The Devil in Your Sheets

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The lake had fallen silent, the last sunlight rippling across its surface. Warmth clung to the rocks beneath their feet as Eileen joined Lucien on a driftwood log, their shoulders brushing as they examined smooth stones gathered from the water's edge. One shimmered faintly in her hand—deep red, veined with amber. She turned it once more, then slipped it into the pouch at her hip.

A breeze stirred the trees, carrying the earthy scent of moss and pine. Neither of them spoke, but the silence pulsed with something steady. Safe.

As they walked back to the cabin, their footsteps fell into rhythm, the quiet weighted with meaning.

Later, after the sun dipped behind the trees, Eileen curled up on Lucien's couch. Her damp hair was braided over one shoulder, and the oversized sweater he'd tossed her swallowed her whole. It smelled of pine, smoke, and something warm—something like him.

Lucien moved barefoot around the open kitchen, sleeves rolled. The fire crackled in the hearth, shadows swaying across the wood-paneled walls. His damp curls clung to his brow, and when he paused to set two plates on the counter, the flex of his forearms scattered her thoughts.

She tugged the sweater closer, watching him like a cat unsure whether to pounce.

"So, is this where you cook for all the girls you're secretly training to behave?"

He glanced over his shoulder, one brow rising. "That mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble."

She grinned. "Why does everyone keep saying that to me?"

He didn't answer right away. He walked over slowly, deliberate steps that made her pulse thrum. He stopped in front of her, towering in the firelight, eyes like forest glass.

Lucien's voice dropped, near-whisper. "Because you say things like that while wearing my clothes... while looking at me like you want me to stop holding back."

Her breath caught. She didn't mean to look at his mouth, but she did.

And he noticed.

He crouched, one hand braced on the cushion beside her leg, the other brushing her ankle. Not gripping—just present. A test.

"Tell me to back off, Elira," he said. "Say the word, and I'll move."

She couldn't. "I don't want you to."

His jaw clenched, thumb grazing her skin.

"You don't know what I'm capable of when I stop holding back."

"Then don't stop," she whispered, trembling but sure.

Lucien held her gaze, searching. Then he leaned in, resting his forehead gently against her knee. Her hand hesitated before threading into the damp curls at his crown.

The silence stretched, full of things unsaid. His breathing slowed.

"You're testing me," he murmured. "Without knowing the rules. You're playing at something bigger than you realize."

She laughed breathily. "I just want to see you smile."

"Dangerous goal," he said, lifting his head.

Her lips curved. "Okay, Lucy."

He blinked. "What did you just call me?"

"Lucy. It's cute. Suits you."

Lucien just stared, then his mouth twitched. Once. Twice. A laugh—deep, startled—escaped him.

"You're braver than I thought," he said, amused. "Or stupider."

"Could be both," she teased.

Lucien leaned over, hand behind her, the other lifting her chin. His voice dropped, serious.