Chapter twenty two: The reckoning
He bared his fangs—not in hunger, but in necessity. A violation committed to cleanse a greater one.
Lucien lowered his mouth to the hollow beneath her jaw, where her pulse fluttered, weak and uneven.
When he bit, it was not to feed—but to reclaim.
To tether her back to him.
The first drop that touched his tongue made him pause.
It was... exquisite.
Not like any blood he had tasted in his long, weary life.
Sweet—unthinkably so.
Like wild peaches left too long under moonlight, threaded with the warmth of crushed roses and frost-kissed spring water. There was something ancient in it too—like an echo of starlight swallowed by shadow. It was wild, soft, defiant, and painfully pure.
It sang to the part of him that had forgotten how to feel.
And then—he tasted the other.
A sour thread.
Faint, but there.
Him.
Another's hunger had tainted her essence.
His fangs deepened before he realized it, rage sliding down his spine like a blade drawn slow.
Lucien's hands curled against the sheets.
It was an offense beyond trespass.
To touch her blood was to touch what was his. Not by possession—but by something deeper. Older.
Sacred.
He drew in another breath, eyes burning, tongue lingering against the wound he'd made. Not to hurt her—but to overwrite what had been taken.
He would erase every trace of the other.
Until only her remained.
Only them.
No one else would touch her again.
Not while he breathed.
When he pulled away, her blood still clung to his lips, leaving a sweetness he would never forget—and a fury he would not forgive.
Lucien rose from her bedside with lethal grace, blood still burning in his mouth, the sweetness of her clinging like a vow he hadn't made—but felt bound by all the same.
No more tenderness now.
He moved to the door, yanked it open with unnatural force.
"Alaric," he called, voice sharp as a blade.
The man appeared instantly.
His eyes found Alaric.
He said, voice like a drawn blade. "No one enters this room but those I name."
Alaric straightened. "Yes, milord."
Lucien turned, striding to the far side of the room, the shadows curling tighter around him with each step. Then he stopped—just at the threshold.
Without looking back, he said low and lethal:
"Follow me."
Alaric did not hesitate. "Of course."
Lucien vanished down the corridor like a storm gathering shape. Alaric followed without a word.
Outside the chamber, the air shifted.
It was not just the fury of a lord betrayed.
It was something older. Hungrier.
Something that had tasted what was his—and now must answer for it.
Someone was about to break.
And for once, it wouldn't be her.
Lucien Vaelric did not stride into the ballroom—He arrived,like a storm held barely in check by flesh and bone.
The music stuttered to a halt.A hush fell, more brittle than silence.Nobles stiffened as if they'd stepped into ice water.
His eyes were obsidian fire, and they searched.
Ravienne turned with the perfect smile of a woman who'd spent centuries hiding knives behind her fan. "Lucien—"
"Where is Alric?"The voice cut across the chamber. Low. Absolute.
Lord Alric turned from the cluster of vampires gathered around a silver-blooded cask. He was smiling until he saw Lucien's eyes.
"Here," he said, straightening. "If this is about your little—"
Lucien didn't let him finish.
He moved faster than sound. One moment, Alric was standing; the next, he was slammed against a pillar, the marble cracking behind his skull.
The nobles shrieked, stumbling back in silk and velvet.
Lucien's hand gripped Alric's throat—not with showmanship, but intent. Fangs elongated. Not for blood. For punishment.
"You drank from her," Lucien whispered, each word laced with something ancient, barely leashed.
Alric clawed at his wrist. "She—collapsed. I was—ensuring—"
"Don't lie to me."
Lucien's voice had dropped into something unholy. "You tasted her.
A beat.
"You stole what was mine."
"I—I didn't mean—"
"You meant to drink. That was enough."
The corner of his mouth twitched, but it wasn't a smile. It was something darker.
"You thought you could violate what's mine?"
Alric flailed—hands grasping at Lucien's wrist. "I didn't know—she didn't bear your mark—"
"She does now."
Lucien leaned in, his tone a whisper heard by all:
"Her blood is sacred.And you let it stain your mouth."
Alric screamed as Lucien's other hand—now bare—plunged into his chest.
The sound was sharp. Wet.
Spine-shivering.
He didn't tear.
He seized the heart, fingers clenching around it, and held it inside the man's chest while Alric writhed in the air, gurgling, eyes wide in horror.
Then Lucien ripped it free—slowly.
The heart pulsed once, twice, in his palm… before it turned to ash.
And Alric collapsed, lifeless, to the ballroom floor.
The silence was total.
Blood pooled beneath the corpse, steaming.
Lucien dropped the ashes.
Then turned.
Ravienne stood frozen, her expression unreadable, though her eyes glittered with shock. Beside her, Lady Seliora had gone ghost-pale, shaking in place.