Page 84 of Black Castle

Afraid to take another step, she sits back down at the edge of the bed, gripping the cover she pulled off her body earlier, willing the pain to fade. Five minutes. Maybe that’s all she needs. Because that’s how long she thinks she can last for without any food in her stomach.

Barely one minute and hunger gnaws at her again, relentless. Her hands tremble. Her stomach twists. Nausea creeps in, familiar, inevitable. She always feels this sick when she’s running on empty. And right now, she’s fucking starving.

But where is he? Why did he leave the room? She has questions. She has a million and one questions to ask. Whatever happened last night till the early hours of this morning isn’t something to just shrug off. There is something lurking in the shadows. She has a clue, but she doesn’t want to jump to conclusions yet.

This is complicated.

She hates things that don’t have a direct answer. She should book the next flight and be out of here.

It’s not even a debate. Maybe the answers shouldn’t be her problem. What needs to be done is get the hell out of here as soon as possible. If she can get a flight today, she is leaving.

She should get out of here fast.

Her thoughts scatter the moment the door to the ensuite living room creaks open, ushering someone in. Her heart pounds as her eyes shoot to the door of the room, anticipating whoever just walked in as footsteps echo in the living room. The sound grows nearer until the person hovers over the door now.

The door creaks and she holds her breath. Then Lucan walks inside, and she releases a sigh.

Somehow, she thinks she can tell which version of him walked through that door. Whether it’s him or the nightmarish being from last night.

But it’s him. She knows deep down. His eyes are kinder, his face relaxed and his hair is back in a half-bun, unlike the other version, who seems to really hate that style.

He looks to have just freshly showered. He is dressed in his signature white dress shirt and black pants, every detail pristine.

But, however drop dead gorgeous he may be looking, it’s what’s in his hands that matters the most to her.

A tray holding a plate of food.

Her eyes widen, her stomach clenching in awareness as hunger slams into her again, sharp, insistent. A low growl escapes her gut, betraying how desperately she needs whatever is on that plate.

There is no doubt about it. It’s the real Lucan. He is the selfless one, the kind and considerate one. He is carrying food when he can’t stand food. That is also a question that she needs answers to. How has he been living if he can’t eat a proper meal? Why have so much money if all he settles for is coffee and a cheap sandwich or a cup of noodles?

See? He is complicated. There are suddenly too many puzzles to him. Almost as if he is no longer the same man she knew before coming here. There are now too many locked doors now, too many questions to answer, and too many secrets hidden beneath the surface.

“You are awake,” he says, softly, in the gentle voice she is used to, not the sinister and hard one from last night.

“Yeah.” Her reply is thrown out without a care as her eyes track his movements, searching his face, his eyes, seeking the calm she used to see in them…if it’s truly still there. Because last night, it wasn’t.

“I brought you breakfast.” His voice is quiet, his movements hesitant as he sets the food on her lap, refusing to meet her gaze. “I figured you would be hungry.”

Her eyes drop to the food. Four slices of toast. Bacon and a steaming cup of tea. Simple.

“Did you make this?” she asks, picking a toast and taking a large bite.

When she looks up from her food, she finds him watching her. His brilliant eyes flicker with something fragile—fear, uncertainty.

He is afraid? Of what?

If he remembers anything—if there’s not a lapse in memory like she has read about in books—then he must have some idea of what happened last night.

If that’s the case, he is probably afraid of confrontation. Afraid of the answers he might have to give, or not have at all.

“Vivienne,” he calls, lowering himself next to her on the bed. “I don’t—” he starts and pauses, his hand diving into his hair, skimming over the silky waves.

“What?” she mumbles, then swallows.

“I don’t remember half of what happened last night,” he confesses. “Or anything at all. And I know there are a million questions going through your head, too. You’re probably thinking of leaving if you don’t get a convincing answer, but I—I can’t.”

“Do you have a personality problem, Snow white?” she asks, putting the toast aside out of sudden lack of interest. “That’s like the most logical explanation to whatever it is that’s happening around here.”

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