CHAPTER 61
The corridors of the North Wing felt longer than usual, the shadows stretching and curling at the edges of Lucian's vision.
Every step he took towards the heavy oak doors that led to his bedroom felt like he was walking into a trap he had set for himself. Behind him, Marco walk as silent as s ghost.
The bond between him and Isabella gave a violent, greedy tug but it wasn't a cry for help; it felt like a draw.
Lucain increased his pace and with one single push to the closed door it opened. The doors flew open with a crash that rattled the chandelier in the foyer.
The sight that met him was chaotic. Isabella was on the floor, but she wasn't the fragile, dying thing he had left hours ago.
She was kneeling in a sea of books, a small piece of stone clutched in her hand. Clara was a feet away, kneeling next to Isabella.
"What," Lucian roared, his voice shaking the stone walls, "is happening in my house?"
