Chapter 32
2108words
Lucian Sinclair’s Estate | The Master Suite
Late Morning
Lucian woke to silence.
Not the kind that pressed—just the kind that softened.
Distant birdsong. The faint hum of the city somewhere far off. Morning light spilling through curtains he hadn’t drawn last night.
For a moment, he didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe too deeply.
Didn’t open his eyes all the way.
Before any conscious thought took form, his body already knew:
She was still there.
Asleep beside him.
Her breathing steady and slow, the kind of rhythm people only had when they felt safe.
The covers had shifted in the night—half draped across her, the other half tangled somewhere near his knees. She lay on her side, facing him, one arm outstretched without thought, fingers just barely brushing his wrist.
She hadn’t meant to.
But she hadn’t moved away, either.
Lucian’s eyes opened fully. Slowly. Carefully.
The sight of her made something in his chest tighten. Not sharply. Just… completely.
Her hair was a mess. Her features softer than usual. No shield in place. No control. Just Kristina—real, human, asleep in his bed like she’d always belonged there.
He studied her face, quiet as breath.
She looked younger in sleep. Quieter. Like the weight she always carried had finally, even briefly, let go.
And he didn’t know if she’d regret this.
Didn’t know if it would feel different when she woke up.
What he did know—what he couldn’t deny—was how badly he didn’t want her to leave.
Not just the room.
Not just the house.
The way she had slowly, irrevocably, moved into the spaces he hadn’t known were empty until she filled them.
He didn’t touch her.
Didn’t brush his fingers against hers.
Didn’t shift toward the warmth of her body, even though he ached to.
He just lay there.
Still. Silent. Staring at the impossibility of her.
Please don’t regret it, he thought.
Please don’t wake up and pull back.
Please stay.
He let the moment stretch. Let it breathe. Let it imprint itself, because part of him didn’t trust it would ever happen again.
Knock knock.
Lucian blinked.
The knock came again, louder. He frowned, but still didn’t move, glancing toward the door with all the enthusiasm of a man being dragged into a war before coffee.
The door opened.
Lucian sat up like he’d been shot.
Eli stepped halfway inside, still talking as he entered. “Lucian, are you he—”
He stopped.
Mid-sentence. Mid-step. Mid-breath.
Lucian stared at him.
Eli stared back.
Then looked at Kristina. Then back at Lucian. Then Kristina again.
Lucian raised one finger to his lips. A slow, do not gesture.
Eli’s mouth opened, then closed. His hand flailed in some vague panic-wave before he whispered, “You—you didn’t wake up.”
Lucian looked pointedly at Kristina. Then at himself. Then at Eli.
“Yeah,” Eli whispered again, “I can see why now.”
Lucian pinched the bridge of his nose. “Eli—”
“Okay, okay,” Eli said quickly, backing up toward the hallway. “I’m leaving. I’m leaving. But just so you know? Maxim Thorne’s downstairs. Has been since eight. Said he’d wait since you’re always up early.”
“Kristina too, apparently. Now I know why neither of you were.”
Lucian went still.
“Maxim’s here?”
“Yep.” Eli looked far too amused for someone still technically whispering. “Looks pretty calm. Might not stay that way if he walks up here, though.”
Lucian’s eyes widened a fraction.
Eli tilted his head. “Should I stall him?”
Lucian didn’t answer. He was already out of bed.
The door shut.
Not harshly—but not soft, either.
Kristina stirred.
The bed shifted just enough to register the absence of him. The warmth still lingered beside her, a hollow in the sheets where his body had been. Her fingers flexed toward it, instinctively, brushing over where his arm had rested.
She inhaled.
And paused.
Lucian’s scent still clung to the pillow—clean cotton, faint cologne, the ghost of something warmer. Familiar, now. Like falling asleep to the sound of rain. Like safety wrapped in skin and silence.
Kristina didn’t open her eyes yet.
Not immediately.
Instead, she pressed her cheek more firmly into the pillow, half-buried in the scent of him, and breathed.
This is dangerous, she thought.
Not the night. Not even waking up here, in his bed, in his shirt.
The quiet.
The comfort.
The part of her that didn’t want to move.
She blinked slowly, lashes brushing cotton.
He was gone. She could feel it. The stillness of the room was different. The kind that settles after someone has already left, carrying the gravity of them out with each step.
Kristina rolled onto her back.
Eyes open now. Staring at the ceiling.
And for the first time in a very long time, the quiet didn’t feel empty.
It just felt like morning.
Lucian Sinclair’s Estate | Main Staircase
Lucian took the stairs two at a time.
He wasn’t thinking—just moving. Fast. Focused. Or trying to be.
It wasn’t until the landing curved that he heard the sound of voices below—low, unmistakable. And then—
A figure appeared at the base of the staircase.
Maxim Thorne. Already halfway up.
Lucian stopped cold.
Right there, mid-step. Breath catching. Brain halting.
Maxim’s eyes lifted the same moment Lucian’s feet froze.
Behind him, Ash and Vex were hauling up two rolling suitcases and what looked like a folded garment bag. Sebastian was further back in the foyer, dragging another case with visible resentment, as if the act of manual labor before coffee personally offended him.
Suitcases?
His mind lagged.
Then caught up all at once.
He looked again. One of the cases—definitely Kristina’s. The navy trim. The discreet initials by the handle.
Did he just—did Maxim bring her things back?
Was this a gesture? A warning? A statement?
Was this the moment Maxim found out she hadn’t slept in her room?
Maxim raised a brow as their eyes met across the stairwell. Calm. Neutral. But aware.
Lucian did not breathe.
“Morning,” Maxim said. Cool, but not cold. “You must’ve been so tired last night you forgot to change.”
Lucian looked down.
He was still in his suit from the gala. Undone. Wrinkled. Disheveled. Very much the image of a man who had not slept alone.
Somewhere behind him, Eli appeared—like a man arriving just in time to witness a slow-moving death.
“God,” Eli muttered to himself, eyes wide, “he’s gonna die before Christmas.”
Lucian forced his voice to work. “You’re early.”
“It’s ten twenty.” Maxim glanced at the clock on the wall. “I’ve been downstairs since eight.”
Two hours.
They’d been waiting. He’d still been in bed.
With Kristina.
Maxim didn’t know that part yet.
Lucian opened his mouth. Closed it. Calculating. Strategizing. Internally screaming.
Ash appeared behind Maxim, lugging one of the bags up another step. “Hey, boss. You finally up? Thought we were gonna have to stage a tactical extraction.”
Vex snorted. “He was probably working late.”
Lucian didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
His brain was busy flashing worst-case scenarios like a trauma slideshow:
Maxim, upstairs.
Kristina, still in his bed.
His shirt on her.
The door probably unlocked.
The room still warm from where he’d been lying beside her not ten minutes ago.
And the man halfway up the stairs?
Her father—adoptive father—but still her father.
Lucian stood frozen on the step, the morning unraveling around him like a detonated plan.
Abort. Evacuate. Bribe the team. Fake your death. Something.
Maxim took another step upward. Measured. Deliberate. Calm like someone who knew exactly what kind of power silence held.
“I figured I’d bring her things back,” he said casually. “She’s not going back with me, so I just… delivered these.”
Delivered. Like a peace offering. Or a warning shot.
Lucian didn’t move. He wasn’t sure he could.
Maxim kept climbing.
And Lucian kept bracing.
By the time Maxim reached the landing, Lucian’s pulse was in his throat.
“Which door is hers?” Maxim asked, glancing down the hall.
Lucian and Eli—without thinking—pointed at the same door.
Maxim turned, heading toward it without pause. Ash and Vex followed, wheeling Kristina’s bags behind them.
Sebastian, who’d just reached the stairs, paused mid-step. He took one look at Lucian’s and Eli’s faces and frowned.
“What the hell happened to both of you?”
Lucian didn’t answer.
Neither did Eli.
They just stared ahead—expressions locked somewhere between guilt and impending doom.
A door opened.
Not Kristina’s.
And every single person in the hall turned.
Lucian Sinclair’s Estate | Upstairs Hallway
The door eased open with a soft click.
And Kristina stepped out.
Barefoot. Hair slightly tousled. Wearing nothing but Lucian’s crisp black dress shirt, unbuttoned just enough to prove it wasn’t borrowed as a joke.
She didn’t see them at first.
She was rubbing one eye with the back of her hand, the other holding the door frame like she was still half-asleep. The sleeves of the shirt fell over her fingers. The hem hit mid-thigh. She looked soft. Real. Very much like someone who’d woken up in someone else’s bed.
Then she looked up.
And froze.
Six pairs of eyes were staring at her.
Maxim. Ash. Vex. Sebastian. Eli.
And Lucian—standing still, visibly dying inside.
Ash, Vex, and Sebastian had seen Kristina in Lucian’s shirts before—post-hospital mornings, sleepy breakfast appearances—but always with shorts or lounge pants. Always technically decent.
This wasn’t that.
No one could unsee the implications of her stepping out of his bedroom, barefoot, in just that shirt.
Kristina’s hand slowly dropped from her face.
Her expression didn’t crack, but her spine definitely straightened
She looked at the group. Then at the suitcases. Then at Maxim.
Her mouth opened slightly—some reaction, maybe even a greeting—but no sound came out.
The silence was deafening.
Ash cleared his throat.
Vex blinked. “Oh, wow.”
Sebastian looked like someone had just whispered a national secret in his ear.
Maxim’s expression didn’t change.
Not a twitch. Not a flinch. Just a long, unreadable look from daughter to doorway. From her face… to the shirt. Then to Lucian.
Lucian, who was now holding very, very still—like he thought movement might trigger a predator response.
Kristina finally spoke. Calm. Controlled. The barest raise of her chin.
“…Good morning.”
Maxim blinked once.
Then turned slowly to Lucian. “Want to explain, or should I guess?”
Lucian opened his mouth. Absolutely no words came out.
Kristina stepped forward before he could combust. “Nothing happened.”
Ash coughed. “Debatable.”
Kristina gave him a look that could’ve incinerated glass.
Lucian tried again. “We just—slept.”
Eli let out a sound that might’ve been a strangled prayer.
Kristina crossed her arms—carefully, given her attire. “I asked to stay. He gave me clothes. That’s it.”
Maxim didn’t reply right away. He just looked at her. Then Lucian. Then back again.
In Maxim’s mind, several thoughts collided at once: parental dread, military instincts, and an almost amused sense of déjà vu.
He wasn’t stupid. He saw the shirt. Saw her bare legs. Saw Lucian’s posture—guilty, frozen, horrified.
And yet… she looked safe. Not flustered. Not ashamed. Just calm. Composed. Comfortable.
Maxim sighed inwardly.
He had spent a decade preparing for a conversation like this—the what-are-your-intentions talk, the you-touch-her-you-die look, the moral standoff between protector and possible suitor.
He mostly just felt tired. And, if he was honest… relieved.
Kristina looked more at peace than he’d seen her in years.
And Lucian, for all his pride and power, looked like a man on trial—with no defense.
Maxim gave it two seconds more. Let them sweat.
Then dialed his tone back to dry.
“Next time, try not to leave your father in the foyer for two hours while you're committing to just sleep.”
Kristina’s face flushed. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“And he”—Maxim gestured lightly at Lucian—“was unconscious.”
Lucian, defeated: “In my defense, I thought I was going to die after lunch.”
Sebastian looked at all of them. “...So, are we still putting the bags in her room, or…?”
Kristina sighed. “Yes. Thank you.”
Ash nudged Vex with a smirk. “Ten bucks says she never uses that room again.”
Vex didn’t even hesitate. “Not betting against a sure thing.”
Lucian groaned into his hand.
Maxim finally sighed. “Someone get me coffee. And a buffer.”
He turned around and started walking toward Kristina’s actual room, the garment bag still draped over his arm.
As he passed Lucian, he paused—just long enough to murmur:
“We’ll talk. Later.”
Lucian nodded like he’d just been sentenced by God.
Maxim continued down the hall.
Kristina, now very awake, looked at Lucian and mouthed one word:
Lucian just gave her a look that said:
“We are never talking about this again.”
Because mornings don’t lie—and neither do fathers.
—To be continued.
