Chapter Twenty-Four
“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” LUCIEN demanded the moment I stepped into the East-West blended foyer.
I scowled as Whisper escorted me right to Lucien’s side.
“I’m aware you haven’t seen much of the outside world and don’t have a good experience with guests, but the thing we usually say to each other when we haven’t seen each other overnight is ‘Good morning. How are you? Did you sleep well?’” I smiled and crossed my arms. “Now, you try it.”
“Follow me if you don’t want me to kill you.” Turning around, once again barefoot, as if he owned no shoes in this godforsaken place, he marched in the same direction as yesterday.
My headache grew worse as I sighed.
Whisper snorted, nudging my hand as if commiserating with my frustration.
I didn’t want to spend another day cleaning.
If that made me ridiculously spoiled and painfully lazy, then so be it. Another rush of vertigo caught me unaware. I grabbed onto the panther, swallowing against the small prickle of nausea.
This always happened.
Even if the stress didn’t make an absolute fool of me, the aftereffects of a worrisome day always did.
The wine and a nap were a medicinal excuse to recalibrate my system before I fritzed.
Whisper grumbled something in panther speak and strode ahead, his tail flicking. Looking back over his shoulder at me, he raised a furry brow.
I sighed loudly and followed.
Lucien didn’t turn around the entire time he led me deeper into the palace he called a prison.
When we reached the octagonal-shaped foyer with its eight corridors branching off with lines scribed into the marble that reminded me of a Bagua symbol, Lucien didn’t go in the direction he’d led me yesterday.
Instead, he balled his hands and in a ripple of black loose trousers and flowing black coat, he led me down a different one. The air cooled the further we travelled as if the walls were warning us not to enter.
Wrenching to a halt at the end, he pushed open a set of iron inlaid doors. They swung open too silently, too easily—as if he came in here often. The entire vibe of the place set my stomach clenching and skin prickling.
“In here,” he ordered, striding into the room.
I lingered on the threshold.
Whisper padded to join Lucien.
What the hell is this place?
Dark navy wallpaper with lotus blooms and crescent moons covered the high walls. The black ceiling pressed down on us with oppressive weight and the polished wooden floor had droplets staining it in multiple places.
My eyes locked onto a particularly large splodge.
Lucien caught me staring. “If you’re wondering if it’s blood, you’re right.”
And there went my headache again.
Gritting my teeth, I glanced at the rest of the room. From the impressive redwood desk, rows of official-looking filing cabinets, to the huge recliner beneath a large spotlight. Glass-fronted refrigerators lined the far wall, their empty racks waiting for something.
Alongside them, shelves of boxes, plastic tubing, and other medical items sat proudly, along with a biohazard bin. A stainless-steel trolley gleamed with instruments: butterfly needles, clamps, and vials.
My gaze shot back to the recliner.
I noticed what I hadn’t before.
A chair that was meant to be used for rest and comfort was bolted to the floor, leather straps dangled from each armrest, and a row of monitor screens sprung to life as if on sensors.
My mouth went dry.
Half an office, half a hospital—the two places grafted together in one of the freakiest rooms I’d ever seen.
Sucking in a breath, my eyes turned hazy as the punch of copper, antiseptic, and wax polish hit my nose.
I backed up again.
“You run, and it will be the last thing you do,” Lucien murmured, grabbing a few empty IV bags and pushing the stainless-steel trolley toward the recliner.
I clutched the doorframe and bit my lip—granting pain to keep me awake and not pass out on the blood-spotted floor. “What...what is this place?”
“This is where you become useful,” he replied, voice soft and dangerous.
“What do you expect me to do?” I broke out into a cold sweat.
Whisper prowled around the space, his agitation obvious. His hackles raised and tail whipped side to side.
“I’ll show you.” Beckoning me closer, Lucien added, “I won’t hurt you as long as you do what I say. The blood you’ll be spilling is mine, not yours.”
“Excuse me?”
“Come. Here.” He scowled, typing a few things on the keyboard, bringing up a few programs on the monitors. Once done, he sat in the recliner and spread his legs. His all-black attire made him seem both ancient and angry. “I won’t ask again.”
I stayed where I was, clutching the doorframe. “It’s not that I’m deliberately disobeying you, it’s just that I physically can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No. I can’t.” I swallowed hard. “I-I have this problem where stress isn’t kind to me.”
“The sooner you get it over with, the better.”
“But—”
“Refuse again and your little problem will be the least of your worries.”
Our eyes locked.
His hands balled.
No sign of what we shared last night. No glimmer of the man who’d made me feel so many inexplicable things.
Never looking away from me, he shrugged off his coat, unbuttoned his black shirt, and removed it.
My heart fluttered for an entirely different reason.
Watching him undress actually helped in a weird way. It made everything about this moment awkwardly intimate and highly intense, keeping me hyper-focused on him instead of fight or flight.
He smirked, revealing he’d done it on purpose—using the fact that I’d told him I found him beautiful to distract me.
Well played...
Holding up his arms, he flashed the silver cuffs on his wrists. The silver disc remained over his heart, flashing with a few lights as if he was part human, part machine. “I’m not going to wait all day, you know.”
As long as I kept my eyes on his lean muscles—as long as I didn’t think too far ahead of what he wanted me to do—I could breathe.
Moving toward him, I eyed up the leather straps on the armrests of the recliner he sat in. “I’m not shackling you to that chair, I’m telling you right now.”
He smiled, almost softly. “Don’t worry. I haven’t needed the restraints in a very long time. I’ve done this job myself for eleven years. But now I have you.”
Now I have you...
Why did those four little words affect me so?
Stress throbbed in my temples, but I kept it at bay as my eyes roamed over his bare, almost hairless chest. He didn’t have an inch of fat on him, leaving his muscles pronounced and sharp.
Did he shave or was he just naturally annoyingly gorgeous?
“Where are you from?” I asked before I could censor myself, mortification painting my cheeks.
He smirked, his gaze roaming over me just like mine roamed over him. “Why? Suddenly curious about me?”
“Would you kill me if I said yes?”
“Probably.”
I exhaled heavily. “Fine. Forget I—”
“Where are you from?” He cut in, wrenching my eyes to his.
His first personal question about me.
His first curiosity.
My heart skipped a beat. “Me? I’m—”
“Forget it.” He bared his teeth as if shocked he’d even asked. “I don’t care.”
But he didn’t look away, and his voice couldn’t quite hide the lie.
Could it be possible?
Was he feeling things like me?
Was he as confused and wary as I was?
Falling into his dark eyes, I blurted, “You know...you still haven’t asked me what my name is.”
He scowled, his belly tensing as he sucked in a breath. “Why would I ask the names of those wanting to kill or seduce me?”
“I think we’ve established that I’m not, in fact, trying to kill you.” I shrugged and arched my chin at all the needles and medical paraphernalia. “If I was, you’re playing a very risky game bringing me here.”
He smiled coldly. “Do you honestly think Whisper would let you lay a single finger on me that I didn’t allow?”
My hand moved on its own accord, landing over his forearm on the chair rest.
He jolted.
I froze.
Whisper dashed forward and nuzzled where we joined as if approving rather than forbidding it.
The panther’s whiskers tickled. I wrenched my hand away.
Clearing his throat, Lucien shook out his arm as if I’d burned him. His eyes danced to mine, wide with surprise, but then his heartless composure slammed back into place like a well-worn mask.
“Stop wasting time.” Turning both arms upward, so each wrist faced me, he glowered at the small holes in the silver cuffs. “Attach the drains.”
“Do what now?”
“Those tubes right there. Insert them into the ports. The program is already prepared. One bag for each wrist.”
My stomach turned.
I looked at the coils of tubing and the empty IV bags stamped with barcodes.
Horror filled me as I finally understood what this place was. Why it reminded me of a doctor’s surgery. Why the reek of antiseptic tried to hurtle me into memories of all those tests I’d subjected myself to after watching my parents turn to bone-soup in front of me.
“You can’t be serious.” I shook my head. “You...you expect me to bleed you?”
He showed no compassion whatsoever. “If I don’t, they’ll come and do it for me while I’m unconscious.” He smiled, thin and ruthless. “I can’t avoid it, and I prefer being awake instead of drugged. Therefore, I don’t have a choice.” His eyes narrowed. “Now do as you’re told and attach the drains.”
He might not want to pass out, but I certainly did.
Whisper nudged me as if commiserating with my inadequacies.
“Ten minutes and then you’re free,” he whispered. “You can leave the moment it’s done.”
My heart pounded as I met his stare.
No way.
There was no way I could do this—
“You can.” His jaw clenched as if fighting his own revulsion of this place, this room, this request. “Do it so we both can leave.”
Just like last night with him on top of me, sharing his pain, seeing how much he hurt, I fell into him. I fell into everything he refused to say and all the secrets trapping him.
And somehow, it was no longer about me.
Eleven years he’d bled himself.
How many years before that had they done it for him?