"You don't need the likes of Geoffrey Nicholson to make your life difficult, because you do that perfectly well by yourself! And one day, people might just stop forgiving you, and then what?"

Her chest was heaving with emotion. For the past eight months she had watched him slowly spiral into alcoholism, destroying relationship after relationship, and continually pushing those who cared about him away.

She expected him to let her have the last word, to let her leave and collect her thoughts and let the tensions between them fizzle out. They needed to cool off before anything was said that couldn't be taken back.

But Lucien continued to surprise her. He pushed himself back from the desk, looming before her. She could smell the scotch on his breath and for the first time since living in the Blake house, she remembered how big he was. He filled the space of the study and crowded her space, face contorted in anger and anguish.

"You think I want this, Jean? I didn't ask for anyone's forgiveness–least of all yours," he spat. "I'm doing fine on my own. I don't need anyone."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh, you're doing fine on your own, are you? Passing out on the floor, forgetting to eat, confronting blood killers on your own." She poked his chest. "That's you being fine, is it?"

Hand falling away from his chest, she stepped back, needing room to breathe. Jean shook her head at him and turned on her heel to leave him behind her.

Hearing the accusations against him stung but seeing Jean step back away from, trying to walk away and leave him behind, was too much. He reached out for her, wrapping his arms around her and spinning her back to him.

"We're not done, yet," he snarled at her, eyes desperate. He couldn't let her leave. Not now. Jean placed her hands flat against his chest. She could feel his hot breath ghosting over her lips and his heart pounding beneath her hands.

There was a beat, a moment hanging between them, and then he was crushing her to him, his mouth capturing hers, completely dominating her. He pushed his tongue into her mouth, sweeping over every inch of her mouth and stroking over her teeth and the roof of her mouth.

Jean was frozen in his arms and he willed her to respond, to meet him halfway. He had desired her for so long: constantly tempting and teasing him and now, standing up to him. But if she didn't want this–didn't want him–he'd let her go. Let her walk away.

And then she was surging up on her tiptoes, pressing against him more firmly. He could feel every inch of her pressed against him, her breasts pushed against his chest and he groaned, burying his fingers in her hair and holding her still.

She was his to taste, his to kiss. He was never letting her go.

And then the hands that had been curling into his dinner jacket and pulling him closer were pushing him away. His lips separated from hers and he reached for her again, confused at the distance.

Jean was backing away from him, eyes wide and her hands pressed over her mouth. "I need," she cleared her throat, eyes dropping away from his. "I should go."

Lucien watched as she walked away, the sound of the front door opening and closing echoing loudly in the quiet house. He fell back into his office chair, head in his hands. Alone again.

What had he done?