Chapter 8

The very first buds were opening. Too few today for a harvest, but tomorrow they would have to have a crew in the fields. Matt would. Lucien tasted that thought. Matt grown up, in charge. Big, burly, growly…so glad to have him back that tears had glimmered in his eyes.

Lucien scrubbed his hands over his face, an ache in his chest that only grew as the sun rose and spread pink-gold light over the rose field, the rays stretching right through the gap in the hills and kissing his eyes, making them sting.

He angled his face toward shadow and took careful, deep breaths.

“You’re up early,” an old, old voice said to him, and he braced. Oh, hell. His grandfather came up beside him. “Military habit?”

Jean-Jacques Rosier had fought a war but never been in any proper military. Not that some people would necessarily call the Foreign Legion a proper military, Lucien thought with a twist of Legion humor.

“Monsieur,” he said, finally, because fuck it, he had to say something. He couldn’t manage grand-père. He controlled his instinct to kiss the old man’s cheeks as he would have as a boy and held out his hand.

His gran—Jean-Jacques Rosier clasped it once, blue eyes assessing and unreadable on Lucien’s face. “I prefer grand-père. Pépé.”

Lucien took another slow breath and gazed out over the rose field. Yeah. Breathing here prickled the backs of his eyes.

Jean-Jacques began to walk, a slow, measured pace, much slower than it had once been, and Lucien fell into step with him automatically, noticing with an odd discomfort that he had to shorten his stride these days. It felt like stepping down in the dark and not finding a step below. The ring burned against his chest.

“You do good in the Legion, boy? Did you do me proud?”

Oh, fuck, Lucien could feel a shaky onslaught behind his eyes, like a shipwrecked sailor who had finally washed up to shore and wanted to clutch two fistfuls of its sand and weep. The ownership in the statement—that Lucien was one of Jean-Jacques’s descendants who could do him proud. “I made captain, monsieur. Grand-père.”

“Captain. From an enlisted man?” The old man’s light blue eyes gleamed.

Lucien inclined his head. He was afraid to look up. His eyes might be red. “And…and some medals. Sir.”

“Grand-père,” the old man said firmly, a superior commander who would brook no argument.

Lucien’s fists clenched to try to hold onto his emotions. “Grand-père.”

“These medals…I take it you have some stories to tell.” Jean-Jacques glanced at him sidelong but mostly focused across the fields.

Just the way he always had, all those times Lucien walked with him as a teenager looking for a role model while his own parents fell apart. “I don’t know that I would be good at telling them, monsi—grand-père.” He had to clear his throat.

“You can say Pépé,” the old man said dryly. “If grand-père is too hard.”

Lucien took two full steps in complete blindness, his eyes closed tight to try to hold in all those emotions. The dancing last night with Elena had been wonderful, as if it reached across fifteen years and put him right back into the same place he had abandoned. This was…deeper. Harder.

“There were plenty of stories I couldn’t tell you boys,” Jean-Jacques said, with that rough, old voice of his. “Maybe some of them I could tell you. Now.”

That sparked in Lucien’s heart. All those stories they’d clamored for, all his grandfather’s silences…Lucien had earned some of the secrets?

“I…certainly, monsi—grand-père.” Lucien took another deep breath and stared at those limestone cliffs in the distance. “I have something I need to give you first.” Get it over with.

He drew his dog tags out from under his shirt and over his head.

His grandfather held them in an old wrinkled hand. “Julien Fontaine,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s your nom de guerre?”

“They picked it out of a book.” Back in those days, the Legion had still made all engagés volontaires start with a new identity. It had been a huge part of the Legion’s appeal, and like most of the old guard, Lucien still thought they’d lost an essential part of the Legion culture when they changed those rules. The sergeant sitting across the desk from him, looking him over with a complete and utter lack of compassion, had flipped a page, dropped his finger to it, and given him a name, along with a Belgian nationality, since he’d had to give up his French one for the first five years. Lucien could have taken his own name back along with the citizenship, after those first five years were up. But…he hadn’t. He’d thought that identity was gone.

Jean-Jacques Rosier ran his thumb over Lucien’s blood type. O negative. His cousins were all A or B or AB, which maybe should have been a sign, but no one had considered it one at the time. It had, conversely, made him an extremely valuable blood donor, so he supposed his blood ran in a lot of his men’s veins now. “You’re not out of the Legion yet. Better keep them, mon grand. I’ll be proud to take them when you know you won’t need them anymore.”

Such as to identify his blown-up body. Jean-Jacques Rosier was perhaps the only civilian Lucien knew who could talk about Lucien’s possible death in battle matter-of-factly, not letting emotion leak through to weaken a man. He knew about the importance of facing death strongly, as just a part of life.

“Not the tags. The ring.” Surely his grandfather had seen it?

His grandfather lifted the ring closer to his eyes. “Is this what I think it is?”

His grandfather’s sniper eyes were going? He was ninety-one. And yet he still fixed people with those eyes as if he could see right through them. “It’s Niccolò’s ring.”

Jean-Jacques Rosier shook his head. “That aunt of yours always was stubborn. Won’t let me have my own family treasures but she’ll give them to my grandsons. Well. She pissed me off for seventy years with that, but these days…saves me the extra step.” He extended the dog tags and ring back to Lucien.

His grandfather giving up his feud with his stepsister over the missing family treasures for Lucien’s sake was one too many shocks to Lucien’s system. He clenched his fingers into his palms. “It’s Niccolò Rosario’s ring. It should go to a Rosier.”

“Maybe you’d better change your name back to your right one when you get out of that Legion of yours, then.” Jean-Jacques pushed the dog tags at him.

Lucien couldn’t breathe. “Pépé—”

“What you really need to figure out is who you’re going to give it to.”

“I—Matt, maybe?” The future family patriarch.

“You can’t marry your own cousin, boy. Even if you don’t share the same blood. Be like marrying your brother, the way you five grew up. Anyway, it’s not a man’s ring.”

Talking to his grandfather was like having a conversation while trying to balance on rolling logs. “I—”

“Just don’t do what Michel did, that’s what I ask. You find someone who deserves this ring. Who’ll stick with you and who you can stick with. We don’t want it going out of the family in another damn divorce.”

Jean-Jacques threw the chain over Lucien’s head. It flopped across his face, and he grabbed it too fast and looked down again at the tags and ring in his hand. A past that had never been his, a promise of a future he’d never thought he’d have, and an identity he’d made for himself. “Not going out of the family?” His voice felt queer and tight.

“That’s what I said, mon grand. So you choose wisely. Choose someone who’s worthy of your name.”

Lucien stared at him, so much heat in his face and around his eyes and…hell, this was so hard.

“So,” his grandfather said calmly, continuing his stride. “Those stories. Why don’t you start? I suspect you’ve fought in Afghanistan, is that right? Côte d’Ivoire? Maybe Syria? Why don’t you tell me where you’ve been?”

***

Elena stopped her rideshare when she spotted the heads in the field and crossed the edge of the rose field to join the white-haired man there, who was watching a tall man walking alone in the distance, his hand trailing over roses.

“Bonjour, monsieur.” She kissed Jean-Jacques Rosier on both cheeks and stood beside him, gazing out at Lucien.

Monsieur Rosier’s tough, stern face softened for her, as it always did. Maybe he and Madame Colette didn’t see her as fragile, per se. Maybe they just always saw, laid over her, the image of a five-year-old girl in rose petals. And they knew that they had done a good thing.

She hoped so. She hoped she proved that to them.

One thing Elena never took for granted was human kindness. She tried to deserve every bit that had ever been shown to her, even if it had been shown two generations before she was born.

“He hasn’t tried to escape yet?” she said.

“We haven’t given him a chance,” Jean-Jacques Rosier said.

Elena nodded at him approvingly. At least the Rosiers were going to be smarter this time around. “Well, I know where to find him now.”

“Me, too,” Jean-Jacques said with satisfaction. “In fact, I know his name, rank, and serial number, as well as his company.”

Oh, of course he did. A person could hardly spend two minutes around Jean-Jacques Rosier without confessing all. “He volunteered all that?”

“We’ve been talking,” the old Resistance hero said calmly, in a tone that clearly communicated that he didn’t convey someone else’s tales.

Elena smiled at him. It was nice to know a man she could trust.

Jean-Jacques gazed at Lucien in the distance and shook his head. “His father—” He bit the words off, his face grim.

Elena nibbled the inside of her lip. She’d seen last night the way Michel Rosier had reacted to Lucien’s presence, and wanted to kick him, and she’d seen the way Jean-Jacques Rosier looked at his middle son. A look that probably would have made her do just about anything to placate Jean-Jacques and get him to think well of her again, but apparently his sons were more used to bucking their father’s will. They had probably had to be, to grow up to be their own people.

She understood, technically, that the Rosiers had different expectations of a man’s behavior than she did, that they thought Michel Rosier should have behaved like a good father to Lucien even when it grew emotionally inconvenient to do so. But she couldn’t quite wrap her mind around having such a confidence in the first place, so she didn’t always understand their sense of betrayal.

She came from a milieu where parents giving up their kids was kind of the baseline. They’d all been given up. And there was always a reason.

“People make their own choices,” she said. “You can’t make all of them for them.”

That rueful compression of his lips. “Unfortunately.”

Elena grinned at him. “I’m sure the world would be a better place if you could.”

A blue gleam in his eyes that made her as happy as a sassy kid in a secure family, and she smiled out over the field. “I just came to get my car from last night.” And, of course, to make sure her latest familial acquisition was not running off as soon as she had her back turned. Lucien Rosier had ruined her trust in his ability to stay where he belonged when he was nineteen years old.

“You’ll stay to eat now, of course,” Jean-Jacques Rosier said firmly. Weddings were always a two-day affair, and the host family served a meal around one or two the day after for all of those who had spent the night in the surrounding area. There were always some pastries for those who woke at actual breakfast time, too, but those numbers were few, given that very few people had gone to bed before two and quite a lot of them had certainly danced until dawn. Elena still kicked herself for leaving early.

But, of course, those who stayed on the second day were usually the closest people to the host family. Not, say, a hanger on who had done some odd jobs for Colette Delatour as a hobby. “Thank you,” Elena said, feeling shy.

Jean-Jacques gave her that look, as if he could halfway see her curled up in rose petals and was proud to have rescued her. She curled her fingers into the crook of his arm when he offered it and walked back to the mas with him.

“You did a good thing, bringing him back here,” Jean-Jacques Rosier said.

Elena smiled, very happy. She was, she had to admit it, a total sucker for approval from elders. She’d never really had her own grandparents.

“Now tell me more about that young man you brought with you to the wedding yesterday.”

“Antoine?”

“He looked familiar,” the old man said, studying her for a moment with a look that reminded her of Lucien’s, as if he wanted to see right through her. “Have I met him?”

“I don’t know, monsieur. He’s Madame Colette’s lawyer, Antoine Vallier.”

One of those old white eyebrows went up. “Antoine Vallier who helped her deed part of this valley over to a complete stranger? And a perfume shop that had been in our family for centuries to another stranger?”

“The granddaughters of her adoptive son, monsieur,” Elena said firmly. She had been quite thrilled with the results of her finding Layla Dubois and Jess Bianchi. And she had infinite respect for Jean-Jacques Rosier, but that didn’t mean he got to cast aspersions on Elena’s familial achievements. “Not complete strangers.”

“Hmm,” said the old man, his face impossible to read, as they reached the people milling around the mas, helping clear out the party mess from the night before to make room for the noon meal. Elena immediately pitched in. She always loved it when she got a chance to blend in with a family.

Plus, she’d spent a lot of time “earning her place” in families growing up, and helping with the chores almost always guaranteed you at least a nod of approval.

A while later, a case of glass bottles of water was proving to be a lot heavier than she had guessed and the handle cutting like hell into her fingers when, not surprisingly in this milieu, male hands scooped under the box and took it from her. She glanced up. Lucien.

“I lift weights,” she said ruefully, massaging her aching fingers as she walked beside him toward the pavilion while he carried the case easily.

“Yeah?” That blue gaze traced over her with a kind of gentle possessiveness that did all kinds of erotic things to her. “Good for you.”

Oh, just great, Elena. You want to be possessed?

Yes, said a wistful child’s voice in her middle. Nobody ever really had grabbed onto her and held tight like she was worth keeping.

“Real weights?” His gaze lingered on her shoulders and arms.

“Well, not little pink weights.” She pushed herself hard. On the other hand, there remained a pretty drastic difference between the size and quantity of the plates she put on a bar and the size and quantity some of the guys in the gym put on it.

Lucien smiled at her. “Guess you’re forgetting your testosterone shots, then.”

Yes, no matter how hard she pushed that iron, her biceps had never developed more than a slight, firm curve. She shrugged. “Always nice to be stronger than you look.”

He considered that. “If you’re trying to lure an enemy into a trap, maybe. If you’re just trying to stop people from messing with you in the first place, it’s definitely better to appear strong.”

Yep. Thus the cool, sexy, amused manner she used, since she couldn’t manage muscle. Small, shy, and craving approval got you eaten alive every time.

“And I do martial arts,” she told him firmly, and then it occurred to her how patronizingly he could respond to that, given that his entire life was devoted to combat and he could probably—and this was the scary thing about strong men—control her with one hand.

“Yeah?” He didn’t act patronizing at all, just interested. He set the case of water down on top of a stack of them in the pavilion. “What kind?”

“Muay thai, mostly. I like to try other things, though.”

He had turned toward her, resting one hand on top of the case of water, those blue eyes so astute and yet still holding that utterly enticing, stroke-one-strand-of-hair gentleness. A gentleness he had shown pretty much only to her so far. “Sounds like you’ve been expecting to have to fend for yourself in life.”

She shrugged and gave him a slanted smile. “Who better than me?”

For a second, honest incredulity slipped through his expression.

Right, fine. Elena ground her teeth a little. But I don’t have someone like you in my back pocket, all big and strong and ready to fight to make sure I’m okay.

She folded her arms and raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m starting to suspect your fifteen years in an all-male military gave you a very patriarchal world view.”

He laughed wryly. “It didn’t start at nineteen.” He glanced across to where his grandfather had taken a seat under the plane tree.

“He knows how strong women are.” Elena took umbrage. No one had better cast aspersions on Jean-Jacques Rosier. Not even one of her other heroes. Besides, Lucien’s hero status was pretty tarnished at this point.

“I should hope so, given his wife and stepsister. So do I, but I’m not going to engage in some delusion where you’re just as good at hand-to-hand combat as I am.”

Elena scowled up at him. She knew she wasn’t. But she was all she had.

Lucien studied her, faintly frowning. “Don’t know that many decent guys, Elena?”

She adopted her woman-of-the-world irony. “Let’s say a smart woman is always skeptical.”

They had started heading back for more water, or in Elena’s case possibly something a little lighter that needed to be carried to the pavilion. “That asshole boyfriend of yours one of the guys you have to be skeptical about?”

“My boyfriend?” Seriously, hadn’t she been pretty clear that she did not have a boyfriend? Maybe he was pretty skeptical about other people himself.

“That blond guy. Antoine.”

Oh, not this again. Her face scrunched involuntarily. “Antoine’s not my boyfriend. Eww.”

“Eww?”

“We were raised together some of the time. He’s kind of like a brother.” A foster brother, but she didn’t want to go into the fostering thing. The discussions always got so painful so fast.

Lucien’s gaze sharpened. “So you know his parents?”

“No.” Elena turned away and picked up a giant bouquet of flowers that covered her whole face. Per tradition, many of the guests had offered magnificent bouquets of flowers. She thought, though she wasn’t sure, that the tradition had started long ago when the gifts of bouquets really helped pretty up a church. These days, couples usually had their decorations all set well before the tribute of bouquets started appearing, but you still had to make sure the guests saw their bouquets on display when they came back for the noon meal the next day.

Lucien grabbed more water, a stack of two cases this time, the show-off, and followed her.

“So how are you doing?” Elena said through her flowers. Let’s put this conversation back on you.

“Fine.” Lucien flexed the cases upward just enough to make his biceps pop even more. “Me Tarzan. I can grunt some, if you like.”

Elena laughed, and Lucien’s cheeks creased as if he was pleased with himself. Yeah, this guy knew how to seduce women. Laughter, for example, was a definite way to get to her.

“I meant generally. Being here.”

Lucien’s smile faded.

“You’re over here flirting with me instead of talking to anyone in your family, so I guess I have a little bit of an idea,” she said, when he didn’t answer.

Lucien slanted her a dark glance. “Maybe I like flirting with you.”

“Be pretty pathetic if you didn’t like flirting with me but were going ahead and using me as a distraction anyway.”

He set the cases down to start a new stack by the old one, turned, and parted the flowers in her bouquet to gaze down at her face. “You’re a little cynic, aren’t you?”

“I prefer to call it great worldly wisdom.” She carried her bouquet to a side table.

“I’ve got some of my own, and I can’t shake the feeling that your life has been more of a combat zone than I guessed that first night.”

Elena stopped, in swift embarrassment at her self-indulgence and in compassion for him. “Not as much as yours.”

He made that thoughtful moue, as if he just didn’t buy half of what she was selling him at face value. “Most of my life I’ve been entirely surrounded by men who had my back.”

Oh. Well, that was different, wasn’t it? Elena set her bouquet on the table and adjusted a few stems as if the florist hadn’t already done a much better job at that than she could.

He just took her hand and drew her straight out of the pavilion. She could have pulled away, but she didn’t, caught not by a too-tight grip but by how good that strong, callused hand felt loosely clasping hers.

He led them inside the extraction plant and stopped abruptly just inside the big doors. The great space of tanks and tubes and concrete and blue barrels was quiet today and smelled less of solvent than usual. In fact, Elena suspected that the Rosiers had taken advantage of the lull before the rose harvest to update and work on the plant, and now it was ready and waiting.

“Isn’t the harvest about to start?” She’d seen the first open blooms.

Lucien was silent for just long enough that she looked up at him and caught his struggle with old memories and pain and loss and longing. Her fingers linked with his, and she squeezed gently and went quiet.

“Tomorrow,” Lucien said roughly after a moment.

Oh, perfect. Then he could help with the rose harvest again. But she bit back the thought, wondering how much it was going to rip at his insides to help with the harvest.

Or to not help, to turn away, back into the safety of the Foreign Legion.

Talk about a really weird idea of safety, but…she squeezed his fingers again, trying just to give him space to feel what he felt and let him work through it.

Lucien’s face cleared a little as he refocused on her. “You know, for someone who thinks I’m some doll she has to put back in the right dollhouse, you have a nice side.”

“And you’re about to try to take advantage of it, aren’t you?” Elena said dryly. Woman offers compassion. Man thinks, Hey, maybe I can get sex out of this. And the world just kept turning round.

“Why ‘advantage’?” Lucien drew her toward a stack of hundreds of empty burlap bags. “Is the cynicism like armor? You’re safer if you keep it on? Or more like a weapon to fight me back? Are you afraid of me, Elena?” He lifted her up and set her on the burlap bags, so that her head was a little above his.

Of course she was afraid of him. He made her vulnerable.

She curled her legs under her on the stack of burlap bags, which also turned her a little sideways, subtly blocking him so that he couldn’t stand up close between her knees. He rested a hand on the burlap, rubbing it, and another flash of painful nostalgia crossed his face before he refocused on her. “I’ve apologized,” he said, “for getting angry before.”

“I’m not afraid of your temper.” Mostly because he didn’t seem to have one that flailed around uncontrollably. He was in a crucible of wrenching emotions right now, and he hadn’t really done anything but snap at her some. “I don’t want to be slut-shamed when you’re upset, though.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.” His hand shifted from the burlap to her knee. “I’ve had far too many one-night stands to judge you for one. I just wanted to know. If there was anything unique about me, to you.”

Elena looked down at him helplessly. He didn’t realize how unique he was? Come on.

Maybe spending most of his life in uniform in a mass of similarly trained men blinded him to how much he stood out, in a world full of lemons and roses and everyday life?

“I had a very hard time letting you leave with your buddy Antoine last night,” he said. “Without doing something to him. And see? I didn’t.”

“Seriously? Are you bragging that you didn’t start a fight at your cousin’s wedding?”

He laughed a little up at her, eyes more blue than gray now. “I have been in the Foreign Legion for fifteen years,” he said meekly. “And we do have a reputation to maintain.”

“For being male chauvinist pigs?”

He laughed again and rubbed her thigh. That gentleness. Merde but it got to her. Maybe it was the contrast, the range it showed he was capable of—from hard watchfulness toward most of the world to careful softness with…well, her.

It made her wonder if she could let down her cynical guard and show softness with him, too.

“For not letting another man walk away with a man’s woman,” he corrected.

Elena rolled her eyes. “Or exactly what I just said.”

He blinked. “That’s male chauvinist?”

“‘A man’s woman’? Seriously?”

He considered that a moment, and then just smiled up at her. “You’re so damn pretty.”

“And you’re changing the subject.” From a lot of things. Meeting her challenge with a distracting compliment. And changing the focus of his emotions from the impossible family ones to what must seem so easy and possible—her.

He shrugged a little and played with the soft folds of her skirt, not trying to slip his hand up under it, just enjoying the texture. “It’s a nice subject.”

It was. She could definitely get used to it. This factory building wasn’t even remotely a romantic spot, and yet there was a quiet safety here that seemed to build from him and wrap around her. It was almost the way she felt when she could sit near Madame Colette’s chair or stand by Jean-Jacques Rosier and see that old face soften for her. She had never known it was possible to feel that security around a sexy man.

As if sexual attraction could be safe.

Wow. Now that was just crazy talk.

But it did feel safe. Even as he seemed to unwrap her, peel away all her guards, just by standing there, not pushing her, playing with her skirt. He’d done the exact same thing in Italy. The exact same thing last night in the rose fields.

Elena drew a slow breath, and when it released all her muscles went with it, and she felt just quiet, and safe, and…aroused.

How the hell could so much arousal feel so secure?

Lucien’s lashes had fallen, that lean, weathered face focused on her hand as he slid his own under it, playing with her fingers. He seemed content to focus on her hand for a long time, spreading her fingers across his palm, running a thumb down one after the other, lifting some of them up on the tip of his thumb to study her nails. Fortunately, she’d planned to run into him and redone her polish that morning, because, well…she cared what she looked like to him. His lips curved as he ran his thumb over the smooth pearl-pink polish. “Very pretty.” He lifted one fingertip to his lips and kissed it. “Che bella.” A little glint of mischief as he looked up at her.

She stiffened. “Don’t you start with the Italian.”

“We did well in Italian. When we could barely say a word to each other.”

“Oh, I see. So a woman’s more attractive if she can’t talk?”

He cupped her hand over his mouth, as if to seal it shut, and laughed up at her over it. “Sounds as if you might think I’m more attractive if I keep my mouth shut.”

“Quite possibly,” she said severely, and he laughed and nipped her palm. Arousal ran through her, so damn warm, so damn vulnerable, so damn secure. Oh, great, here she went. The woman who’d grown up without security falling for the strong, self-possessed military man. You going to walk right into that cliché without a second thought?

But merde, he got to her, with that long, lean, powerful body, with the little crinkle at the corner of his eyes when she made him laugh and the way the sun lines reappeared when that crinkle relaxed again. She liked how he wasn’t young anymore, how he radiated experience and self-possession, a control and comprehension of his emotions in every situation except his family. He must have worked his way through fear and rage and grief in their most extreme renditions and figured out how to handle them and keep going.

She liked the way the green T-shirt clung to hard pecs and heavy shoulders. She liked the glimpse of the rose tattoo under his sleeve that showed he had never forgotten his family, and wondered how drunk he’d been when he got it and how many times he’d tried to make himself laser it off. She liked the swell of his biceps against those sleeves.

Really hard not to like that.

She liked the way those sun lines reappeared right this second, as he gazed up at her, and the way his expression softened into sensuality as he turned his face into her wrist and brushed his lips there.

She liked the jolt of pure, sweet hunger that ran up her arm to her heart.

She liked the callused warmth that stroked up her arm and gently curved around the nape of her neck. Not too hard. Not forcing.

She liked the way his eyes met hers as he pulled her head down, liked being higher, liked falling into him, liked the way her hair spilled around their faces in a veil of fire as he brought her lips to his.

Warm and hungry and she missed the taste of lemon. And then she didn’t, because she had found the taste of him. Oh, yeah. Yeah.

How well he kissed. As if it was something they did together. Him seeking, her responding. Him inviting, her coming inside and letting down her guard.

Kissing him was an exploration that felt as warm and sure as curling in a great armchair by a fire and as rushingly exciting as jumping off a mountain. Like going on an adventure with a bodyguard by your side. Like running to the ends of the earth and finding you were home.

Hunger bloomed in that safety, taking her over. Curiosity turned all erotic, the resilient hardness of his shoulders under her hands, the yielding and firming of his lips against hers, how quickly hers parted for the tease and play and pure, open longing of tongue.

She’d imagined Lucien kissing her many times, back as a thirteen-year-old rescued by a hot nineteen-year-old. And yet she’d never imagined what he was really like at all.

There was almost nothing left of him, of that teenager he’d been—maybe just that willingness to fight to save a stranger, that strong streak of honor that couldn’t conceive of letting a woman be hurt when he could stop it—and yet everything he was now, everything he’d become, called to her. She sank into him, sliding on burlap, opening her legs so he could step between them, pulling his head against her breasts.