Page 83 of Black Castle

Zev’s signature is carved into the corpse, deep and unmistakable. A message in blood and torn flesh.

Lucan inhales sharply, but air does nothing to cool the fire licking at his insides.

He should care about Abbey Markov. Should care about the stolen ledger and what it could do to his empire.

But he doesn’t. Not nearly as much as he should.

All he can think about is Zev’s hands on her skin.

His fingers twitch, a violent itch traveling up his arm, a need he’s never felt before. Not like this. Not this consuming, this raw. He has never wanted to kill before, never wanted to destroy someone completely as much as he does now.

“He was a soldier after all,” he murmurs, his voice eerily even as he turns his back to the body. “Bury him like one.”

When he begins to head out of the torture chamber, weaving his way through curves and arches of his manor, he has no clue where else to go other than to her.

He needs to see her.

She mustn’t harbor any thought of leaving him. He was at war with himself before, to be selfish and keep her, or do the honorable thing of letting her go?

But not anymore.

He has decided to be selfish. To claim what belongs to him.

And that’s her.

As for Zev, he’s done condoning him. He’s done trying to right the wrongs he committed when his heart had barely developed in his mother’s womb.

He’s done giving him chances.

Bonds will be severed. Fight for power will ensue, blood might even spill. Someone must have the ultimate control. And that someone won’t be Zev.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Vivienne

It’s 10:00 a.m when Vivienne finally could wake up. The early hours of the morning are still a blur. She knows he didn’t stop—not even after taking her from behind. Not when her body threatened to give out. He went another round, and another, until she blacked out. There’s only so much her body can take. And that fucking man is a beast.

But something feels off when she pushes herself into a sitting position on the bed.

She was naked. Now, a white button-up shirt hangs loosely over her frame. The silk sheet from last night—which she remembers to have been quite messy, reeking of sex—has been changed to a new set, the soft smell of flora lingering in the air. Also, she’s tucked in neatly.

Her eyes sweep the room, searching for any sign of him. Nothing.

He’s gone.

And he’s back—Lucan.

The man who spent her night with her would never have thought to do this. He’s selfish, callous and narcissistic. And depraved men hardly care about anything other than themselves.

Instinctively, she raises her hand to pack her hair into a bun—a subconscious habit. But there’s no need. It’s already up, not exactly neatly, but the person tried their best.

Her pulse ticks faster, the air in the room heavy with something she can’t name.

Then her hand flies to cradle her stomach as a sharp pain suddenly grips it. Hunger. She did eat heavily last night. Enough to have lasted her till brunch. But with the kind of work Zev or whatever he said his name was made her do, it’s no surprise that she’s starving. He made sure to suck her dry of energy.

Kicking the cover off her body, she attempts to step off the bed. She does struggle to rise up, but the impact of her action is immediately felt when she tries to walk and a sharp, burning pain awakens between her thighs.

She is still sore. Too fucking sore.

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