CHAPTER 71
The silk of the crimson lining felt like a burn against Lucian's skin. He stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror in his other private chamber, the black velvet of his doublet absorbing what little light the flickering torches offered.
He looked every bit the Sovereign of the Unholy. His long, dark hair was slicked back, emphasizing the sharp, predatory angles of his face and the cold, flinty gray of his eyes.
The silver thread of the embroidery caught the light like barbed wire, a warning to any Council member who dared to look too closely for a sign of weakness.
But beneath the structured armor of his clothes, his mind was a battlefield.
What if it's you?
Isabella's voice echoed in his head, soft and haunting. He gripped the edge of the vanity, his knuckles turning white.
"Absurd," he muttered to his reflection.
