Page 166 of Black Castle

“Sure,” Vivienne murmurs, pressing her face into the soft pillow. “Bye.”

She hears receding footsteps as his ugly ass crocs drag against the tiled floor, then the gentle sound as the door latches onto the lock.

Kenji’s mom has been very supportive in a way by not asking questions. Maybe she knows Vivienne doesn’t wish to talk about it, or Kenji already gave her the full story so she never asked Vivienne what really was going on. But there’s alway sympathy in her kind eyes, her hand resting occasionally on her shoulder, giving her a comforting squeeze.

A heavy sigh slices past Vivienne’s lips as her eyes gently crack open. The bed is warm and the sheet has been nicely tucked in. She should just sleep, close her eyes, and surrender. But she can’t. Her mind reels back to him.

Zev.

She hates his gut. He scares her. She’s sure of it. Yet her thoughts betray her.

Zev lingers in the shadows of her mind, his deep and smooth voice like velvet laced in silk echoing in her ears. A brush of whisper against her earlobes. She feels his fingers brushing against her skin, possessive, claiming, stripping her defense.

She loathes his very existence, bitter with the memory of her life that he has turned upside down. So why is her body remembering him so vividly? Why is the ghost of his touch still lingering and sparking something deep in her chest?

Hours drag on and her eyelids begin to grow heavy. The pull of sleep wraps around her, dragging her under.

Then she hears a crash and a sharp cry that cuts off too quickly. Then struggles, furniture scraping against the tile, a dull, sickening thud.

Her breath hitches, every muscle in her body locking as icy fear slithers through her veins.

She shoves away the covers, her body trembling as she swings her feet off the bed. The floor is cold beneath her bare feet, grounding her just enough to keep her from collapsing. Her knees almost buckle as she forces herself toward the door. Every step is slow and hesitant, even the walls themselves seem to be holding their breaths.

The hallway stretches, darker and suffocating than before. Finally, she arrives at the living room, still bathed in the soft glow of the television light. Gossip Girl still plays the echo of laughter, a cruel contrast to the stillness that has settled over the house.

Her eyes widen when she sees a shattered vase and pieces of porcelain scattered on the floor, glinting like jagged teeth.

Her heart pounds violently against her ribs as she moves further in. And then her world comes to a standstill. A strangled scream claws at her throat, but the sounds don’t come, only a gasp, though broken.

There they are, right next to each other; Kenji and his mom. Rose Sato’s body lays unnaturally still, eyes empty, blood pooling around her.

Then there’s Kenji too, blood coating his chest, some spilling from his mouth, fingers twitching.

“No.”

The single word that comes out of her mouth as the room blurs, the ground beneath her feet shifting, her body lightweight, and she surrenders to darkness.

Chapter Fifty-three

Vivienne

Darkness.

That’s all Vivienne knows. A deep, consuming void that swallows her whole, cradling her in a silence so absolute she can almost convince herself that none of it happened. That Kenji and his mom aren’t dead. That she didn’t shatter at the sight of Kenji’s lifeless body; the grief all-consuming her body itself gave up.

But then, her eyes flutter open, the reality like a sledgehammer to the chest, shattering her all over again. And this time, there’s no darkness to run to.

Soft, expensive sheets against her skin, the all-consuming scent of sandalwood and rose, then the golden glow of the bedside lamp that casts long shadows across the wall.

Her breath catches.

No, no, no.

Panic shoots through her veins like ice as she bolts upright, throwing the covers off her body. Her bare feet hit the cold floor as she stumbles to the window, yanking the curtains aside with trembling hands.

And the sight below her makes her stomach churn.

Zev’s soldiers patrol the open ground, rifles of different shapes and sizes slung over their broad shoulders, their movement precise, sharp, and disciplined—like they would catch the wind in their fists with an easy grace.

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