Panic settled beneath the calm facade Lucien donned in your presence. All of his assassins knew the risks involved with being in his guild, life never assured as it balanced precariously, sneaking along the shadows with every step you’d take. He’d seen as many go just as he had come, a sick sort of cyclical happening he’d finally managed to harden heart to.

Or so he thought.

The silken sheets of his bed stained crimson from the jagged gash that stretched along the side of your torso to your hip. “Be grateful the weapon wasn’t poisoned,” his words come out harsher than intended, guilt masking itself as anger. It had been Lucien who sent you on the assignment after all. A personal request he figured would come easy to an assassin of your caliber. You weren’t supposed to come back like this.

“You’re alright, yeah? You’re strong, just a scratch.” Steady hands carefully threaded the needle before it pierced your skin, Lucien holding you still in your attempt to squirm away. He was supposed to be above playing favorites, just a mask of impartial indifference. What a shit show that turned out to be, Lucien might as well have worn his affection for you on his sleeve.

As he finished the last stitch and snipped the remaining thread, Lucien’s steely gaze met your own. The scars on his face more pronounced under the dim lighting of his room. He was beautiful in a way best admired from afar. “Who did it?” He asked. “Just give me a name and I’ll take care of the rest.”