Camila's pov...
Not yet.
She'd heard him whisper it, just under his breath, when she walked away that day—smug, unshaken, deliberately out of reach. She had smiled to herself then, knowing she'd left him wanting. But what she didn't expect was how much she would start to want him, too.
Since that day, they trained every morning like it was ritual. Guns, tactics, footwork—Lucien didn't go easy on her. And yet, his praise was genuine. No games. No sarcasm.
"You're sharper than most of my men," he said two mornings later, watching her hit every target clean.
Camila didn't smile for effect. It was real this time.
She had started dreaming of him. Not the cold, cruel man she first met—but the heat in his eyes, the way he moved, the roughness of his hands wrapped around hers. She woke up sweating. Wanting.
It terrified her.
But tonight, the temptation was too close.
Lucien's door stood half-open.
It had never been open before. He was never careless. And maybe he wasn't now. Maybe it was a test.
Still… she stepped in.
The room was dim. Expensive. Tasteful. There was something oddly quiet about it—unlike the rest of the compound. A low amber light glowed from a lamp on the desk. Papers, folders, a silver gun lying beside a glass of dark liquor.
Camila scanned the surface. Nothing immediately suspicious. She opened a drawer.
"Looking for something?"
His voice came from behind her—smooth, unreadable.
She froze, heart slamming.
He stood in the doorway now. Shirt undone, sleeves rolled. His eyes were darker than she'd ever seen them.
"I could lie," she said, straightening, "but I don't think you'd buy it."
He didn't smile.
He stepped in, slow, deliberate, closing the door with a soft click.
She should've backed away. She didn't.
"You're brave," he murmured, coming closer, eyes fixed on hers. "Or foolish."
"I've been called worse."
They were close now. Too close.
His fingers brushed her jaw, tilted her chin. "You've been pushing me," he said low, "testing me."
"I wanted to see how far you'd go," she whispered.
He leaned in.
Their mouths met in a collision of tension and heat—no hesitation, no room left for questions. His kiss was rough, claiming. Hers was hungry.
It deepened fast—hands grasping, bodies flush.
He backed her into the desk, sweeping aside the glass with a crash. His lips trailed fire down her neck, her breath catching as his hands slid under her shirt, feeling every line of her.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured against her skin. "Now. Or I won't."
She didn't.
She pulled him back to her, kissing him harder.
---
Clothes came off in frantic movements—hers first, then his. When he saw all of her, for the first time, he paused. Just long enough to search her eyes.
"First time?" he asked, voice raw.
She nodded once, lips parted, vulnerable.
He swore under his breath—but not out of anger. He lifted her gently, placing her onto the desk. His hands slowed now. Softer. Like he didn't want to break her, but couldn't stay away.
"You sure?"
She held his face in both hands, heart racing. "Yes."
When he pushed into her, slow and deep, she gasped sharply—body arching, breath hitching. He groaned against her neck, muscles tightening.
"F*ck… you're so tight," he hissed, voice thick with restraint. "So damn tight."
She whimpered, clutching his shoulders, pain blooming—sharp, unfamiliar—but buried under heat and hunger and the growing ache to have all of him.
He didn't rush. He let her feel every inch, every moment, his hands steadying her hips like she'd shatter in his arms.
Their rhythm found them—deep, consuming. Her moans mixed with his growls, every breath charged, every movement purposeful. He kissed her through the sting, easing the fire into something she'd never felt before.
By the time they collapsed together, breathless and tangled, neither of them could pretend anymore.
Camila lay against his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Steady. Strong. Unfamiliar.
She didn't say anything.
Neither did he.
But something had changed.
Everything had.
...
Lucien kissed like he fought—reckless, dominant, without mercy.
And lately, he did it often.
Sometimes, their training didn't even finish. A lesson on how to strip and reload a weapon turned into her being pressed over the table, gasping as he slid into her like he owned her. Because, in those moments, he did.
He'd take her on the mats. Against the wall. Once, on the cold marble counter in the weapon room while her legs trembled and her fingers dug into his back.
Lucien didn't hold back. And he didn't ask permission.
But what surprised Camila most wasn't how much she craved it—it was how much he did.
No Gwen. No Nicola. None of the women she once watched linger around him like moths to flame.
Now, it was just her.
Only her.
His hands, his mouth, his obsession—focused entirely on Camila. As if no other woman existed. As if nothing else mattered.
He was still Lucien—the king, the predator—but something had shifted.
He didn't bark orders at her anymore. He looked at her differently. Touched her slower sometimes, like she mattered. Like he was trying to memorize her.
Once, she caught him just staring. She was buttoning her shirt after a brutal session, breath still uneven, skin flushed. He hadn't moved.
"What?" she asked, brushing hair from her face.
He'd said nothing—just lit a cigarette and looked away, jaw tight.
It wasn't softness. Lucien Alexandro didn't do soft.
But it was... something.
Something that made her chest ache when she let herself think too long.
He was changing. For her.
And God help her—maybe she was changing for him too.
---