Chapter 1
The penthouse suite of LUCID DREAMS smelled like money, blood, and lies.
Crystal chandeliers bled light across black marble floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed the city like a wound — neon veins, concrete skin. Somewhere thirty floors down, slot machines screamed and women laughed and men made deals they’d regret by sunrise. Up here, it was quiet. Too quiet. Elias Mercer stood in front of the mirror and tied his hair up. Black strands, heavy at his nape. He twisted them once, twice, fastened them with a leather cord he’d carried since prison. The bun sat high, severe. It was armor. When Eli tied his hair up, he meant business. When he tied it up tight, he meant murder. His green eyes stared back at him. Cold. Empty. The eyes of a man who’d spent three years learning how not to flinch. The suit was black. Tailored. It fit his 6’4 frame like it had been waiting for him. Broad shoulders, scarred knuckles, jaw sharp enough to cut. He looked like a saint carved from ice. Everyone who saw him thought: Don’t touch. Everyone except one man. The door clicked. Eli didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. He could feel Lucian Ashford in the room the way you feel a storm before the rain. The air changed. The temperature dropped. The whole suite remembered who owned it. “Still tying your hair like you’re going to war, saint? ”Lucian’s voice. Low. Amused. Possessive. It slid down Eli’s spine and settled somewhere he shouldn’t feel things anymore. Eli kept his eyes on the mirror. Lucian stood behind him. Also 6’4. Also black suit, also built to break bones. But where Eli was ice, Lucian was fire in a tailored coffin. Short black hair, perfect. Hazel eyes that turned gold when he was lying. And he was always lying.
Right now those eyes were fixed on Eli’s neck. On the bare skin above his collar. On the way Eli’s pulse jumped when Lucian stepped closer.
“Don’t call me that,” Eli said. His voice was steady. It cost him. “Call you what?” Lucian moved until their chests almost touched. He didn’t. Not yet. He liked the anticipation. He liked watching Eli’s control crack in millimeters. “Saint? Devil? Husband?” The last word landed like a knife.
Eli’s hands stilled on the leather cord. The earpiece in his right ear crackled. “Targets approaching the casino floor. Move to Phase One. Make it real or you’re both dead.” The rat was listening. The rat was watching through the cameras hidden in the chandelier, in the painting, in the smoke detector. Their best friend. The one who’d held Eli’s hand through prison visits and Lucian’s back during the war. The one who’d been feeding both sides information for years, waiting for LUCID DREAMS to burn so he could take the ashes. Fake marriage. Real empire. One bed. Lucian reached past Eli’s shoulder and plucked the leather cord from his fingers. “Let me,” he murmured. Eli didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. That was submission, and they both knew it. Lucian’s fingers brushed his nape. Warm. Possessive. He undid the bun Eli had just made and let Eli’s hair fall down his back. Then he tied it again. Slower. Tighter. One loop, two, a knot that would leave marks if Eli tried to pull it free himself. “There,” Lucian whispered against his ear. His breath was hot. “Now you look like you’re mine.”
Eli’s jaw tightened. “I’m not—”“You are,” Lucian cut in. His thumb pressed against Eli’s lower lip, pulling it down slightly. “You’ve always been mine, Eli. Even when you were bleeding in that cell. Even when you swore you’d kill me. You just forgot for three years .”The earpiece hissed again. “Ten seconds. Cameras live in three… two…”
Lucian turned Eli by the shoulders. Forced him to face him. They were the same height. Same muscle. Same war. But Eli’s green eyes dropped first. Always did with him.Lucian smiled. Slow. Cruel. “Look at me.” Eli looked. “Good boy,” Lucian said, and Eli hated that his breath caught. Hated that his hands fisted at his sides instead of pushing Lucian away. “Now kiss me, saint. Make it real. Make them believe you’d burn the empire down if I asked.” The red light blinked on the hidden camera. Eli grabbed Lucian’s tie. He pulled. The kiss was war.
Six years of hate. Three years of prison. A thousand nights dreaming of Lucian’s throat under his hands and his mouth on his skin instead. Eli kissed him like he wanted to hurt him. Like he wanted to be hurt. Teeth, tongue, the taste of whiskey and sin. He kissed him like revenge and prayer all at once .Lucian went still for half a second. Shock. Then he kissed back like he was drowning and Eli was air. Like he’d been waiting. Like he owned the ruin he was making. His hands came up to Eli’s face. One at his jaw, thumb pressing in like a brand. The other in his hair, fisting at the bun he’d just tied, using it to tilt Eli’s head exactly how he wanted. Possessive. Manipulative. Every touch said mine without speaking.
Eli broke first. He pulled back, chest heaving, green eyes shattered. His lips were red. His bun was half-loose. He looked wrecked. He looked like Lucian’s. Lucian didn’t let him go. He kept one hand on Eli’s jaw, thumb wiping across his mouth like he was claiming the evidence. Then he leaned in, mouth at Eli’s ear, voice only for him.
“Struggle more,” he whispered. “I like it when you pretend you don’t want me.” Eli shoved him back. Real hard to put distance between them before the cameras caught too much.
Before he did something stupid like beg. Lucian just licked his bottom lip and smiled. The devil in a suit, blood on his mouth that wasn’t his. “You’ll beg me for that later, saint.” The earpiece clicked off. Phase One complete.
For ten seconds neither of them moved. The city screamed below. The empire waited. The rat watched. Then Lucian turned and walked to the bar. Poured two glasses of whiskey. His hands were steady. They always were. He slid one glass across the marble counter to Eli without looking at him.
“Drink,” he said. “You’re shaking.” “I’m not—” “You are,” Lucian interrupted. Finally looked at him. Hazel eyes molten. “Because I touched you. Because I called you good. Because for three years you told yourself you hated me and now your body remembers the truth.” Eli took the glass. Didn’t drink.
“You sold me out.” “I did,” Lucian said, no apology in his voice. That was the worst part. He didn’t lie. He didn’t pretend. “I sold you to save the Ashford name. I’d do it again.” Eli’s knuckles went white around the glass. “Then why are you here?” Lucian stepped close again. Invaded his space. Invaded his air. He was always doing that. Taking up room Eli didn’t know he had. “Because the old man died,” Lucian said quietly.
“And his last order was find the rat or LUCID DREAMS burns. And the only way to flush him out is you and me. Married. In love. Bleeding in public.” He reached up and adjusted Eli’s tie. Fingers lingering. “Besides,” he murmured,
“I missed you. I missed this. I missed the way you look at me like I’m the only sin you can’t quit.” Eli knocked his hand away. “Don’t.” “Don’t what?” Lucian’s smile sharpened. “Don’t touch? Don’t talk? Don’t want you?” He leaned in until their noses almost touched. “Too late, saint. I never stopped.”
The suite was too big. The bed was too close. King size, black sheets, no pillows between them. One room. One lie. One rule: make it real. Eli walked to the window. Put glass between them. His reflection looked back at him. 6’4 of muscle and scars and bad decisions. A man who’d survived prison and come out harder.
A man who fell apart when Lucian said his name. Behind him, Lucian started undressing. Slow. Deliberate. Jacket off. Cufflinks. Shirt unbuttoned one button at a time, revealing the tattoo that crept up his neck. The one Eli used to trace with his fingers before everything went to hell.
“Stop,” Eli said without turning. “Stop what?” Fabric hit the floor. “Undressing? We’re married, remember? Husbands share beds. Husbands share everything.”
“I don’t share with traitors .”Lucian laughed. Soft. Dark. “No? Then why did you kiss me like that? Why did you break first? Why are you still breathing when I’m the reason you almost didn’t?” Eli turned. Fast. Furious. Green eyes burning. “Because I had to. Because the cameras—”
“Bullshit,” Lucian said. He was bare-chested now, scars and muscle and the kind of violence that didn’t need a weapon. He crossed the room in three steps until they were toe-toe again. “You kissed me because you wanted to. You broke first because you always do. For me. Only me.”
