Chapter 153

Chapter 153: Chapter 153

Lysander’s pov

The smell of oil paint hit me the second I cracked the studio door open.

My stomach flipped upside down instantly. I clamped my hand over my mouth, backed out into the corridor, and hit the floorboards on my knees.

I dry-heaved into the empty hallway, gripping the cold baseboard while a sudden sweat broke out across my neck. My stomach wrung itself tight, completely empty.

I lay there for a long minute with my forehead pressed to the cool wood, listening to the dead quiet of the estate. Drake was already gone. He had left for the capital before sunrise, doubling the guards in the lower halls and locking the perimeter down tight. He hadn’t woken me. He’d just pulled the heavy duvet over my shoulders, kissed the crown of my head, and left me in the dark.

I dragged myself up, using the doorframe for balance.

The moment I stood, the hallway tilted. White sparks flickered across my eyes, making my fingertips itch and my pulse raced out of control against my ribs.

"Just panic," I whispered to the empty air, forcing a breath down into my lungs. "Just stress."

I stepped into the studio and let the glass door slide shut behind me.

Morning sun cut through the high windows, warming the wide floorboards. Jars of linseed oil, turpentine, and ground pigments lined the heavy worktables. It was supposed to be my sanctuary—the one place in this gilded fortress where my head stayed clear.

Instead, every smell in the room felt twice as strong. The sour bite of the solvent tasted like copper on the back of my tongue. The sunlight streaming through the glass felt too hot, burning against my skin, making the wolf under my skin claw at my insides to get out.

I walked over to the easel in the center of the room. My boots felt heavy, like I was dragging lead weights across the floor.

I reached for a metal tube of burnt umber, intending to squeeze some onto the wooden palette. But the second my fingers touched the cold aluminum, my forearm gave a violent, uncontrollable jerk.

The magic in my blood spiked without warning.

Crack.

The heavy glass jar of turpentine sitting next to my hand shattered into a dozen sharp pieces. Clear liquid spilled across the tabletop, dripping over the edge and hitting the floorboards with a steady drip, drip, drip.

I jumped back, my heart slamming into my throat as I stared at my hands.

"What is this?" I breathed.

My energy didn’t shatter glass. It never had. I was a hybrid, but my human half kept my power grounded, quiet, and predictable. It didn’t blow out lightbulbs or break containers.

I pressed my palms flat against my ribs. Beneath the rapid thumping of my heart, my body felt completely wrong. Drained, heavy, and twitchy all at once.

A sharp cramp pinched low in my abdomen.

I doubled over, gripping the edge of the easel as a cold, twisting pain locked up the muscles right below my navel. It lasted three seconds before backing off into a dull, hollow ache.

I straightened up slowly, wiping cold sweat off my temple with the back of my sleeve.

Darius.

My mind shot back to his study. The heavy iron collar he had locked around my neck. The crushing weight of his blood magic pressing me flat against the oak desk while I fought for air. He had called it a suppressant, but suppressants don’t make your blood boil from the inside out days after they come off.

I stumbled over to the small sink in the corner, turned the tap on all the way, and splashed freezing water over my face.

I looked up into the mirror.

My skin was pale, the dark circles under my eyes almost purple against my cheekbones. But beneath the surface, the veins along my neck looked darker, like thin blue lines drawn under the flesh.

I rested a hand over my stomach through the heavy wool of my sweater.

No marks. No scars. Just a faint, steady heat pulsing low in my gut.

"No," I whispered, stepping back from the glass. "No, no..."

The studio door unlocked with a quiet, digital click.

I turned fast, pulling my hand away from my stomach and shoving both hands deep into my sweater pockets.

A guard stood in the doorway—broad-shouldered, dressed in a crisp black uniform. His red eyes instantly took in the broken glass on the table, the puddle of solvent on the floor, and the short, ragged way I was breathing.

"Is there a problem, Lysander?" he asked. His voice was flat, polite, and completely cold.

I swallowed the dry taste in my mouth, forcing my posture straight. "I dropped a jar. My hands were slick."

The guard didn’t move. He stared at the mess on the table, then brought his gaze back to my face.

"Lord Drake left strict instructions," the guard said, stepping an inch closer to the threshold. "He wants you resting if you’re unwell."

"I’m fine," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. I picked up a dry rag from the easel tray, turning my back to him to wipe down the wooden frame. "You can leave."

He hesitated for a long second, his ancient senses taking in the chemical smell, the sweat on my neck, and the erratic pulse of my blood.

"The guards will remain in the hall," he said finally, and pulled the door shut. The lock engaged from the outside with a heavy thud.

I dropped the rag, sank to the floor right there in the mess, and pulled my knees to my chest.

I was locked in. Drake was waiting for me to break, Darius was waiting for his poison to work, and inside my own chest, my body was turning into something I didn’t recognize.

I sat there for almost an hour, listening to the wind scrape against the outer glass. Every time I tried to stand, my head reeled. The smell of the spilled turpentine kept crawling up my nose, making my stomach churn all over again until I had to lean against the leg of the easel just to keep from collapsing flat on the wood.

By noon, the sun had shifted, casting long, pale shadows across the studio floor.

I managed to drag myself over to the small leather sofa in the corner. I pulled my knees up, wrapping my arms tight around my middle. The dull ache low in my gut hadn’t gone away; it had settled into a heavy, persistent heat that radiated outward through my hips and down my thighs.

My phone was sitting on the main worktable ten feet away. It was dead silent. Drake hadn’t called, and I knew better than to ring his private line while he was sitting in council. If I called him sounding like this—breathless, sick, and out of control—he’d have a medical team on a transport within twenty minutes.

They would run blood panels. They would test my essence. And whatever Darius had put into my system would be laid out on a glass screen for Drake to see.

I can’t let them look at my blood, I thought, my fingers digging into the leather cushion. I can’t.

The door clicked open again.

I sat up too fast, and the room went gray around the edges.

It wasn’t the guard this time. A young house staff member stepped in, carrying a tray with a lidded soup bowl and a tall glass of water. She set it down on the small side table near the sofa, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the floor.

"Lord Drake asked that you eat something warm at mid-day," she said quietly.

The steam rising from the bowl hit the air. It was a clear poultry broth, simple and light, but the moment the warm scent reached me, my jaw clamped shut so hard my teeth clicked.

"Take it away," I rasped out, pulling the collar of my sweater up over my nose.

The girl blinked, looking up in surprise. "Lysander, he specifically asked—"

"Take it out," I repeated, my voice rising, raw and panicked. "Just leave the water. Take the food out."

She didn’t argue. She picked up the bowl, set it back on her tray, and backed out of the room quickly, locking the door behind her.

I reached for the glass of water with a shaking hand. I drank half of it in short, desperate gulps, the cold liquid shocking my throat and easing the burning in my stomach just enough to let me breathe.

I leaned my head back against the wall, staring up at the high wooden ceiling beams.

My body was betraying me. I could feel the hybrid strength I usually relied on slipping through my fingers like water, replaced by a strange, heavy fragility that left my muscles weak and my skin sensitive to the slightest draft.

If Darius had poisoned me, it was working. It was stripping away my defenses, making me weak, making me jumpy, driving me straight into the cage Drake had built around this house.