Page 71 of Black Castle

“What are you listening to?” Kenji lightly jabs his elbow into Vivienne’s ribs, the force almost knocking her fork and knife off her grip.

She shoots him a sharp look. “A podcast?” she says, then turns back to struggling with the monstrous-sized piece of pork Mr. Putin had served her.

It’s her second night at Lucan’s house. But the last time she saw him was when he came to her room last night, leaving her with more questions than she came to Russia with. And yet, not a single answer.

One question has been floating around her head since then, plaguing her mind like a vengeful ghost who refuses to leave.

He.

Who was the he, he referred to last night?

“He?” she remembers asking, gazing up at him. “Who is that? What are you talking about?”

But he didn’t answer. He only stared at her for a few seconds, his expression unreadable, then he leaned down and pressed his warm lips on her forehead.

It was just a kiss. A harmless touch. It shouldn’t mean much. She had received forehead kisses a lot of times from Kenji.

Yet his harmless forehead kiss set her world off-balance. Heat lingered where his lips had touched, like a brand, like something meant to stay. Her pulse thudded against her ribs, her body frozen even as he walked away. She should have held him down and demanded answers. But she didn’t. She let him walk away.

And now, hours later, it was still there, the ghost of his touch, but it’s tangled with unanswered questions—who was this ‘he’ he referred to last night? And why did Lucan refuse to tell her?

“So…” Kenji trails off, cutting into her thoughts. “What’s the podcast about?”

“Love and inner peace,” she murmurs.

It’s all too obvious Kenji doesn’t care for a good conversation. This is his lame way of trying to expel the weird awkwardness around the dinner table.

Captain Serrano isn’t the friendliest guy, obviously. But with his presence at the dinner table last night, there wasn’t a suffocating awkwardness. Tonight, he’s absent, and Vivienne and Kenji aren’t so lucky to not have the company of Lucan’s younger sister. You’d think that after one shared meal, she might have warmed up to them. But her hostility—especially towards Vivienne—hasn’t softened in the slightest.

When she arrived a few minutes ago, she had a few snarky comments to go around. And every few minutes, from the corner of her eyes, Vivienne catches her shooting daggers at her—silent but unmistakable.

The air has been thick with tension ever since. And Vivienne is sure if tension suddenly grew into a pair of hands, it would have squeezed the air from their lungs long ago.

“Well, this is about the most awkward dinner I’ve ever had, though,” Kenji finally confesses.

“Sorry,” Vivienne apologizes. In the end, any discomfort he encounters here is her fault. If she didn’t drag him to Russia, he would have been having dinner with Rose by now.

“Tomorrow, I’m eating in my room,” Kenji voices, before shoving a piece of pork into his mouth.

They continue to eat in silence. But after a while, Vivienne’s eyes momentarily lift to Lucan’s sister because, for some reason, she can no longer hear the sound of her loudly chewing mouth.

She finds that she is staring knowingly at something, or rather, someone, behind them. Vivienne would have thought it’s the Serrano guy, but the hairs on her neck have stood up in awareness, a familiar reaction when a certain someone is present.

Lucan.

Relief washes over her as she follows Aiko’s gaze—he’s there, standing at the entrance of the dining room. He looks tired, the weight of it evident in his eyes. Yet it does nothing to dull the power he carries. His presence commands the room, and though unseen, she swears an invisible halo flickers around him, something untouchable, something almost divine.

“Hi.” She waves at him, her smile obvious and wide. His expression softens, and his lips move a little in a failed attempt to smile.

“Care to join us?” she asks, motioning to the table, a vague gesture at the trail of dishes laid out.

To her disappointment, he shakes his head. Her smile falls immediately.

“But, Mr. Putin said it’s your favorite.” She tries to be as persuasive as possible. It’s obvious he doesn’t eat much, or perhaps doesn’t like eating. She wonders why she never noticed this till she came here.

“Wait!” Her screech echoes louder than intended when he whirls around, about to exit the room.

“It’s just pure courtesy to share a dinner with your guest, you know,” she tells him, a little blackmail hidden between the lines.

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