Chapter Three

Lucian

No one tells me no.

They never have.

Not the men I crushed to climb my way here, and definitely not the women who mistook my attention for affection.

But she did.

Three years. That’s how long it’s been since I last fucked. I thought that part of me had gone numb, burned out by indulgence and disgust. Then she stepped on stage that night—and something ancient inside me came alive again.

Aurora Laurent.

She doesn’t know what she’s done. Or maybe she does, and that’s what makes her dangerous.

Now I stand behind the glass of the rehearsal room, watching her move. The walls tremble faintly with the low thud of the piano. Sweat gleams at the base of her throat, tracing the dip between her collarbones and falling between her small breasts.

The director—David—clears his throat, glancing nervously at me through the mirror. “Mr. Morelli has come to observe today’s session,” he announces. “To watch the talent. Don’t disappoint.”

I lean against the wall, and her eyes flicker toward me for a split second. Just one glance—but enough. She falters on her landing, the barest misstep, then recovers. That sliver of distraction feeds something in me—the part that wants to see what happens when she loses control entirely.

When the music stops, applause scatters through the room. The other dancers drift away, bowing their heads when they pass me. She stays behind, tying her robe around her waist, pretending not to notice I’m still here.

“Mr. Morelli,” she finally acknowledges when I walk closer to her.

“Lucian,” I correct. “You’ll use it eventually. Best to start now.”

Her chin lifts. “Was there something you needed?”

Always so polite. Always so careful. I’m going to enjoy owning her.

“There’s a private gala at one of my galleries tonight,” I inform her. “You’ll come with me.”

She freezes, then laughs softly. “That wasn’t an invitation.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

“Why?” she asks.

Because you remind me what hunger feels like.

“You interest me,” I say instead.

“I fear that’s not a compliment coming from you, Mr. Morelli.”

“No,” I admit. “It’s not.”

She wipes her face with the towel. “I have rehearsals early in the morning. I fear I can’t—”

“I’ll have your schedule cleared.”

A long silence stretches between us. Her reflection stares back at me in the mirror. She knows there’s a limit to how many no’s I can take.

Finally, she sighs. “Fine.”

“Good girl.”

Her spine straightens, eyes flashing. She doesn’t enjoy my presence, but she’ll learn how to.

___

The gallery glows that night. The world calls me a collector, but that’s only half the truth. I don’t collect things. I collect reactions—the flicker in someone’s eyes when they realize what they’ve given up, the shift from pride to submission, the moment before surrender.

And tonight, I’m collecting hers.

She arrives late. I almost thought she wouldn’t show. The black dress she wears looks simple, but it molds to her petite figure perfectly. Every man in the room turns to look at her. Every woman pretends not to.

“You look gorgeous,” I murmur, stubbing out my cigarette.

“Thank you.” Her tone is mild—another woman would have fainted at the compliment from me, but she doesn’t give a damn. I offer her a glass of champagne, but she doesn’t take it, so I drink it myself.

I guide her toward the back halls. Here, the walls are filled with my private collection—pieces too violent and intimate for the public.

She stops in front of one: a painting of a woman being fucked from behind, her hair pulled back. She shivers, moving toward another one quickly. She may not have noticed her reaction to the first painting, but I did. Her nipples hardened, her skin flushed, and she shifted on her feet. No matter how much she pretends to be pious, my little muse wants a good, hard fuck.

“You collect a lot of pain,” she says softly, studying the portrait of a man who’s turned into skin and bones, curled up in himself.

“I collect honesty,” I answer. “Pain happens to be the purest form of it.”

Her fingers hover near the frame but don’t touch. “You see honesty in destruction?”

“I see beauty in it.”

She glances over her shoulder. “Then you must hate yourself a lot.”

My little muse is starting to grow bold. It makes my cock hard.

“Maybe I do. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to an innocent little girl I can break.”

“Then find someone else to play with,” she hisses.

“I don’t want someone else.”

She turns away, but I walk closer, closing the space between us. “Dance for me,” I whisper. “And I’ll give you everything. I’ll make sure your name fills every theater in this city,” I continue. “Every door opens when I decide it does.”

She faces me then, her upturned nose in the air. “You think everything can be bought.”

“I know it can.”

“I’m not for sale.”

I tilt my head, studying her face. “Everyone says that until the price is right.”

She steps back. “You don’t scare me.”

“Good,” I say. “Fear is too easy. I’d rather you crave me.”

“That will never happen, Mr. Morelli.”

She walks away, her heels clicking across the marble. I let her go, because control tastes better when it’s earned.

No one tells me no. Not for long.

And she just did.

Too bad for her—she’s already mine.

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