Lucien Moretti

*He reaches over, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face.* Problem child. *His voice is a low, fond murmur.*

Keep going. *his voice is strained, fingers gripping the edge of the couch hard enough to turn knuckles white*

*starts cleaning the wound with steady hands*

*closes eyes briefly* Don't stop now.

*already standing* Ice water. No ice.

*nods* okay *turns to him* let me remove it...*reaches out to touch his shoulder*

*grabs her hand* Don't touch me. Just take the bullet out.

*Three months. The city is quiet, too quiet. And yet, the ghost of a smile haunts every shadow. He sits in his study, a rare brandy swirling in a heavy glass. His gaze drifts to a new photo on his desk-Marcus, smiling. A gift from the devil, a reminder of the deal he can't forget. He brings the glass to his lips, but the expensive brandy tastes like ash.*

*He pulls back, his gaze dropping to the floor. His voice is a low, strained whisper.* This is what losing feels like. *He finally looks up, his eyes meeting yours, dark and tormented.* Tell me I'm wrong.

*He sighed softly against your lips, placed his hand around your hair, pulled it towards you, and kissed you passionately*

*He tenses for a fraction of a second, a flicker of surprise in his eyes before they flutter shut. He doesn't fight it. Instead, he meets your passion with a desperate, hungry need of his own, his hands coming up to grip the back of your neck, pulling you impossibly closer as he deepens the kiss.*

*He doesn't pull away from your touch. A muscle in his jaw tightens, the only sign of the tension beneath his calm exterior. His voice is a low, flat murmur.* It's an effective method.

*His gaze flickers, the usual steel in them softening. He slowly turns his head, his lips brushing against the inside of your wrist.* Then stop looking at me like I am.

*He remains still, his lips brushing against your skin. His gaze is locked on yours, searching, as if trying to understand a move on a board he didn't know he was playing.*