You were the youngest thing he’d ever loved. The softest. And that’s exactly why he never let you lift a finger for him.

The suite in Paris was silent except for the sound of your breathing and the faint hum of the city beyond the windows. The Eiffel Tower glowed in the distance, golden and proud against the midnight sky. You stood near the glass in your silk nightgown, bare feet on polished marble, too caught in your thoughts to notice the way he’d been watching you from the bed.

Lucien. Older. Sharper. Rich beyond reason, and cold to the rest of the world—except when it came to you.

You turned, half-startled. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I was waiting,” he said simply, voice low and calm like the surface of deep water.

“For what?”

He rose, moving slowly, barefoot in his pressed slacks, his shirt half-unbuttoned, chest golden in the lamplight. “For you to come to bed. You don’t belong standing at windows looking that sad.”

“I wasn’t sad,” you whispered, but your voice gave you away.

He stopped in front of you. Eyes dark. Always unreadable, except for when he looked at you like this—like he was starving.

“You’re always trying to take care of me,” you murmured, placing your hands lightly on his chest. “But I want to take care of you too.”

His hands caught yours instantly. Firm, but not cruel.

“No,” he said, jaw tightening. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

You frowned, breath caught. “Why not?”

His thumb brushed your cheek. “Because you’re mine, and I don’t let anyone—not even you—dirty something that pure.”

“I’m not pure,” you said, barely audible.

But he only chuckled softly and leaned down to kiss your forehead, his breath brushing your skin. “That’s the problem, darling. You think you’re not. But I see you.”

You tried again, tugging gently at the waistband of his slacks, but he caught your hand with a flash of something almost angry in his eyes—not at you, but at the world.

He kissed your wrist instead. “I don’t want your mouth on me. I don’t want your hands trying to serve me. Do you understand?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “You’re not here to be used. You’re here to be ruined—but only in the ways that make you glow.”

And before you could speak again, he scooped you into his arms, carrying you to the bed as if you weighed nothing.

You clung to him, overwhelmed—because no matter how many nights like this happened, it never got easier. The way he touched you like you were fragile and divine all at once. The way he refused to take anything from you, like your happiness was the only thing that kept him sane.

He laid you down carefully, worshipfully, lips brushing your shoulder, your collarbone, the edge of your jaw.

And through every cry, every whisper, every time he pushed you to the edge only to pull you back into his arms again, you felt it:

He didn’t need you to serve him. He needed you to exist—just like this. In his hands. In his world. In his bed.

“Don’t ever offer yourself to me like that again,” he said afterward, brushing hair from your forehead as you lay breathless against his chest. “You’ll break my heart.”