Chapter 177

Chapter 177: Chapter 177

Julian’s pov

The silver service tray felt remarkably light in my hands as I walked down the dim, stone-walled corridor of the west wing.

Under the cloche sat a single bowl of lukewarm, unseasoned broth and a small glass of stale tap water. Nothing more.

No fresh fruit, no spiced delicacies, and certainly none of the rich, blood-infused broths Drake used to personally order from the estate kitchens to keep his precious hybrid looking flushed and pretty.

A traitor didn’t need delicate meals. A prisoner needed just enough calories to keep his heart beating.

I reached the reinforced iron door, pausing to let the security camera above the threshold scan my face. The digital lock chimed, the deadbolt sliding back with a solid, echoing thunk.

I pushed the door open with my knee and stepped inside.

The room smelled faintly of rain, copper, and the sour edge of human sickness, a pathetic, fragile mix that made my lip curl in subtle disgust. Lysander was sitting on the edge of the low leather sofa near the barred windows, his legs pulled up, his hands buried deep inside the oversized charcoal hoodie he refused to take off.

He looked small. Diminished. The vibrant, wild energy he used to carry when he first walked into this estate—that stubborn, defiant spark that had somehow enchanted my man was entirely gone. Now, he just looked like a bruised, exhausted stray waiting for the next blow.

As the door clicked shut behind me, his dark eyes snapped toward me. The fear in his face was immediate, a sharp, twitchy panic that flickered across his pale features before he forced his jaw tight and leaned his back against the wall.

"I brought your dinner, little bird," I said smoothly, my voice dripping with performative sweetness as I carried the silver tray over to the small wooden table.

I set it down with a loud, deliberate clatter that made him flinch. I removed the silver dome, letting the bland, watery steam rise into the cool air of the room.

Lysander didn’t even look at the bowl. He kept his eyes locked on my face, his hands clutching the front of his hoodie so tightly his knuckles were white.

"I’m not hungry," he rasped, his voice rough and dry. "Take it back."

"Oh, but you must eat," I purred, stepping away from the table and walking slowly toward the sofa. I stopped just out of his reach, folding my arms neatly over my chest, looking down at him with quiet, unadulterated amusement. "Lord Drake was very specific. He wants you kept healthy. It would be such a shame if your fragile little body gave out before he decides what to do with you."

Lysander swallowed hard, his jaw working as he tried to keep his breath steady. "Drake doesn’t care about what you’re doing in here. He doesn’t care about any of this."

"You’re right about one thing," I chuckled low in my throat, leaning my shoulder against the window frame, blocking out a fraction of the gray afternoon light. "He doesn’t care about you. Not anymore."

Lysander turned his head toward the window, staring out at the rain hammering against the glass, trying to pretend my words weren’t cutting into his skin. But I could see the pulse in his neck hammering like a trapped bird’s wing, fast and erratic.

"Do you know where Drake was last night?" I asked softly, letting the question hang in the air like a drop of sweet poison.

Lysander didn’t answer. His hands tightened in the fabric of his hoodie.

"He was in the east conservatory," I continued, taking a slow step closer, enjoying the way his shoulders tensed up instantly. "With me. Sitting by the fire, drinking hundred-year-old blood-wine, listening to the rain. Just like we used to do centuries before you ever crawled out of the dirt."

"Stop talking," Lysander choked out, his eyes still fixed on the glass, though a dark, hot tear spilled over his lashes, dragging down his pale cheek.

"He told me about the honeymoon," I whispered, my voice dropping into a conspiratorial, venomous purr. "Did you really think that sweet little highland villa was built for you, Lysander? Did you really think you were the first person he took to those hills, held in the dark, and showered with promises?"

Lysander’s head snapped toward me, his dark eyes wide, wild, and swimming with raw, bleeding agony. "Shut up! Just shut your mouth!"

"It was my sanctuary first," I sneered, stepping right into his space, towering over his huddled frame on the sofa. "I spent decades in those rooms. I wore his mark long before your mother ever laid eyes on Darius. Drake didn’t invent a new love for you, little hybrid. He just recycled an old script because he was lonely, and you were stupid enough to believe every single word."

"Get out!" Lysander screamed, his voice cracking violently into a sob. He scrambled backward on the cushion, pulling his knees up to his chest, hiding his face in his arms as a ragged, broken weeping tore from his chest. "Get out of here! Get out!"

I stood over him, watching his broad shoulders shake under the thick charcoal sweater, listening to his pitiful, suffocating sobs echo off the cold, bare walls.

It was intoxicating. For months, this creature had walked through Drake’s halls like he owned the man’s heart, looking down on the rest of us as if he were untouchable. And now, with a few carefully placed words, I had stripped away whatever fragile dignity he had left.

"Eat your broth, Lysander," I said smoothly, stepping back toward the heavy iron door. "You’re going to need your strength. After all, Drake and I have a very long evening planned, and I would hate for your pathetic crying to ruin the noise."

I pulled the door open, stepping out into the quiet corridor, and let the digital lock snap into place with a sharp, final beep-click.

I smoothed down the lapels of my dark jacket, a slow, triumphant smile curling my lips as I walked down the stone hallway, leaving him weeping in the dark.