HIS TO DESTROY

“I'm sorry, sir—”

She had practised the tremble in her voice, just enough breath to make it sound nervous but not foolish, like a girl too green to be dangerous, the kind men like Lucien Torres never looked at twice unless they were undressing them with their eyes.

And that was exactly what she needed. She stepped through the rising mist of the private spa, her tray trembling just so, crystal glasses balanced like promises on polished silver.

The scent in the room was teakwood and something darker—cardamom maybe, or smoke—coating the marble with a kind of heat that didn't come from the steam alone. Lucien didn't answer. He hadn’t even looked up yet.

He was half-submerged in the steaming bath, one arm flung lazily over the edge of the stone rim, black ink curling up his forearm, a scorpion caught mid-sting. His chest rose and fell slow beneath the rippling surface, dark hair slicked back, lashes wet.

His silence was deliberate. Designed to make people sweat. Valentina—no, not here, Catalina Marín—inhaled once, blinked twice, and moved. Her heels clicked once against the stone floor before she let them fall silent. She was barefoot by the time she reached the steps. Her silk slip, thin and dark, clung to her thighs.

This was her second day at The Velvet Room—the Torres cartel’s hidden den for politicians, loyalists, and discreet violence—and she'd already learned how to disappear into the wallpaper.

But today she wasn’t here to fade. Today, she was here to begin. She stepped down one marble stair. Then another.

“Your drink, sir,” she said softly, just above the hiss of the water, as she lowered the tray beside the pool. His eyes opened. Slate. Cold.

The kind of eyes that didn’t just look at you—they read you. Peeled back the layers. He tilted his head once, slowly, as if deciding whether she was worth the effort of a single word. And that’s when she moved. Her hand slipped. The tray tilted. The wine tumbled.

A stream of deep red splashed across his chest like blood. The glass followed, shattering somewhere behind her with a noise that should’ve sounded like an accident, if not for how intentional her hands had felt around the tray.

If not for the way she immediately dropped to her knees, her breath catching, her fingers darting to his skin.

“I’m so—so sorry,” she breathed, swiping quickly at the wine across his chest, her hands firm and trembling all at once.

She pressed a damp cloth to his skin, his sternum, his collarbone. She could feel the heat coming off him, not just from the water, but from the way his muscles tensed beneath her touch. Then she felt it. A shift. His hand caught her wrist.

The cloth slipped from her fingers. He held her there, fingers tight around bone, eyes locked on hers. She didn’t flinch. She let her eyes widen just a little, let her breath hitch, played the part of the frightened