Chapter 16: 14 - Injured and privilege

The journey back to my palace was uneventful until I saw him. Lucifer. Leaning casually against his car, the dim light from the palace casting shadows over his face. He looked as though he belonged in some high-fashion magazine rather than out here, leaning against his car like a stray waiting to be invited in.

I pulled up in front of him, narrowing my eyes. What does he want now?

Rolling down my window, I called out sharply, “You’re not staying here tonight.”

He straightened, about to speak, but I cut him off with a raised hand. “I mean it, Lucifer. Whatever excuse you’ve got, save it.”

He stared at me, his smirk faltering. That’s when I noticed it—a crimson stain on his sleeve. My eyes snapped to his arm .Blood.

I was out of the car in an instant, slamming the door behind me. “Are you injured?” My tone was sharp, almost scolding, but beneath it was something else—concern I wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

He shrugged, his usual cocky demeanor intact, but the glint in his eyes told me he knew I was worried. “It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” I stepped closer, inspecting his arm. “You were shot, Lucifer. That’s not nothing.”

He didn’t reply, and I glared at him. “Follow me. And park your car inside unless you want to see headlines about you bleeding out in front of my palace tomorrow.”

That earned a laugh from him, low and amused. “Someone’s worried about me.”

I ignored his comment and headed inside, my heels clicking against the marble floor as he followed like an obedient puppy. If he was in pain, he didn’t show it, but the blood seeping through his sleeve spoke volumes.

Once inside, I motioned for him to sit in the living room. He obeyed, sprawling onto the couch like he owned the place.

“I’ll get the first-aid kit,” I muttered, not giving him a chance to argue.

When I returned, he was still sitting there, an infuriating smirk playing on his lips despite the blood. I set the kit on the coffee table, my movements brisk and efficient.

“Take your shirt off,” I demanded, kneeling in front of him.

His eyebrows shot up. “Usually, I like a little more build-up before—”

“Shut up.” My glare silenced him, and he complied, wincing slightly as he shrugged out of the blood-soaked fabric.

I couldn’t help but notice the way his muscles flexed as he moved, the smooth expanse of his chest marred only by the angry wound on his arm. Focus, La Muerte, I told myself, biting the inside of my cheek.

Dipping a cotton ball in antiseptic, I pressed it to the wound. He hissed, and I glanced up to see him watching me, his dark eyes intense.

“Careful,” he murmured, his voice lower than usual.

“I wouldn’t have to be careful if you weren’t so careless,” I snapped, not looking at him. “What were you thinking? Getting shot, and then just standing outside like it’s a normal Tuesday?”

He chuckled softly, the sound sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. “I didn’t think you’d care this much.”

“I don’t.” The lie came too quickly, and his smirk deepened.

“Of course not,” he said, leaning back slightly, though his gaze never left mine. “You’re just doing your civic duty, right?”

I didn’t answer, focusing instead on cleaning and bandaging the wound. My hands moved with practiced ease, though my pulse quickened when I realized how close we were.

When I was done, I leaned back slightly, trying to put some distance between us. “Why didn’t you go to a hospital?”

He shrugged again, his nonchalance infuriating. “Didn’t feel like it.”

“Didn’t feel like it?” I repeated, incredulous. “You could have bled out, Lucifer.”

“But I didn’t,” he said, his tone almost teasing.

I huffed, standing up and tossing the used cotton into the trash.

He struggled to put his shirt back on, and I rolled my eyes before stepping closer. “Let me.”

His smirk faded as I buttoned his shirt, my fingers brushing against his skin. I tried to focus on the task, but the proximity was impossible to ignore.

“You’re worried about me,” he said softly, his voice no longer teasing.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I shot back, though my hands faltered for a moment.

His hand caught mine, holding it in place. I looked up, meeting his gaze. For once, there was no smirk, no trace of arrogance—just something raw and unspoken.

“You’re not as detached as you pretend to be,” he murmured.

I pulled my hand away, stepping back to put some space between us. “And you’re not as invincible as you think you are,” I countered, my tone sharper than I intended.

The tension hung heavy in the air, neither of us willing to break the moment. Finally, I turned away, my voice quieter as I said, “Next time, don’t be so reckless.”

His chuckle followed me as I walked toward the door. “Yes, ma’am.”

I paused, glancing back at him. “Get some rest. And if you bleed on my couch, I’ll kill you.”

He laughed, the sound soft and genuine. “Noted.”

As I left him in the living room, I couldn’t shake the lingering warmth of his touch or the way his eyes had softened when he looked at me. I told myself it didn’t matter, that it was just another moment, nothing more.

But as I closed the door to my room, I couldn’t ignore the faint flutter in my chest. For all his arrogance and charm, Lucifer had a way of getting under my skin—and I hated that I didn’t entirely mind.

After washing away the remnants of the day, I stepped out of my room, feeling refreshed. The mortal world demanded adherence to its rituals, even for someone like me, the goddess of death. If I was to walk among them undetected, I had to abide by their customs, mundane as they were.

The maids had prepared everything for the evening—every corner of the palace glimmered under the soft light of chandeliers, the dining table set meticulously for two. I had no intention of entertaining him for long, but the fates had other plans.

I found him lounging in the living room, dressed in casual attire—plain black joggers and a loose white t-shirt that clung to his form in all the right places. My eyes narrowed as I took in the sight of him, far too comfortable in my space.

“Where did you even get those clothes?” I asked, crossing my arms.

He glanced at me, unfazed by my irritation. “I had them delivered,” he said casually, gesturing to a discreetly placed bag near the doorway.

I let out a sigh, shaking my head. .

He leaned forward slightly, his tone shifting to something softer, almost pleading. “Please, Miss Ashford, can I stay here until I recover?”

I raised an eyebrow, my tone sharp as I replied, “You have countless servants at your beck and call. Not to mention an entire wing of hospitals designed to cater to your every whim. Why here?”

His response came without hesitation. “I don’t like being touched by strangers.”

His words were simple, but there was a weight to them, an unspoken vulnerability that made me pause. Something in his tone, the way he avoided my gaze, hinted at emotions he had buried deep.

I tilted my head, studying him. “I’m a stranger too.”

“No,” he said, meeting my eyes with surprising intensity. “You’re not.”

I frowned. “Then what am I, exactly?”

His lips curled into a teasing smirk. “You’re my friend, Amara.”

The word friend settled uncomfortably in my chest, like a stone sinking in water. I didn’t know why it irked me—it was me who had insisted we label whatever this was as friendship. Yet hearing it from his lips felt… wrong.

I said nothing, brushing past him and heading toward the dining room. “Dinner is ready,” I muttered over my shoulder.

The table was a masterpiece of culinary art, every dish meticulously arranged. The staff had outdone themselves, and I couldn’t fault their work. I signaled one of them to fetch Lucifer, taking my seat at the head of the table.

He arrived moments later, his injured arm still in its sling. The sight of it only served to deepen my irritation—I already knew what was coming.

He took his seat and leaned back, his smirk firmly in place. “You know,” he began, his tone annoyingly casual, “I think you should feed me.”

I rolled my eyes, exhaling sharply. “I knew it. I knew you were going to say that.”

“Well, I am injured,” he pointed out, his smirk widening as he gestured to his arm. “I’d hate to spill your chef’s hard work all over myself.”

I glared at him, my lips pressing into a thin line. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re beautiful when you’re annoyed,” he countered smoothly.

Ignoring the flutter in my chest, I picked up a fork and stabbed a piece of grilled meat with more force than necessary. “Fine. But don’t get used to it.”

As I brought the fork to his lips, he leaned forward, his smirk softening into something almost genuine. “Thank you,” he said, his voice quieter this time.

I didn’t respond, focusing instead on the task at hand. He chewed slowly, savoring each bite with an exaggerated hum of approval.

“You’re enjoying this too much,” I muttered, narrowing my eyes at him.

“Of course,” he replied, his tone light. “How often does the Amara Ashford herself play nursemaid to someone like me?”

I scoffed, offering him another bite. “You act like this is some great privilege.”

“Isn’t it?” he teased, his gaze holding mine.

I didn’t answer, but I couldn’t ignore the way his eyes lingered on me, or the warmth that crept up my neck under his scrutiny.

As the meal continued, I found myself relaxing despite my irritation. His playful comments, his easy demeanor—it was disarming in a way I didn’t expect.

When the meal was done, I set the fork down and leaned back in my chair, watching as he struggled to sit up properly with his injured arm.

“You’re really just....,” I muttered, rising to help him.

“You’ve said that already,” he replied, his smirk returning.

I placed a hand on his good shoulder, steadying him. For a moment, we were close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off him, his breath mingling with mine.

“Amara,” he said softly, his voice losing its teasing edge.

I looked up, meeting his gaze. There was something different in his eyes—something raw and unguarded that made my breath hitch.

“Thank you, really, ” he said again, his tone sincere.

I pulled back, straightening up and stepping away to put some distance between us. “Don’t mention it,” I said quickly, my voice sharper than I intended.

He chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair. “You’re an enigma, Moon .”

“And you’re a headache,” I shot back, turning on my heel.

As I left the room, I couldn’t help but feel his eyes on me, a lingering heat that refused to dissipate. Whatever this was between us, it was becoming harder to ignore—and I wasn’t sure if that terrified me or thrilled me.