Chapter 5 Chapter 5
Lola
They woke her before the light panels had fully brightened, which told her everything about the Academy’s priorities: cruelty before schedule, efficiency before mercy. Her body protested the movement, not in fear, not in spirit, but in a deep, dragging exhaustion that lived beneath muscle and bone.
Eighteen days.
Eighteen days of electricity, clamps, precision cruelty dressed up in marble elegance. Eighteen days of silence where they wanted screams. Eighteen days of pretending she had enough strength to keep baiting Lucian the same way she had on day one.
She didn’t.
Not anymore.
The ache low in her belly had grown heavier these past days. Not pain. Just… weight. Fatigue settling in places even torture couldn’t reach. She knew now—“later” had finally stopped being an option.
Two guards guided her from the cot. Their hands weren’t rough this time, not like the beginning. They were careful in a way trained men shouldn’t be, respectful, almost reverent. She didn’t give them anything in return. She barely had anything left to give. The hallway swam slightly at the edges. Her knees wobbled once. One guard’s grip tightened, not on instinct, on fear.
They entered the torture theater; the world sharpened around her in slow shapes.
Too bright lights.
Too cold metal.
Too many shadows behind glass.
And Lucian already waiting. He never waited before. He stepped forward the moment she appeared, eyes drinking in every detail of her posture, her pulse, the faint tremble in her hands she couldn’t quite hide today. “Lola,” he murmured, as if the name itself belonged to him. “You look… different.”
Her lashes lowered, not a performance, not a game; she was just so tired. The guards strapped her into the braces. She didn’t resist. Her arms lifted, ribs exposed, ankles secured with a hydraulic hiss. Her body sagged for a breath she didn’t catch in time.
Lucian noticed.
Of course he did.
Something fragile and triumphant flickered across his face.
When the first shock hit, Lola felt the electricity carve its way through her muscles, sharper than yesterday, sharper than the day before. Her body jerked hard against the restraints, her breath snapping in half. Her heart raced upward in a frantic, uncontrolled spike she didn’t manage to drag back down immediately. Lucian inhaled sharply. “Oh,” he whispered. “Finally.”
She couldn’t glare. She couldn’t smirk.
She held on.
Barely.
Another shock landed. Her vision rang white around the edges. Her elbows locked. Her knees buckled. She forced her breath through her teeth, but the tremor in her exhale gave her away.
Lucian stepped closer—slow, savoring, reverent. “You’re wearing down,” he said softly. “Even you have limits.”
Her lips parted, not for wit, not for banter, but because she genuinely needed more air and her lungs weren’t cooperating. Her head dropped forward.
It wasn’t an act, not this time. When the third surge hit, she gasped—quiet, small, but real. The sound cracked across the room like a relic being dropped.
Every observer went still.
Lucian closed his eyes like he’d been waiting his whole life to hear that one sound escape her. “Enough,” he said to the technician. His voice was unsteady. “Stop electrical protocol. She’s reached adaptability threshold.” The machine powered down.
Lola’s chest heaved once, twice, her heart racing with no immediate drop. Sweat gathered at her hairline. The ache in her stomach throbbed, deeper and more insistent. She wasn’t losing, she wasn’t beaten, but she was reaching a place her body could no longer be pushed through—not without consequence she refused to risk.
Lucian lifted her chin with two trembling fingers. “Look at you,” he whispered. “Eighteen days. No one has lasted eighteen days.” His thumb skimmed her cheekbone, almost tender. “You’re finally letting me see you.”
She didn’t fight when the guards unstrapped her. Her legs buckled when she touched the ground; they caught her easily. Lucian watched the collapse with something hungry and holy burning in his gaze. “Take her back,” he said quietly. “Minimal restraints. She needs rest before the next phase.”
The guards carried her down the hallway. Their voices weren’t for her.
“She’s finally bending.”
“She’ll give soon.”
“No one holds out forever.”
Lola let her eyes stay half-closed, let her body go limp in their arms.
If this was what they needed to believe?
Perfect.
Room Twelve swallowed her again; soft lights, thin mattress. Straps that tightened around her wrists with a whisper instead of a click.
Every inch of her felt heavy.
Exhausted.
Alive.
Something tightened low in her body again—a warm, throbbing pulse she felt more deeply with every passing day. She exhaled shakily into the quiet.
You’re not allowed to fall apart yet.
We’re not done.
She turned her head toward the camera.
Her pulse climbed once—sharp, deliberate, unmistakable.
A single spike.
Then she dropped it back to baseline.
A message across the miles.
Hold on, Enzo.
I’m still here.
But I have to change the game.
She closed her eyes. Tomorrow, she would give Lucian the one thing he had been starving for:
Hope.
And hope?
Was the most dangerous chokehold in the world.
The door opened with a soft hydraulic sigh.
Lucian stepped inside carrying a tray—real food, warm enough to fog the air above it. He closed the door quietly behind him, not the way a captor would, but the way a man approaches a bed where someone is sleeping.
Lola lay where they'd left her, knees drawn in as much as the restraints allowed.
She looked… smaller today.
Shoulders slumped, eyes dulled by exhaustion carved straight into the bone. When she lifted her face to him, her voice barely rose above a breath,
“Lucian…”
Not Lucy.
Not mocking.
Just soft.
Bare.
Defeated.
He actually stopped moving; his fingers tightened around the tray as if bracing himself. “Lola,” he murmured, stepping closer. “I brought you something.”
She didn’t reach for it, just watched him with a hollow, uncertain stare that fractured something in his expression. He set the tray down beside her and sat carefully on the edge of the cot, leaving space between them like she might spook.
“Are you hurting?” he asked quietly.
Her lashes lowered. “I’m just… so tired.”
His knuckles brushed her arm—the lightest touch, hesitant, reverent.
She didn’t flinch.
His breath shook.
“I can’t keep doing this,” she whispered. “I thought I could. I thought if I held out, I’d feel… strong.” A tremor cracked her next inhale. “I don’t. I feel scared. Every day. Even when I pretend I’m not.”
That landed hard. He looked wrecked by it.
“Lola…” His voice strained. “You don’t have to pretend anymore.”
She curled inward slightly, fingers twisting the blanket. “If you want me to do the interventions… I’ll do them,” she whispered. “Just—no more shocks. Please. I’ll be whatever you need me to be. I’ll be good. I just—” Her voice broke. “Please don’t hurt me anymore.”
His jaw clenched like he was holding in a sound. His gaze dropped to her wrists. The restraints—thin, clinical, still snug from the previous session. Something dark flickered across his face. “Those shouldn’t still be on,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.
Her shoulders tensed instinctively, breath catching. But she didn’t pull away. Lucian reached for her wrist slowly, deliberately—giving her time to object.
She didn’t.
His fingers brushed the release seam, careful, reverent. The cuff loosened with a soft mechanical sigh and slid free. He set it aside quietly, like it offended him. The smallest tremor ran through him.
He pretended it was nothing.
It wasn’t.
He freed the second restraint with the same care, his knuckles grazing her skin as the band fell away. Her arms dropped into her lap, suddenly unanchored, and she swayed slightly before steadying herself; Lucian saw it. “I’ve become… concerned,” he murmured.
His hand moved before he told it to—fingertips brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
His breath stuttered once, barely controlled.
He let his knuckles trace down her arm, slow, tentative, like testing whether she’d flinch.
She didn’t.
She let her shoulders tremble, let her chin dip—just barely—as if holding herself together cost something she no longer possessed. “Lucian…” Her voice broke in all the right places. “I can’t… do this anymore.”
He inhaled sharply. “Tell me,” he said quickly—too quickly. “Tell me what you mean.”
She hesitated—beautifully, painfully—eyes dropping to the sheets. “I’m tired of fighting. I don’t want to… resist you. Not anymore.” A trembling breath. “If you want me to be something else… I’ll try.”
The silence stretched, thick and electrified.
Then he breathed out, shaking. “Lola…” Her name left him like a confession. “What do you need?”
The pause lingered, vulnerability shining. “…A shower,” she whispered.
Lucian’s reaction was instant, visceral, almost reverent. “Yes,” he breathed. “Of course.” A beat. "There's one in my office. A real one. You can use that."
Her eyes flicked up in fragile hesitation. “In your office… is that allowed?”
“It is now,” he said immediately. “With me, yes.”
Her brow furrowed softly. “Lucian… are you sure that’s appropriate?”
He laughed softly. “Lola, nothing about you has ever been appropriate.”
He stood and offered his hand—not to take, but to follow. Her knees wobbled when she rose and he caught her waist, pulling her against him to steady her. “Careful,” he murmured. “You don’t have to be strong right now.”
She let her fingers curl lightly at his sleeve, like she was borrowing strength she desperately needed.
He guided her down the hall; not as a prisoner, as something rare, something precious. Something he believed he was finally winning. At the office door he paused, searching her face for permission he didn’t deserve.
She lifted her eyes, “…Thank you.”
He shuddered—the kind men save for sex or miracles.
He opened the door. “The shower’s through there,” he whispered. “Use whatever you want. Take as long as you need. I’ll be right outside.”
She stepped inside and closed the frosted door. Water rushed to life. Steam fogged the frosted glass instantly.
Behind the glass, her expression shifted—just a shade.
Then she tipped her head forward and let the heat take over.
Hot water beat down her spine, rolling the ache out of her muscles until she could breathe again without flinching. She braced one hand against the tile, letting the heat seep deep, unwinding the last eighteen days from her bones. Her reflection ghosted faintly in the glass—blurred, distorted.
She didn’t look strong.
She didn’t look defiant.
She looked tired.
A knock—gentle, controlled—tapped against the frame. “Lola,” Lucian said softly, “clothes are just inside. I won’t look.”
He placed them on the counter and stepped back, but even through the heavy frost, she saw his silhouette freeze for a heartbeat— as if the outline of her behind the glass had just rewired something in him.
She looked away quickly, suddenly shy, arms crossing over her chest though he couldn’t see detail. “Thank you,” she whispered.
His shadow lingered a moment too long before retreating. Lucian waited on the couch, a bowl of soup steaming on the table in front of him.
He stood when she entered.
The clean clothes he’d chosen were soft, comfortable, draping gently over her still-damp skin. Her hair clung to her neck. She hugged her arms to herself as if she wasn’t sure she was allowed to take up space.
She crossed the room slowly and lowered herself beside him, folding her legs beneath her. As she shifted, her knee brushed his thigh.
She stilled.
“I'm sorry—”
He shook his head a little too quickly. “No. You’re fine.”
She looked down into her lap. “Why… why are you being so kind?”
His breath deepened. “Because you stopped fighting me.”
Her lashes lowered, voice trembling like a confession, “I can’t do this alone anymore.”
“You don’t have to.” He reached up, hand hovering, then gently touched her lip with the pad of his thumb—soft, reverent, near shaking. “That,” he murmured, “is exactly what I want from you.”
She swallowed, a shiver running through her.
“What happens now?” she whispered.
“Now,” he said, voice low and grounding, “the shocks stop. The pain stops. And tomorrow, you begin classes—something structured, something that will make you… compliant. Strong in the right ways.”
Her breath hitched. “Is that what you want from me?” she asked quietly.
His gaze darkened.
“Yes.”
A tiny pause.
Then she nodded.
“Yes, sir.”
