Page 74 of Black Castle

It is an opportunity Zev can’t wait to grasp with a welcoming hand.

“Talk to me.” Her voice is a dying whisper. Something fragile, something he should hold on to. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

Because he is unraveling. His body is fraying at the seams, his mind splitting at the edges. He has fought so hard to keep Zev at bay—to keep her safe from him—but his body is giving up. He is giving up…for tonight. Hopefully for tonight only.

But he shouldn’t. Not with Zev here.

Yet the darkness is already clawing in, swallowing him whole.

And in the moment of his transition, he can’t help but chuckle at his hypocrisy. He often says he hates Zev. He hates how he shares his body with him. He hates how he uses his body to do something he wouldn’t normally do. But in a little crisis, he always finds himself calling to him. Because he is still that coward from 24 years ago. Because 24 years later, he is still that pale and weak little boy who is afraid of air, afraid of the sun, afraid of water, afraid of people—so timid and terror-stricken, he closed up his vocal cord, refused to utter a word to his own mother, wouldn’t sing to his little sister when she cries.

Because he is so afraid, afraid people would hear his voice and realize an abomination like him still exists in that village.

He is 32 now, but truthfully, he is still that eight-year-old boy—frail, unwanted, scared…alone.

‘Come on now, brother. Let go,’ Zev commands, and seeing as Vivienne still stands there, Lucan should have rebelled against the voice. But the darkness is more powerful than he last remembers. It had already swallowed him whole, locked his muscles, blurred his vision at the edges, leaving him gasping for air.

Zev was not bluffing. The longer Lucan locks him away, the stronger he becomes.

Chapter Twenty-four

Zev

A low guttural sound rumbles from Zev’s throat. It’s a primal release of his newfound freedom, no matter how fleeting it’s looking to seem, because for some reason, he can still feel Lucan’s presence. He’s lurking, like a lost ghost. He is still close by, too fucking close. But it doesn’t matter. Let him lurk. Let him watch. Let him seethe in silence. Tonight belongs to Zev.

Zev rolls his neck, slow and deliberate, feeling the pull of stiff muscles as he stretches, and works his shoulders. He takes a little joy in savoring the moment where he is no longer a shadow, but a man with a flesh, the hands to do and undo.

He catches the reflection of himself in the mirror, and a smirk materializes on his lips.

Still as deathly handsome as ever. Man, it’s so good to be back.

He smooths a hand over his hair, his fingers threading through the half-bun Lucan has so carefully and predictably put the hair in.

Boring. Always fucking boring, that brother of mine.

“Really, Lucan?” he muses, pulling at the band that holds the bun, tugging it loose until the hair joins the other one let loose, cascading down his back in silken waves. “Can’t you think of something else?”

He clicks his tongue, tilting his head from side to side, waves of icy lurks following his movement. His own preference is much more expressive, not this boring thing his brother has refused to part ways with.

Zev prefers a half-braid on one side, while the rest of the hair spills free on the other side. A bit of chaos, a bit of control. The contrast suited them well. Lucan is still water, a calm wind, and Zev is a raging tide, the storm that comes violently and takes away your peace, your home, and tilts your balance, upends your world.

He is Anarchy, after all. He’s war.

Using his forefinger, he parts the hair at the center. He’s about to start working on the next side—braid about five halfway and leave the rest free when her voice cuts through the moment.

“A-are you okay?”

Her voice is soft and hesitant. The uncertainty in it makes his pulse hum. He knew she was there the moment he took over, alright. Not reacting to her was part of the thrill.

Slowly, he turns, a grin curling slowly across his lips until it turns sharp, wicked…meant to be seen. And when she takes her first step backward, her eyes widening with the first flicker of fear, Zev feels something very close to delight—powerful, coursing through his veins like a shot of heroine.

“Well, hello there, ladybird.” As he takes another step after her, a flicker of recognition settles in his mind like a serpent coiling tight.

He knows her. No, not just the girl his brother has been keeping him locked away for.

No—he remembers her. The girl from the train station who kept blowing into her hideous green sweater. The same girl from the coffee shop—Fitz’s Lit and Brew—who came to ask if he found her book. She’s like a ghost from a past encounter, a memory unburied. Once upon a time, she had been his perfect prey. But the timing had been so fucking wrong and he had to let her go.

Oh, he had wanted to crush her under the weight of his fingers then make her crumble. Make her his.

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