Page 55 of Wicked Chains
I glance back at the coat, then at Drake. "You really think he switched sides because of me?"
"I think," Drake says carefully, "that you need to figure that out for yourself."
I pull away reluctantly, grabbing the coat from the chair. It's heavy in my hands, still carrying the faint scent of mint and vetiver that I've come to associate with Lucien.
"Fine, I'll return it," I say, heading for the door. "But don't expect me to come back with some grand revelation about his secret feelings."
"I expect you to come back with the truth," Drake says. "Whatever that turns out to be."
I pause at the door, looking back at him. "And what if the truth is that he's just using me like everyone else? Present company excepted, of course." I wink at him.
An odd expression flickers across Drake’s face, but it’s gone as fast as I notice it. “Rose?”
“Yes, Drake?”
“I love you.”
My mouth drops open and my eyes widen, and I feel like all the air has been knocked out of me. I don’t move. “Drake?”
“Yes, Rose?”
“I love you, too.”
We stand there, staring at each other. Then Drake smiles, and waves his hand, shooing me out the door.
Sending me to Lucien.
Twenty-Five
Lucien
I stand with my arms clasped behind my back, watching winter transform the landscape. I never tire of this sight, the world rendered clean, if only temporarily. A blank canvas hiding the ugliness beneath, a deception as beautiful as it is fleeting.
Memory is a curious thing for vampires. Some recollections fade like old parchment, crumbling to dust over centuries. Others remain painfully vivid, as though they occurred moments ago rather than lifetimes.
I remember my first encounter with snow. I was perhaps three years old, the son of a nobleman with all the privilege that afforded, on a large estate. The winter had been harsh, and my nurse had forbidden me to go outside, claiming the cold would settle in my chest and kill me before spring.
One morning, I escaped her watchful eye. I still recall the bite of cold air in my lungs, the crunch of fresh powder beneath my small boots. I remember reaching down with ungloved hands, feeling the strange burn of ice against my warm skin. The worldhad transformed overnight into something magical, a kingdom of crystal and silence that belonged to me alone.
My father found me there, making angels in the snow. I expected punishment; his hand was quick and his temper quicker. Instead, he laughed. It was the only time I can recall him laughing in my presence. He showed me how to form the snow into balls, taught me to aim and throw. For one precious hour, we were not lord and heir, but simply father and son.
Three months later, he was dead from fever. Three decades later, I killed my first human. Both memories remain equally visceral.
A presence interrupts my reminiscence, and I sense her before she reaches my door, her heartbeat, the scent of her skin, earth and life, sex and darkness. My fangs ache to descend while my body tightens with unwelcome desire.
I straighten my cuffs, masking my features into careful neutrality as her footsteps pause outside my door.
One knock. Then two.
I wait a moment longer than necessary before opening it. Control, always control.
"Rose," I say, greeting her.
She stands in the corridor, cheeks flushed from the cold, snowflakes melting in her dark hair. My coat is draped over her arm, and the sight of it there, this piece of myself she has carried with her, causes a peculiar sensation in my chest.
"Hi," she says, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "I brought back your coat."
This is unlike her. Rose Smith does not come to me. Rose Smith does not stand awkwardly in doorways, uncertain of her welcome. Rose Smith charges forward, consequences be damned. Something has changed.
