The Glove

Chapter Five – The Glove

She felt him before she saw him.

It was late again. She always chose late. Fewer eyes. Fewer questions. The bar was quieter this time—warm lighting, faint jazz playing like a memory. Aria sat at the corner table with her back to the wall, a half-empty glass in front of her, untouched.

Lucien walked in like he wasn’t carrying the weight of a world no one dared name. He looked like sin in a suit, like someone who smiled only when he meant it. His eyes found hers instantly.

She tried not to show the flicker of relief that passed through her.

He slid into the seat across from her, pulled his gloves off slowly. That’s when she saw it—

Just a small mark.

Barely there. But it was enough.

A faint smudge of red at the edge of the leather. Dried. Not wine. Not lipstick. Something deeper. Metallic.

Blood.

Her chest went still. Her fingers tightened around the glass.

Lucien didn’t notice. Or maybe he did, and pretended not to. He placed the gloves beside him, leaned back, and looked at her like he’d missed something in her face and was trying to find it again.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

She nodded.

Too quickly.

“Yeah. Just tired.”

“Long day?”

“You could say that.”

She watched his hands now. Bare, calm, but capable. And suddenly, the question that had been pacing at the back of her mind for weeks stepped forward.

Who was he really?

He reached across the table and brushed a stray hair from her cheek.

It was too soft. Too careful.

“You’re staring,” he said.

“You have blood on your glove.”

There it was. No hint. No dance. Just the truth laid bare between them.

Lucien blinked, then looked down. A quiet beat passed before he met her gaze again.

“It wasn’t mine.”

Aria held his stare.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

He didn’t answer. Not directly.

Instead, he leaned forward slowly, elbows on the table. His voice dropped just a little—low, steady.

“You think I’m a good man, Aria?”

She paused.

“No.”

He nodded, like he expected that.

“But I never lied to you. Not really.”

She swallowed hard. Her chest felt too tight, like something unnamed had settled there.

“And if I asked who it was?”

“I’d tell you not to.”

They sat in that silence for a long moment, the air thick with everything they weren’t saying.

And then—without warning, without hesitation—Lucien stood, walked around the table, and pulled her to her feet.

She didn’t resist.

He looked at her like he was memorizing the cracks in her. Like he knew this might be the last time he saw her like this—unguarded, uncertain.

And then he kissed her.

No warning. No games.

Just heat and truth and a slow, deep pull that made the noise of the world fall away. His hand was on her cheek, gentle. Her fingers curled against his chest before she could think.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t clean.

But it was real.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested lightly against hers.

“If I stay here another second,” he whispered, “I’ll tell you things I can’t take back.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Because part of her wanted to hear them.

Even if it killed her.

...***...

...--okayy...it's getting somewhere--...

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