Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Two
Elias’s Pov
I stirred when I felt something warm—no, someone—wrap around me. An arm slid over my waist, pulling me gently back into a chest that felt painfully familiar.
Lucien.
Even in sleep, I could recognize the feel of him. The steady rise and fall of his chest against my back. His scent—rich and heavy, like rain on burnt wood—clung to my skin. My breath caught.
He was here.
I didn’t move at first. I just lay there, trying to process the mess of emotions twisting in my chest. Relief, anger, hurt. My eyelids fluttered open, the morning light filtering through the curtains casting golden stripes across the bed.
His arm tightened.
I turned slowly, blinking through the fog of sleep and last night’s tears. And there he was, propped up slightly on his elbow, staring at me. Watching me.
Lucien.
His eyes didn’t hold their usual spark. They were duller, heavier as if something had settled there that he couldn’t shake off. But there was still something gentle about the way he looked at me. Still something….soft.
Neither of us said anything.
I swallowed and wiped under my eyes. My lids still felt puffy, and I was sure they were swollen. I hated crying this much. Hated the way it made me feel fragile, like a cracked teacup just waiting to break.
Lucien broke the silence first.
“Your eyes,” he murmured, brushing a finger lightly under one, “they are swollen.”
I scoffed softly. “Well, I did cry like an idiot all night.”
He flinched a little, like that hurt him.
I looked at him, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Why are you here, Lucien?”
He looked away for a second, then back at me. “It’s too early,” he said instead. “Go back to sleep.”
I blinked, lips parting in confusion. “That’s it?”
He didn’t say he was sorry like I did. He didn’t say he forgave me. He didn’t even say he missed me. Just that it was too early.
And then, like I wasn’t allowed to push, he pulled me back into him, tucking my head under his chin. He held me tightly. Like nothing happened. Like I wasn’t still bleeding inside from the words we had thrown at each other. His lips brushed against my temple. Then my forehead. His hands moved slowly up and down my back, comforting, grounding.
Still….I couldn’t stop the thought.
He hates me now. Because of Adrien.
He just think I’m disgusting. That I betrayed him.
Even though he was the one holding me….he wasn’t talking. And that silence said more than any words could. I had no idea how to make it up to him. How to assure him that there was nothing going on between me and Adrien. How could there even be something?
Lucien had no idea how much he had me wrapped around his fingers.
When I woke up again, the bed was cold.
Lucien was gone.
No note. No text. No scent left behind except the one he always carried, now lingering like a ghost in the sheets. I dragged myself out of bed, freshened up, and stared at the mirror. My eyes were still slightly swollen. My hair was a mess.
But it wasn’t just my face that looked worn.
It was something deeper.
I wasn’t hungry. Didn’t want to see anyone. I needed…space. A breath. Maybe something to distract my head from spinning in circles.
I left the room and wandered the palace with no destination in mind. My steps were slow, almost lazy, my hands shoved in my pockets. The sun coming through the high windows gave the corridors a soft, golden hue. Every now and then, I passed a guard or servant. They all gave me polite bows. I nodded back weakly, barely managing a smile.
They no longer gave me attitude like they once did. It felt nice.
Then I saw a door. Not just any door—It was talk, grand, with iron patterns curling across the dark wood. A thin line of warm light shone from beneath it.
I pushed it open.
And instantly froze.
Books. Everywhere.
The scent of paper and time hit me in the face. Shelves stretched to the ceiling, ladders tucked into corners, cozy chairs scattered around like forgotten stories. It was massive. And beautiful.
I stepped in cautiously, brushing my fingers across the nearest bookshelf. Some titles were in languages I couldn’t even recognize. Others were clearly old, their spines worn with use.
I was halfway through scanning a section labeled. “History of Fae Conflict.” When I felt something behind me.
I turned sharply.
An elderly man stood by the door, dressed in deep emerald robes. His posture was straight, commanding. His eyes—light gray and sharp as blades—settled on me with a kind of calm authority that made my heart jump.
“I didn’t mean to intrude,” I said quickly, already backing toward the exit. “I just—got curious.”
“You are not intruding.” His voice was surprisingly gentle, though firm. “You are welcome to stay, Elias.”
I stiffened. “You know my name?”
He smiled, thin and deliberate. “Of course. It would be embarrassing if I didn’t. You are quite the topic these days.”
I swallowed. “Right. I guess I am.”
“I’m Sorin,” he said. “I’ve been in charge of the royal archives for longer than you’ve been alive.”
I nodded, unsure what to say to that.
He stepped closer, surprisingly graceful for someone who looked like he’d been through a few centuries. “What kind of books are you interested in? They’re all supernatural—vampire lore, werewolf treaties, dark magic, celestial shifts. That sort of thing.”
I hesitated. Then, quietly, I said, “I want to know more about vampires. About you guys. What you’re really like.”
Sorin tilted his head. “A wise curiosity.”
“I just… I feel like I’m always behind,” I confessed. “Like everyone else knows the rules but me. The history, the bloodlines, the politics. I don’t even know the difference between a common vampire and a noble one. Or why people keep saying my blood smells strange.”
At that, Sorin’s brow twitched slightly. He didn’t answer right away.
Instead, he motioned to a leather chair by the nearest table.
“Sit, Elias,” he said. “Let me get you something.”