Lucian's POV...
I woke up to pain.
Not sharp—dull. Deep. A low, churning ache in the pit of my stomach, as if I'd swallowed something rotten that was now twisting its way through my insides. Not my heart. Something else. Guilt. Regret. Poison.
Morning light cut through the gap in the curtains like shards of glass, falling at the wrong angle, illuminating a room that was all wrong. The scent of someone else's cologne clung to the air, clashing with the faint, lingering sweetness of perfume on the sheets. A perfume that wasn't Camilla's. A scent I knew too well.
Patricia.
The name was a spike of ice through my chest.
I sat up slowly. Too fast. The world tilted, the walls swimming in a nauseating blur.
Where am I?
The realization dripped into my consciousness, cold and slow. The artwork on the walls, the specific grain of the dark wood floor, the heavy silence of a house that wasn't mine.
Henry's house.
Why am I here?
I looked down.
No shirt.
