Chapter 6 Fire Behind Glass

• Lidia’s POV
• The elevator ride back up was silent, humming around me like a cocoon of metal and secrets.
• Matias was already waiting when the doors opened to the penthouse floor, leaning casually against the wall like he’d been expecting me for hours. He straightened when he saw me, and his gaze skimmed over my bag before settling on my face.
• “You came back,” he said, almost like a joke, but there was something gentler behind it. Something like relief.
• “I didn’t have much of a choice,” I murmured.
• He grinned. “True. But you’d be surprised how many people run from the fire before realizing they were born in it.”
• I didn’t reply. Instead, I followed him as he walked a few feet down the hallway, toward a set of tall, black double doors at the end of the corridor.
• “Welcome to the top,” he said, pushing them open. “Your personal kingdom.”
• And God, it was beautiful.
• I stepped in slowly, eyes wide, lungs suddenly too tight.
• It wasn’t just a room. It was an entire apartment.
• Minimalist, but warm. Dark wood floors, soft cream accents, modern furniture with sharp lines and silk throws. The far wall was made entirely of glass, revealing the city sprawling below in molten gold and shadows as the sun dipped behind the skyline.
• To the left—an open-plan kitchen with a marble island and shelves stocked with everything from coffee to fresh fruit. To the right—a soft velvet couch facing a built-in fireplace, and further beyond that, a bedroom half-walled in glass. Intimate. Safe. Designed with care.
• But the heart of it—the very soul—was the art studio.
• A tall, open space just behind the main living area, flooded with natural light, with custom easels, pristine canvases, racks of untouched supplies, and the faint, clean scent of oil paints that hadn’t yet tasted chaos.
• I didn’t realize I’d stopped breathing until Matias touched my arm gently.
• “You have everything you need here,” he said. “You can add more if you want. Hell, we’ll build you a rooftop garden if that helps you paint faster.”
• I gave a breath of a laugh—small, stunned.
• “You’re serious?”
• “Deadly. Arias said this space was yours for as long as you need it. And for the record…” He smirked. “He lives just across the hall. So don’t try sneaking out in the middle of the night. You might set off the alarms.”
• My heart stuttered at the thought.
• “Across the hall?”
• He nodded. “Top floor's his. Has been for years. But don’t worry, he usually keeps to himself. Unless he’s interested.”
• Matias handed me a keycard and turned to leave.
• “I’ll check in tomorrow. Get some rest. Or don’t. Just… make something.”
• I unpacked slowly, letting my body settle into the rhythm of movement again. I found a thick black hoodie in my bag and wrapped it around me before padding barefoot across the sleek floor to the kitchen.
• There was hot chocolate in the cabinet. Not the cheap kind either—the rich, dark one you could melt your heart into. A small luxury I hadn’t tasted in years.
• I made it without thinking, my mind already circling around images, shapes, shadows.
• By the time the sun had dipped fully beneath the horizon, casting violet shadows over the city, I was curled on the wide windowsill, legs pulled up to my chest, sketchbook in my lap.
• And I was drawing him.
• Arias.
• Not in full detail—just the silhouette of him. The cold power in his stance. The haunted sharpness in his eyes. The way his presence shifted the air. I sketched fire around him. Not consuming him—following him, like it obeyed his call.
• I didn’t hear the door open.
• But I felt the change in the air, subtle and familiar. Like the world stopped breathing for a second.
• I turned my head just as Arias stepped into the room, dressed in the same dark-on-dark suit, jacket open now, shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He looked like midnight had taken a human form.
• “I just came to check,” he said softly, stopping inside the door. “Wanted to make sure everything’s in place. That you have what you need.”
• His voice was gentler now, less steel, more smoke.
• I lowered the sketchbook slowly and met his gaze.
• “No complaints,” I said. “It’s more than I ever had.”
• He nodded once. His eyes dropped slightly—just a flicker—and stilled.
• I followed his gaze.
• Realized too late that I hadn’t reapplied makeup after my shower. The bruise under my eye bloomed violet-blue in the soft interior lighting. Faint. But not invisible.
• His entire posture changed.
• His jaw tensed. His eyes darkened—not with desire, not with curiosity—but with something violent and lethal.
• He crossed the room in three strides, stopping in front of me like a wall of heat and rage wrapped in restraint. He didn’t touch me.
• Not at first.
• His fingers hovered just beneath my chin, eyes locked on mine.
• “Who did this?” he asked, voice a low, dangerous whisper.
• I couldn’t speak. My throat tightened.
• But I didn’t have to.
• He knew.
• His hand rose, slow and careful, until the tips of his fingers brushed the edge of the bruise. His touch was gentle—so impossibly gentle it felt like it might undo me.
• I flinched without meaning to. Reflex. Muscle memory.
• But he didn’t pull away.
• “Tell me who hurt you,” he said again, and this time, there was no question. Just quiet, simmering fury begging for a name to burn.
• I should’ve lied. I should’ve turned away.
• But his touch… was warm. And I hadn’t felt warmth in so long.
• My head moved before I realized it—leaning into his palm, resting against it like it was the safest place in the world.
• Arias exhaled slowly.
• His thumb brushed beneath my eye, barely a whisper against skin, and his other hand lifted to cradle the side of my face fully. Holding me like I might break. Like he might break if he let go.
• In that moment, I wasn’t bruised. I wasn’t shattered.
• I was seen.
• His hand lingered. My heart was racing. And yet, in his grip, everything inside me slowed down.
• “You don’t have to say it,” he murmured. “But I’ll find out.”
• My lips parted, breath caught between fear and the ache of something I wasn’t ready to name.
• And in that silence, I realized something terrifying.
• I didn’t want him to let go.