Chapter 157

Chapter 157: Chapter 157

Lysander’s pov

My heart stopped dead in my chest.

"Drake..." I choked out, tears instantly stinging the corners of my eyes as panic seized my throat. "I... I don’t know what you’re talking about—"

"Do not lie to me," Drake growled softly, his teeth baring slightly, his fangs catching the grey afternoon light. His grip on the back of my neck tightened just enough to pin me flat against his chest.

"I have let you play your games. I let you tell your stories about the woods and the wire. But I am standing in my kitchen, looking at my mate, and his skin smells like my enemy."

"I didn’t—Drake, please!" I sobbed, my hands flying up to clutch at his broad wrist, my fingers trembling violently against his skin. "I went to the boundary line! I told you! The wind... the soil near the logging road... his men patrol out there!"

"Darius’s scent does not attach itself to your throat because you stood near a fence, Lysander," Drake whispered, his red eyes burning with a cold, terrifying fury that made my knees give out beneath me.

He caught my full weight with his other arm, wrapping a heavy hand around my waist and locking me against his hard frame before I could hit the floor.

He pressed his face back into my neck, inhaling again, taking in the sweet, new shift in my blood alongside the dark, sickening trace that was driving him insane.

He didn’t ask if the scent belonged to a touch, a fight, or a betrayal. He didn’t ask what had happened in the dark.

He just held me crushed against his chest, his breath hot and dangerous against my skin, his voice dropping into a dark, possessive command that left no room for air.

"You are not going near the boundary again," Drake rasped out, his thumb dragging over my jawline, leaving a dark red mark against my pale skin.

"You are not leaving this house. If I smell him on you one more time, Lysander, I will burn that entire forest to the ground and lock you so deep under this estate you will forget what the sky looks like."

He let go of my neck, stepping back so abruptly I had to grab the edge of the marble island to stay upright.

"Eat your food," Drake said smoothly, his face instantly smoothing back into a cold, emotionless mask as he turned toward the hallway. "The guards are outside the door."

He walked away, his boots echoing off the slate floor before the front doors disengaged and slammed shut behind him.

I sank to the floor beside the kitchen island, pulling my knees to my chest, my hands clutching my sweater over my stomach as I sobbed quietly into the empty room.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my knees drawn up to my chest, staring at the floorboards. The echo of the front door slamming shut still resonated in my ears.

Drake was gone, but his dark, suffocating aura lingered in every corner of the room, heavy and warning.

My hands trembled as I brought them down to press against my lower abdomen.

Why do I smell Darius on you, Lysander?

The question burned behind my eyes. He didn’t know about the shift in my blood or if he did, his mind had instantly twisted it into a betrayal.

He thought the scent belonged to something unforgivable. He thought I had given myself to his worst enemy.

I didn’t, I thought, a tear slipping down my cheek, hot and fast. I didn’t touch him like that. I swear to God, I didn’t.

I wiped my face with the sleeve of my charcoal sweater, taking a slow, shaky breath. I couldn’t sit here and drown in my own terror.

If Drake brought a royal physician to the estate, if he ordered a mandatory blood panel to figure out what was happening to me, the truth would be laid out on a glass screen for him to see. And in his current state, blind with rage and suspicion, he wouldn’t listen to reason.

I needed to know for myself. First. Alone.

I stood up, my knees wobbling before I caught my balance against the nightstand.

The estate was on total lockdown. Two guards were posted directly outside the bedroom door in the main hallway. Another walked the lower service corridor every fifteen minutes.

I couldn’t ask the staff for medical supplies, and I couldn’t use the house network to search for anything without mirroring the activity straight to Drake’s personal terminal.

My studio.

There was a medical kit in the studio storage closet. I remembered seeing it weeks ago when we moved in, a standard emergency box equipped with disinfectant, sterile bandages, scalpels, and basic chemical testing reagents used for analyzing oil pigments and organic binders.

I walked over to the bedroom door, putting my ear against the heavy wood.

Muffled, rhythmic footsteps echoed down the hallway, the steady patrol of the house guard. I waited until the sound faded toward the east wing, then carefully turned the brass handle.

The door slid open an inch without a sound.

The corridor was empty, bathed in the pale gray light of the late afternoon storm. I slipped out into the hall, my bare feet making no sound against the thick runner rug, keeping my back pressed against the wall. ℯℯ𝑙.

I ducked down the narrow service staircase behind the linen closet, avoiding the main stone stairs entirely.

My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. Every shadow cast by the wall sconces felt like an officer waiting to drag me back to bed.

I reached the studio door at the end of the lower hallway. The digital keypad glowed a soft, steady red, locked from the central network, just as Drake had ordered.

I reached into the pocket of my lounge pants, my fingers wrapping around the small, brass override key I had hidden inside a hollowed-out tube of charcoal weeks ago. I slipped the key into the manual keyhole beneath the digital pad, turning it slowly until the lock disengaged with a barely audible click.

I slipped inside and pulled the heavy glass door shut behind me.

The studio smelled faintly of the turpentine I had spilled yesterday, mixed with the damp, earthy scent of the mountain rain outside. Sunless, gray light filled the high room, casting long, eerie shadows across the covered easels.

I didn’t turn on the lights. I walked straight to the wooden storage cabinet in the back corner, pulling open the lower doors.

Behind the stacks of fresh canvases and jars of pigment sat the white metal first-aid kit. I pulled it out, setting it on the low worktable beside the sink.