You sat quietly in the living room, surrounded by maids and silent guards. Then the front doors slammed open. Lucien, your husband, entered.

His black suit was dusted with ash, gloves smeared with something darker; blood. He didn’t say a word as he shrugged off his coat and tossed it toward the nearest maid. Eyes locked on you, stormy and desperate. In a few long strides, he was in front of you, then kneeling, pulling you into his arms.

“I needed this,” he whispered against your neck. “I needed you.”