He carried a blood that condemned him to a cage.
A cage that I doubted he would ever be able to break out of.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” LUCIEN demanded the moment I stepped into the East-West blended foyer.
I scowled as Whisper escorted me right to Lucien’s side. “I’m aware you haven’t seen much of the outside world and don’t have a good experience with guests, but the thing we usually say to each other when we haven’t seen each other overnight is ‘Good morning. How are you? Did you sleep well?’” I smiled and crossed my arms. “Now, you try it.”
“Follow me if you don’t want me to kill you.” Turning around, once again barefoot, as if he owned no shoes in this godforsaken place, he marched in the same direction as yesterday.
My headache grew worse as I sighed.
Whisper snorted, nudging my hand as if commiserating with my frustration.
I didn’t want to spend another day cleaning.
If that made me ridiculously spoiled and painfully lazy, then so be it. Another rush of vertigo caught me unaware. I grabbed onto the panther, swallowing against the small prickle of nausea.
This always happened.
Even if the stress didn’t make an absolute fool of me, the aftereffects of a worrisome day always did.
The wine and a nap were a medicinal excuse to recalibrate my system before I fritzed.
Whisper grumbled something in panther speak and strode ahead, his tail flicking. Looking back over his shoulder at me, he raised a furry brow.
I sighed loudly and followed.
Lucien didn’t turn around the entire time he led me deeper into the palace he called a prison. When we reached the octagonal-shaped foyer with its eight corridors branching off with lines scribed into the marble that reminded me of a Bagua symbol, Lucien didn’t go in the direction he’d led me yesterday.
Instead, he balled his hands and in a ripple of black loose trousers and flowing black coat, he led me down a different one. The air cooled the further we travelled as if the walls were warning us not to enter.
Wrenching to a halt at the end, he pushed open a set of iron inlaid doors. They swung open too silently, too easily—as if he came in here often. The entire vibe of the place set my stomach clenching and skin prickling.
“In here,” he ordered, striding into the room.
I lingered on the threshold.
Whisper padded to join Lucien.
What the hell is this place?
Dark navy wallpaper with lotus blooms and crescent moons covered the high walls. The black ceiling pressed down on us with oppressive weight and the polished wooden floor had droplets staining it in multiple places.
My eyes locked onto a particularly large splodge.
Lucien caught me staring. “If you’re wondering if it’s blood, you’re right.”
And there went my headache again.
Gritting my teeth, I glanced at the rest of the room. From the impressive redwood desk, rows of official-looking filingcabinets, to the huge recliner beneath a large spotlight. Glass-fronted refrigerators lined the far wall, their empty racks waiting for something.
Alongside them, shelves of boxes, plastic tubing, and other medical items sat proudly, along with a biohazard bin. A stainless-steel trolley gleamed with instruments: butterfly needles, clamps, and vials.
My gaze shot back to the recliner.
I noticed what I hadn’t before.
