Elian's pulse thrummed erratically against Lucien's palm, a trapped bird fluttering against a cage. The scent of the Duke—sandalwood, rain, and something sharp like cold steel—clung to him, suffocating and intoxicating all at once.
"W-what rules?" Elian forced himself to ask when all he wanted was to run out the door to escape the burning heat from Lucien's skin.
Lucien chuckled lowly, his fingers tightening just a tad on Elian's skin. "You don't get to question me, young Morel, did you forget?" he whispered dangerously.
"I haven't forgotten," Elian managed to choke out, his voice thin but defiant. "You're the one who forgot. You left me in that room for a week like... like a piece of furniture you were tired of looking at. I just needed to know my purpose."
Lucien's grip didn't tighten, but his thumb traced the line of Elian's jaw, a terrifyingly slow movement that made Elian's knees go weak. "Furniture doesn't conspire with my cousin in the dirt of a stable, Elian."
