CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I awoke late the following evening, the shadows outside already long and crawling across the cold stone walls.
My body ached from sleep, and my mind spun with the weight of what I’d done.
The memory potion. It rested in the bottom of my satchel like a secret, heavy and glowing faintly in its tiny vial.
I sat up, dragging my fingers through my tangled hair. I needed answers.
After a quick wash in the icy basin and pulling on a wool dress, I lit a single candle and stood by the salt line near the door. With a breath drawn deep into my chest, I hummed his name into the dark.
“Lucien.”
Nothing.
I closed my eyes, summoned a small thread of magic from deep within, and whispered again, this time louder, firmer, pouring that magic into the call.
“Lucien Wescraven. ”
The air around me shifted. Cold at first, then warm—electric.
He appeared near the fireplace, just as the flame inside sputtered to life. His form was whole tonight, no flickering. But I could see the tension in the way he stood, the storm already brewing in his eyes.
“You called,” he said, a smooth grin on his lips.
“I did,” I replied, unable to take my eyes off the dimple in his cheek or ignore the way my pulse still sped up when he appeared. “I… I need to talk to you. There’s one place we haven’t searched yet. The south tower.”
Lucien glanced toward the window, toward the mist curling over the distant rooftops. “That part of the castle is… older. Twisted. But if we’re running out of time…”
“We are,” I agreed. “So let’s go.” I didn’t give him a moment more to think about it before leading him out of my bedchamber and through the twisting corridors.
We walked in silence, the only sounds were the creaking of the castle and the guilt churning in my stomach.
I needed to tell him about the elixir, but I didn’t have the nerve yet.
He was going to be furious that I’d left my room without him…
The south tower loomed like a crooked spine against the night sky. The halls that led to it were colder, damper, and quieter than any other part of Ravenspire. The air smelled of moss and dust, like secrets buried beneath stone.
We stepped into what once must’ve been a grand conservatory, its glass ceiling cracked and blackened, vines growing like veins through the walls and curling around shattered benches.
That’s when I saw her.
A figure, slim, hunched slightly, turned the corner just ahead, skirts trailing along the floor.
“Portia?” I gasped.
“Mia, wait—” Lucien said, his voice echoing after me.
But I was already running. I turned the corner and stopped cold. The figure I’d seen was gone, but something else waited in her place.
A tall, crawling shadow unfurled from the ceiling, its limbs too long, its form barely holding shape. It crept forward with jerking, unnatural movements, its face a blur of black smoke and glistening fangs.
I took one step back. Then another.
My voice caught in my throat. Magic flared in my fingertips, but I couldn’t move fast enough.
The creature lunged.
I barely had time to scream before it collided with me, slamming me back against the cold stone wall. Pain bloomed through my skull like fire, and the world tipped sideways.
Through the haze, I heard Lucien, his voice like thunder, and then I saw him, just for a moment, grabbing the shadow by the neck and hurling it away from me like it was weightless.
The last thing I saw before darkness took me was Lucien’s face, fierce and furious, his eyes glowing with rage as he turned toward the creature once more.
Then—nothing.
*******
My temples pounded as I opened my eyes, groaning as I realized I was yet again in my bed… injured.
The canopy above my bed swayed gently, the shadows of firelight shifting across the fabric. For a moment, I laid there in silence, listening to the fire crackling softly in the hearth.
”Brilliant,” I muttered, dragging myself upright with a wince. “Knocked out again. Just what every accomplished necromancer strives for… recurring head trauma.”
I turned my head just in time to see Lucien raise one dark brow at me when I frowned at him.
”We really have to stop doing this,” I said softly, wincing again from my own voice piercing through my aching skull.
He chuckled, shaking his head. “Not we, witch. You. I’m just the valiant savior.”
I glared at him, swinging my legs over the side of the bed, stumbling only slightly as I stood. Lucien moved to my side instantly, his arms wrapping around my waist to steady me. I sucked in a breath as our eyes met for one lingering moment before he turned his attention toward the basin of water.
”I brought you some fresh water,” he murmured, his hand tensing just slightly where it held me. “I tried to clean the blood from your hair, but—“ He trailed off with a small, apologetic smile. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”
I grinned at his gentleness as he helped me sit in a chair by the basin. I could feel the scrapes along my body and the dried blood in my thick hair, crusted over now.
”Thank you,” I said quietly, unsure if I had ever really thanked him for all the times he’d saved me already. I doubted it.
A wicked gleam entered his dark eyes and the grin that spread across his perfect lips made my breath catch. “I see you’ve finally learned some manners. Next we still need to work on saying please… ”
I narrowed my eyes, but couldn’t help the small smile that I tried to hide as he held his hands up in mock surrender before turning away.
My hands shook slightly as I dipped a cloth into the cool water then dabbed at the cut along my collarbone, wincing as the cloth dragged over raw skin.
When I let out a sharp hiss of pain, Lucien turned back to me, moving toward me with slow, determined strides.
“Let me do it.” His voice was quiet but firm, cutting through the heavy stillness of the room.
I turned to refuse, but he was already there, closing the space between us. His presence was all-consuming, his dark eyes pulling me in.
“I can manage,” I said, though my grip on the cloth was weak.
Lucien arched his brow. “Not if you’re going to flinch and nearly cry every time you touch it.”
I scowled, ready to argue, but then his fingers brushed mine—just the lightest graze as he took the cloth from my grasp.
My breath caught.
His hands were warm. Steady.
I didn’t stop him as he dipped the cloth into the basin of water, wrung it out, and brought it to my skin.
A slow, deliciously gentle touch. I stiffened, biting back a wince, but Lucien must have noticed because his free hand came up, fingers ghosting along my arm.
Not holding me still—just there. A reassurance.
“You don’t have to be so careful,” I muttered, if only to fill the silence.
Lucien let out a quiet hum. “I think we both know that’s a lie.”
I rolled my eyes, but any retort I might have had vanished when he traced the cloth along my wound again, his touch impossibly gentle.
The room felt warmer. Smaller.
His face was so close now, the firelight casting golden shadows along his sharp features.
He shouldn’t have looked real. Not with his body lying somewhere in the castle. Not with the curse still hanging over us both like a blade waiting to fall. But at this moment, he was. So very real. And I was always painfully, helplessly aware of him.
Lucien exhaled slowly, his gaze flickering to mine. His thumb brushed against my wrist—just a whisper of a touch, but it sent a shiver down my spine.
His voice was lower when he spoke. “You shouldn’t have run after her.”
I swallowed hard. “I can take care of myself.”
A shadow of a smirk tugged at his lips, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Oh, yes. I saw how well that went.”
I huffed, ignoring the warmth creeping up my neck. “You’re— “
“Insufferable,” he finished for me, stealing the word from my mouth as his grin widened.
I narrowed my eyes, but for a long moment, neither of us spoke. The only sounds were the soft crackling of the fire and the rhythmic patter of rain against the window as Lucien cleaned my wounds and unmatted my blood soaked hair, washing it with a gentle expertise.
Lucien’s fingers lingered against my skin longer than necessary. I should have pulled away. Should have put space between us before I forgot how to breathe properly.
But I didn’t. And neither did he.
His gaze dipped—to my lips, then back to my eyes.
The air shifted, thick with something unspoken. Something fragile.
I didn’t know who leaned in first.
It was barely a movement, just the slightest tilt, the smallest breath of space between us.
But it was enough. Enough for my pulse to stutter.
Enough for his fingers to tighten just a fraction against my wrist. Enough for me to realize that if I let this moment continue, I might never recover from it.
I cleared my throat, forcing myself to shift back. “Thank you,” I said again, my voice quieter than I intended.
Lucien hesitated. Just for a second. Then, slowly, he let go. I hated how cold my skin felt without his touch. He straightened, stepping back just enough to allow space to breathe, though something in his expression remained unreadable.
Whatever had passed between us, he wasn’t going to acknowledge it. Not yet. Neither was I.
I exhaled sharply, pushing the lingering warmth in my skin—his touch, his nearness, that moment—far from my mind.
Focus, Mia.
I turned away from Lucien, my pulse still uneven, and crossed the room to where my satchel lay slumped beside the chair.
The firelight flickered against the worn leather as I knelt, my fingers working nervously to untie the straps.
It was time to face Lucien’s anger. No better time than now, with so many hours still left in the night, and my injuries too much for me to leave the room again.
I drew it out carefully. It pulsed softly, as though it were alive, casting eerie reflections against my palm. I swallowed against the uneasy knot twisting in my stomach.