Page 34 of Claimed By the Villain
Chapter 18
I wandered through the entire second floor, but of course, I spent way more time in his suite, even though there are four other bedrooms up here.
I think the building must’ve been a repurposed factory, renovated into an apartment, because the space is massive.
It fits Lucifer so well that my heart aches. It’s like looking at an X-ray of his soul.
Beautiful, but sad. Dark.
I glance around his bedroom, impressed by how tidy it is. Then I remember Mom once saying she wished Martin were even one-tenth as organized as herfoster son.
There’s a massive king-size bed between two windows, covered in black Egyptian cotton sheets.
There are no curtains, and I walk over to take a look.
His building is secluded—no one else can see in—but still, I wonder if the windows are bulletproof. I watched adocumentary once about how rich people who live in high-crime cities will even bulletproof their balconies.
I step into his closet without even thinking about looking for safes.
I don’t care whether he keeps guns, money, or jewelry in them. What I want is to satisfy the longing in my foolish heart—one that’s dreamed of this kind of intimacy for years.
I walk a few steps in and smile when I see only two suits—one of them a tux—but at least a dozen leather jackets.
Four dress shirts, and about three dozen T-shirts like the one he’s wearing tonight—black and white.
Just one pair of dress shoes, but plenty of casual sneakers and motorcycle boots.
That’s not what surprises me, though. Honestly, if someone had asked me before, I could’ve guessed exactly what I’d find in Lucifer’s closet.
He’s all about comfort. Button-ups and ties aren’t part of his game. I think even if he were a CEO, he still wouldn’t wear formal clothes.
Although… imagining this man in a James Bond tux—Jesus.
I spin in a slow circle, doing a full 360 around the closet, confirming that even here, he’s obsessively organized. I’m sure it’s not the work of a housekeeper. This is just who he is.
The almost military precision with which everything is arranged, sorted by color, folded or hung, each piece spotless, makes my throat tighten with buried memories.
I was really little when Lucifer came to live with us. I was only a year old, since he moved in when he was ten. But once I became a teenager, I remembered overhearing a conversation between my mom and our neighbor, her best friend.
She said she hated Lucifer’s parents for being so neglectful. That no child should ever faint from hunger or live in a pigsty. That some people didn’t deserve to be called parents.
I know she didn’t tell that woman everything.
As I got older, I noticed Lucifer had lots of old scars on his back, chest, arms—even his scalp. I think he was beaten. A lot.
Her words stuck with me because they scarred me, too.
Thinking about the boy I was so in love with being hungry, living in filth, with nothing to eat… it made me swear to God, right then and there, that when I married him—because I was naïve enough to believe we would get married—our house would always be clean, and our table always full. Our kids would be cared for and loved.
His parents never came to take him back. In fact, they vanished. No one ever heard from them again. Whenever a social worker showed up, Lucifer would hide. It took almost three years before Mom finally went to court and became his legal guardian. Only then did he go back to school.
Mom used to say the teachers were shocked at how smart he was. He was the oldest kid in every class because those bastards never even bothered to enroll him. But in our house, school was mandatory. Mom never let him skip.
“Satisfied?” he asks from the closet doorway, leaning against the frame and nearly stopping my heart.
I look at him, pulse racing. He’s beautiful.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this relaxed, either, which only makes me more suspicious that I’m missing something. Oh, yes, the reason why, after years of ignoring me, he’s suddenly opened his home to me.
