Page 107 of Burned

She was bold enough to profess it to a room full of people.

The three-hour plane ride here was not good for me. She was sitting where I could see her in all of her quiet elegance, and I had too much time. My empathy for her began to wane.

I just want her anywhere but here.

“Up,” Lucian says, already lifting me, one arm banded around my back like I might fall again out of spite. “Into the war room. Now.”

I do not fight him on this one. Mostly because my hand is throbbing and partly because his voice has a quality that makes arguing feel structurally unwise.

He walks me in with his hand still wrapped around mine in the sleeve, but the weather-proof material is not absorbent, and there’s blood everywhere. “This damn coat,” he spits.

The outerwear might be the next to die.

He sets me down in the nearest chair like I am something that might shatter.

“Medic,” he says, to the room, to no one, to everyone. “I need a medic in here.

Now.”

The new safe house has a war room.

Of course it does.

Normal people decorate the main rooms of their summer house for seating, a little storage, and maybe some elegantly placed lighting.

If they’re feeling fancy, a fake fish over the mantle and a Ficus tree in the corner.

Lucian’s living room looks like the Museum of Art in Stockholm.

A Nordic palace, each piece of furniture uniquely designed from curved ash, birch, and white oak. The fireplace is made of the same jagged black stone as the foyer floors.

No plants. No throw pillows or blankets. Just cold, hard beauty. Like him.

And if there’s a basement?

Maybe a ping-pong table.

Lucian?

A war room.

He ushers us down there, now, wanting everyone secure till he feels the outer perimeter is clear. I get the feeling I may not see much daylight during our stay here.

Lucian has reinforced doors, encrypted screens, medical cabinets, and a table large enough to plan a military coup. He sits me down while barking orders at people who are already moving.

A medic arrives and properly cleans my hand.

The cut is shallow—ugly-looking, but shallow.

Lucian disagrees with this assessment on a spiritual level.

He stands beside me while the medic wraps gauze around my palm, every line of him silent and murderous, as though the rock itself is a suspect he intends to interrogate. I will not give him one more reason to feel like he’s failed me when he’s done nothing of the sort.

“Lucian,” I whisper, “Please go do something else.”

“No.”

“Two minutes,” I beg.