Lucian froze the moment he saw her.
Blood stained her dress. Her skin was burned, her hair a tangled mess.
He was at her side in an instant.
"Who did this to you?"
His voice was low. Too low. It wasn't a question.
Jules tried to straighten, swallowing against the dryness in her throat.
"Lucian," her voice trembled, "it was Silas."
Something dark passed through Lucian's eyes—something far more bitter than simple rage. It was old. Rotting. A darkness that had been festering for years.
"He touched you," he said quietly. He wasn't asking.
Jules nodded slowly.
"He has his sights set on me now."
Lucian turned fully toward her. The candles flickered violently beside him, as if even they were at his mercy.
"He will not have you," Lucian said, his eyes narrowing. "Not ever."
Jules looked up at him, stunned by the certainty in his voice.
Lucian carried her to the ottoman in the parlor and knelt in front of her.
"You're safe here," he said, his eyes scanning her face. "I swear it."
As he examined her wounds, he felt himself flinch at the severity of the burns along her neck. Her lips were swollen. Her arms were covered in scrapes and bruises. A dark mark circled her throat where Silas had choked her.
But Lucian was more concerned with what Silas had done to the rest of her.
Before reaching for her sides, he looked up at her softly.
"May I?" he asked gently, motioning to her dress.
Jules hesitated. She hadn't exactly had the best experiences with men.
"If you'd like, I can find Scarlett to check your bruising," Lucian added, shifting back slightly. "If that would make you more comfortable."
Jules was dumbfounded. She'd never heard a man speak to her like that before.
She bit her cheek.
"No. It's okay," she replied.
Lucian raised a brow.
"You have my word," she reassured him.
Lucian moved carefully, mindful not to startle her. He couldn't imagine what she'd been through, and he hated himself for not sending a scout after her sooner. He knew better than to go himself—because he might have killed whoever had done this to her.
He slowly lifted the silk hem of her dress, pulling it gently over her head and folding it beside her. He noticed the way she instinctively tried to cover herself.
Without hesitation, Lucian removed his jacket and wrapped it around her. Her dark hair tucked beneath the fabric as Jules looked down at her ribs—purple and yellow, swollen and bruised. Her bones had already healed, but the bruising would take time.
Lucian lifted her into his arms and carried her down the hallway—turning left instead of right.
"But my room—"
"I need to be able to keep my eyes on you," Lucian cut her off.
She'd never been in this wing of the manor before. It was dark and gothic, lit by rows of flickering candles. They stopped in front of a black wooden door, which Lucian pushed open.
"Why do you have a bed if you don't sleep?" Jules asked, tilting her head up at him.
Lucian smirked down at her, rubbing his tongue against his bottom gums. Jules rolled her eyes as he set her gently onto his velvet comforter. The headboard was painted black, etched with small red designs on either side. All of his furniture was black as well, except for the crystal chandelier hanging above the bed. A fireplace sat along the far wall, and a dresser stood to the left of his closet.
On top of the dresser sat two framed photographs—one of Lucian with a family, and another of him beside a beautiful blonde girl.
"Who's that?" Jules asked, pointing to the photo.
Lucian smiled at her.
"That's Charlotte," he said softly. "Charlotte, Beaux."