Page 93 of The Viper
The world felt quieter after.
The air in the room was thick with salt and sweat and something softer—like peace. Morning sunlight slipped through the curtains in thin, golden slats, painting the sheets and Lucas’s bare skin in light that didn’t belong to chaos or fear.
For a long time, neither of us moved. I lay half on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing, to the faint sound of waves in the distance, to the fragile stillness we’d built between storms.
Somewhere below, a door closed. A voice called out. And then—like the scent of a memory—came the smell of butter and cinnamon.
I groaned, my cheek pressed to his chest. “Delphine’s croissants.”
His laugh was low and rough, vibrating under my skin. “Doesn’t seem like she takes kindly to people skipping breakfast.”
“She sounds terrifying.”
“I hear she is,” he said, brushing his thumb down my arm. “But I also hear her food’s worth the risk.”
I smiled against him, closing my eyes for one last minute of pretending the world outside didn’t exist. I could almost believe we were just a couple in a big house by the sea, waking to coffee and sunlight instead of locked gates and a target painted on my life.
But pretending never lasted long with Lucas.
“You’re quiet,” he said, his voice softer now.
“I’m thinking.”
He turned his head to look at me. The corners of his mouth lifted, but his eyes stayed serious. “About what?”
I hesitated. “Us.”
He stilled beneath me, but didn’t speak.
“I keep trying to picture what this could look like—if everything weren’t so …” I gestured vaguely at the walls, the world, all of it. “Loud. Complicated. Dangerous.”
His gaze stayed on me, patient and unflinching.
“I’ve spent my whole adult life being managed,” I went on. “My time, my body, my image. I can go anywhere I want, but never without planning. Never without an exit strategy. It’s exhausting, trying to live freely when the world’s already decided who you are.”
“You could stop,” he said quietly.
I blinked up at him. “Stop what?”
“Running yourself ragged for people who don’t deserve you.”
I huffed a laugh. “You make it sound simple.”
“Maybe it is.”
“Lucas,” I said, shaking my head, “you have no idea what it’s like. I can’t even go to the grocery store without someone recording me on their phone. Fame’s a leash. Every move is calculated.”
“Yeah,” he said after a beat. “But you still have a choice. You don’t owe anyone the version of you they made up.”
I studied him. “You sound like someone who’s never had to worry about paparazzi.”
He grinned faintly. “No, but I’ve had people aim worse things at me.”
That pulled a smile from me. “Touché.”
He shifted, propping himself on an elbow, his hand sliding up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “What would you do if it wasn’t like this? If there were no cameras. No expectations.”
I thought about it, tracing idle patterns on his chest. “Sleep late. Get a house with a garden. Take a walk in public without sunglasses. Maybe adopt a dog.”
