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The casual cruelty of it ignites something in my chest. I push myself up, my hands shaking with rage, with the sheer fucking audacity of what Lucien just did. Mud clings to my palms, my knees.

“You fucking asshole,” I spit, my voice raw from fury. “You did that on purpose.”

He turns to face me fully, his expression dark. I think he’s going to say something cutting that will make me feel stupid and beneath him, the way he always does, and I brace for it.

He opens his mouth.

And then closes it.

His hands flex at his sides, curl into fists, then release. He looks almost…conflicted. Like he’s fighting with himself.

Then he shakes his head, just once, like he’s dismissing whatever thought just crossed his mind. He turns around. And then he’s jogging away again, disappearing into the darkness between the trees, swallowed by the distance.

“Fuck you!” I shout after him, my voice echoing in the empty woods, bouncing off the water and the trees and coming back to me hollow and useless. I’m left standing there, covered in dirt and leaves, my chest heaving, my hands clenched into fists.

I hate him. But underneath the hate, buried so deep I don’t want to acknowledge it, is an uncomfortable hurt. I don’t like that Lucien has the power to hurt my feelings. It means that, on some level, I care, and I shouldn’t. I care because I like the way his muscles moved under his shirt when he ran. I liked the way the sweat collected on the nape of his neck, turning the dark strands of his hair into little darts that clung to his skin. And I liked the matching rhythm of our breaths that, in another context, would drive me wild.

I don’t like the feeling of that body rejecting me. But, unfortunately, that body belongs to fucking Lucien, so I should be used to the feeling by now. Why the fuck should I care?

I shake it off and walk the rest of the way to the dock.

I reach the boat launch just as the sky is starting to lighten, the darkness giving way to a deep, bruised purple. The river is glassy and still, the surface reflecting the sky like a mirror. I unlock the small shed where I keep my scull and drag it out, the hull smooth and cool under my hands. I carry it down to the dock and set it in the water, the boat rocking gently as it settles. I step in carefully, balancing my weight, and sit on the sliding seat before fitting my feet into the footrests, adjusting the straps, and gripping the oars.

And then I push off.

The boat glides forward, smooth and silent, and the tension in my chest begins to ease. I start rowing, the oars cutting through the water with a rhythmic splash. The motion is automatic, ingrained in my muscles after years of practice. Catch, drive, finish, recover. Over and over, the same perfect rhythm. The river is quiet aside from the sound of the oars and the faint rustle of wind in the trees along the bank.

I row under the first bridge, careful to stay in the correct arch. The waterway has rules, certain arches for different directions, areas that are off-limits during specific times.

The repetitive rowing calms me. It’s meditative, in a way. The focus required to keep the boat balanced, the strokes even, to move efficiently through the water, doesn’t leave room for anything else. Not for thoughts about Lucien or the anger and weird, uncomfortable awareness of his body. It’s just the ebb and flow of the oars through the water.

By the time I reach the turnaround point, the sky is fully light, the sun just starting to peek over the horizon. The water is turning from black to blue, and the trees along the bank are coming into focus, their bare branches stark against the sky. I turn the boat around and start rowing back, my muscles warm and loose now, my breathing steady.

I think about messaging Gwen. I want to tell her about my morning, about rowing, and about how peaceful it is out here. But it’s early. She’s probably still asleep. I’ll message her when I get back.

By the time I dock the boat and carry it back to the shed, the air is warming. My legs shake a little from the effort, and my hands are sore from gripping the oars, but I feel good.

I pull out my phone, open the Lure app, and send Gwen a good morning message. I start walking back toward my apartment, not expecting a response this early, but my phone buzzes almost immediately. She asks about my morning, and I think about Lucien and the way he shoved me into the bushes. I remember the way he came back, like he was going to say something, and then didn’t. I don’t have the energy to explain what happened, so I report it as an unpleasant interaction with no one important. Gwen tells me about her plans for the day, and we message about our favorite breakfast foods. I love pancakes and she loves cinnamon buns.

I slip my phone back into my pocket and keep walking, already feeling better.

6

LUCIEN

I turn the temperature up as high as it will go, letting the steam fill the bathroom until I can barely see through the glass shower door. The scalding heat stings my skin, turning it pink, but I don’t adjust it. I need it like this. Hot enough to make me focus on something other than what I did to Cameron.

I hate that my body defaults to violence with Cameron. It’s my leftover programming from St. Silas, when it was the only socially acceptable way to touch him. I don’t want to hurt him.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Shoving him into the bushes won’t get me any closer to him.

I press my palms against the tile and let the water pound against the back of my neck, running down my spine in rivulets.

I close my eyes and immediately see him running ahead of me on the path, his body moving with determined aggression. I see his perfect ass in his black joggers. I can’t stop thinking about what it would feel like to dig my fingers into those two muscled globes, hard enough to bruise and mark him. Or what it would feel like to palm both cheeks and pull him on top of me. He’d make a startled noise, and then he’d hum with need while I work him up. Oh, Cam.

My cock stirs.