Lucian couldn't decide what emotion to settle on. Was it the shock that clenched his chest first, or anger that began its slow, molten rise the second his brain registered what his eyes were seeing?
There, at the top floor of his own house—his territory, his domain—stood Vincent. Not just standing, no. He was holding Serena in his arms, swaddled tightly in white sheets like she was some fragile trophy, some twisted, priceless treasure he had just claimed.
Her head hung limply against Vincent's chest, her red hair cascading like spilled ink over his arm. The audacity. The violation. Lucian's breath hitched in disbelief, his muscles freezing as every cell in his body screamed in protest.
Shock halted him, mid-step, like a puppet with its strings cut. The air felt too thick to breathe. But then… the shock cracked, and the anger surged.
