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He reaches for the decanter of liquor, filling his glass while he shoves the cigarette between his lips. “Consider it payment for saving my life,” he says around it.

“What?”

“The other night. On the roof. Had you not been there, well, I’d probably be a spatter of bones and blood.”

Grimacing, I swallow back the visual of that. “It was nothing special.”

“Saving my life, or what followed?”

“The, um … the kiss was … very good. I enjoyed it very much.”

Leaning forward again to flick his smoke, he tips his head, as if to study me. “You found enjoyment in a drunken kiss?” His cheeks cave with a long draw of his cigarette, before he stamps it out in the ashtray. “You’d have to be quite inexperienced to fancy something so meaningless.”

Ouch.

“I guess I didn’t consider it all that meaningless.”

“I guess you haven’t been kissed enough to know the difference.”

What the hell is wrong with this guy? “Is it your intent to constantly insult me? Here, I’m trying to thank you for helping me out, and suddenly I’m feeling under attack.”

“Attack?” He chuffs a laugh, and his tongue sweeps across his lips before they curve into a mocking smirk. “No, I don’t intend to constantly insult you. Your gratitude is noted.”

“Good.”

“I trust you’ll be back to assist my mother tomorrow. She’s asked for you, as I understand.”

“I promise. No more shenanigans.”

“Fantastic. If that’s all, I have some pressing matters to attend to.”

“That’s all.”

I never know how to take Lucian Blackthorne. He’s an enigma to me. Even as I make my way back toward the elevator, having accomplished what I came up here to do, I feel unraveled. As if I’ve spent the last twenty minutes spinning in place, watching layers of my skin peel away. I hate that he has this effect on me, as though he sees right through me, with one of my weaknesses down to a science: my pride. If only I knew his. The one soft spot that I could punch through to find out if there’s anything on the other side of it. There has to be a heart inside this man. Why else would he help someone who means so little to him?

The elevator door opens, and I step inside, keeping my attention glued to the red paisley carpeting. It’s only when they begin to close that I look up and catch him staring back at me. The eyes of the devil, burning right through me, and if not for the thick silver doors shutting him out, I’d probably crumble into a pile of ash.

On the first floor, I exit past Makaio and Rand escorting a man I’ve never seen at the Manor before. Dark hair, and equally dark eyes beneath bushy eyebrows that lower with a scowl, he doesn’t divert his gaze as polite people do when passed.

Like he recognizes me, or something.

I don’t recognize him, at all. Should I?

Confused, I turn around as Makaio leads him onto the elevator, and when he turns to face me again, his eyes pop wide.

“Wait!” He lurches forward, held back by the massive Hawaiian beside him, and the doors close shut.

In that moment, I wonder if I’ve just come face to face with Franco.

Chapter 32

Lucian

Stepping from the elevator on the floor to the catacombs, I casually sip my drink, as the sound of screaming echoes down the shadowy corridor. I open the door to the room on the right, where Makaio blocks most of my view. All I can see from the doorway is a pair of trembling feet sticking out from the right of the massive bodyguard, as Makaio goes to work on removing Franco’s tongue, per my earlier request.

Because the best meetings are the ones where I talk, and assholes listen.

I stroll to the other side of the chair, getting a front row view of the carnage, where Franco lies in a bloody mess on the old dentist chair, his tongue on a silver tray beside him.