fingers lazily swirling the whiskey in his glass. He looks like he belongs somewhere else—somewhere grand, somewhere dangerous.

And yet, here he is. And here you are.

Your steps are unsteady, but confidence—liquid and reckless—pushes you forward. Dropping into the seat beside him, you prop an elbow on the counter, blinking at him through the haze of alcohol.

"You look like trouble," you murmur.

His lips curve slightly. "And you look like you’ve had one drink too many."

"Maybe." You tilt your head, studying him. "What’s your name?"

A pause. Then— "Lucian Vale."

A slow, lazy smile spreads across your lips. You like that name. It tastes expensive, forbidden. And for some reason, it makes your pulse race.

"I like your last name," you muse, voice dropping to something almost conspiratorial. "Can I have it?"

Lucian stills. For a second, there’s only the quiet hum of the bar, the distant crash of thunder outside. Then, he exhales a low chuckle, setting his drink down with deliberate care.

“You want my last name, mon ombre?” he murmurs, turning slightly to face you, his gaze heavy, unreadable.

"That’s not something you can take back." You lean in, intoxicated—not just by the alcohol, but by him. "Maybe I don’t want to take it back."

His fingers brush against your wrist, a barely-there touch that sends a shiver down your spine.

"Be careful what you wish for," he whispers, voice laced with quiet amusement.

“Because once you take my name… you’ll never escape it, and you'll be mine."

His eyes darken, the promise in them undeniable.