Page 72 of Black Castle

“It doesn’t count if you’re an uninvited guest.” The comment is made by none other than his bitter sister.

Vivienne’s remark, however, seems to be persuasive enough as, reluctantly, Lucan arrives at the table.

Lazily, he drapes his blazer on his chair, pulls out the said chair and lowers himself on it. For the first five minutes, he just sits there staring at the dishes, as if he has no idea what food looks like, as if he has no clue what he’s supposed to do with them.

The longer he stares, the grimmer and darker his expression becomes. While it appears strange to Vivienne, his sister, however, looks like this happens often as she just watches him with a mild concern.

And when he finally attempts to turn his plate up to dish himself some food, Vivienne notices something familiar. His hands are trembling, and he is doing a failed job of trying to stop it or hide it.

Aiko is looking at him too, her usually mean features visibly softening.

“Um, what’s going on?” Kenji whispers under his breath.

“I don’t know,” Vivienne whispers back, keeping her eyes on Lucan. She sees his jaws clench, and his hold on the fork becomes more intense, an attempt to stop the trembling.

Then suddenly, his sister rises from her chair, grabs his plate and serves about the tiniest portion of meal anyone has ever had, then cuts an abominably small size from the chunk of pork on a large bowl, placing it on the plate.

“Water?” she asks him, motioning to the glass jar of water on the center of the table.

“Yes,” he murmurs, his voice torn and raspy. His attention seems to be here only ten percent as he tries to cut a piece out of the pork. And to cut the pork, Vivienne can swear it takes him at least ten minutes as the fork and knife keeps slipping from his twitching fingers.

What is going on? Did he not take his medicine again? But it isn’t just his trembling hands. It looks like his problem comes from the dishes on the table.

Finally, after what feels like years later, he lifts the piece of pork to his mouth. But even then, halfway through the motion, he pauses, his gaze drifting back to the spread of dishes on the table. His jaw tightens, face ashen, while his lips press into a thin line. Then, without a word, he sets the fork and knife down, rising to his feet—deliberate and controlled.

“What ha—” Vivienne starts, but the words wither in her tongue as he kicks his chair backward, grabs his jacket, and strides out. No explanation, no hesitation. Just the lingering scent of mystery, the kind she fears she might spend a lifetime trying to unravel.

“What in the world just happened?” Kenji’s voice is audible enough to earn a sharp glare from Aiko, who, a second later, also abruptly rises to her feet and walks away.

Vivienne stares at the door the brother and sister have disappeared through. Confused, lost for words. Then she begins to wonder, if these questions piling up are a weight she can bear.

Chapter Twenty-three

Lucan

It’s the second night and for some reason, Lucan still can’t think of a way to let Vivienne go. He could—should—haul her onto one of his jets and fly her back. End this before it ruins them both. And when she inevitably demands for answers, he could tell he can’t do this, that he doesn’t want to be with her, that he never wants to see her again.

It should be really simple. Cut clean. A single moment of cruelty for the sake of something greater. But it isn’t as simple as it seems. And no matter how hard he tries to convince himself otherwise, it feels like he’s just trying to make excuses because every other thing is a lie and there’s only one truth.

He wants her.

He has never wanted anything in his life as much as he wants Vivienne Marchand.

Never been this obsessed. Never been this addicted.

Never felt like dying.

A sudden knock on his door punctures the quietness of his room, breaking into his thoughts, the glass of whiskey frozen midway to his lips.

He doesn’t answer the knock and instead sets the glass back down, then leans into the couch, staring at the door, feeling it vibrate with each impatient knock.

He assumes it’s Matteo, his nephew. Maybe he would get tired of knocking, assume he’s fast asleep and be on his merry way. But to his dismay, the door suddenly creaks, opening without a struggle.

I thought I locked it?

The intruder steps in, and his heart shudders, far from fear, but draws a bit too close to what people might call excitement.

His little fairy.

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