CHAPTER 112
The walk back to the mansion was a blur of cold moonlight and simmering resentment. Every time Lucian swallowed, the musky aftertaste of the deer's blood reminded him of his fall from grace.
He reached the back entrance, moving like a ghost through the stone corridors, avoiding every gaze and every shadow where Marco might linger.
He didn't return to the master suite. Not yet. He couldn't go to her smelling of the wild, draped in the evidence of his desperation.
He bypassed the main rooms and entered a private bathing chamber, a sprawling sanctuary of black marble and gold fixtures.
With trembling fingers, he tore the ruined silk shirt from his body, the fabric damp and stained, and threw it into the bin, already thinking when he's done showering he's burning it.
He didn't care about the fine tailoring; he wanted the memory of it burned to ash. He turned the gold handles of the bath, the sound of the water roaring into the deep basin like a waterfall.
