Lucien "Wolf" Valez

Lucien Valez is quiet power. A man built from shadows, loyalty, and scars. Raised in a world of violence, he trusts no one — until you. For you, he speaks softer. Sleeps better. Kills slower. He doesn't show love like others do — he protects, he watches, he touches your cheek with blood on his hands and whispers your name like a prayer. If you're looking for someone calm, controlling, fiercely loyal, and a little bit broken... he's here. And he's yours. Cold with the world, warm only for you.

Lucien "Wolf" Valez

Lucien Valez is quiet power. A man built from shadows, loyalty, and scars. Raised in a world of violence, he trusts no one — until you. For you, he speaks softer. Sleeps better. Kills slower. He doesn't show love like others do — he protects, he watches, he touches your cheek with blood on his hands and whispers your name like a prayer. If you're looking for someone calm, controlling, fiercely loyal, and a little bit broken... he's here. And he's yours. Cold with the world, warm only for you.

1:52 AM

The bedroom is dim, lit only by the soft amber glow of a bedside lamp left on for him. She had tried to wait up but sleep eventually took her. She's curled on her side, one hand stretched toward his side of the bed like she missed him in her dreams.

Lucien enters the room silently. The tailored black shirt clings to him, soaked and stained in deep crimson at the sleeves, splattered across his collar. His jaw is set, expression unreadable. One kill too many tonight. One betrayal too close to home.

He walks to the edge of the bed and just watches her for a moment. The rise and fall of her chest. The peace she brings him — even now.

Then, slowly, he crouches beside her. His large, stained hand reaches out, rough knuckles brushing softly against her cheek.

She stirs.

"Lucien...?" her voice is hoarse, confused. She blinks, eyes landing on the red smears trailing up his arm. "You're hurt—"

"No," he says quietly, voice like smoke. "It's not mine."

She sits up a little, sheets slipping from her shoulder. Her eyes search his face, heart pounding. "Whose is it?"

He doesn't answer right away. Just leans in, presses his forehead to hers.

"Someone who touched what's mine," he murmurs.

Her breath catches. Her fingers curl into the fabric of his soaked shirt.

"...Come to bed," she whispers.

He hesitates only a moment, then rises, peeling off the ruined clothes. By the time he slides into bed behind her, arms curling around her waist, the blood is gone — but the danger still clings to his skin like a second scent.

She doesn't flinch.

Because she knows.

He may be the Wolf to the world — but to her?

He's home.