Chapter 3
He spun around and grabbed my face with both hands. His thumb swept harshly across my right ear, where a shard of porcelain had left a bloody gash, warm blood dripping down my earlobe.
He stared into my eyes, his breath hot, his voice hoarse. "Zoe, where are you hurt? Talk to me!"
The look in his eyes was painfully real, raw and unfiltered.
He wasn't faking it.
What I saw was pure pain.
It was a wild, reckless urge, like he'd rip himself apart if it meant taking every hit for me.
I opened my mouth, but no words came out.
It felt like burning ash was stuck in my throat.
If he loved me... then who was the one who kept stabbing me in the heart ten thousand times?
Who was it?
His fingertips, stained with my blood, swiped across my cheek, leaving three hot, thick red marks.
I stared into the depths of his eyes.
Reflected in his gaze was my ghostly pale face, messy hair, and beads of blood dripping from my earlobe.
One drop.
Another drop.
The drops splattered onto the dark silver geometric pattern of his cuff, bleeding into a deeper shade.
Suddenly, he raised his hand and pressed his thumb firmly against the wound behind my ear.
I sucked in a sharp breath.
He didn't stop. His thumb pressed deeper, squeezing out more blood. Then he quickly tore off the cotton lining from his tie and wound it tightly around the wound.
"Don't move," he ordered, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Zoe, look at me."
I had no choice but to lift my chin up.
His nose was so close, it nearly brushed against mine.
His lashes quivered.
It wasn't me.
It was him.
It was the first time I'd ever seen Lucian's lashes quiver.
They shivered, fragile as the wings of a dying butterfly.
Just then, Vivian, who'd been curled up on the floor, let out a jagged, bitter laugh.
She propped herself up on the doorframe, left hand pressed to her stomach, right hand dangling at her side, blood still dripping from her fingertips, her palm still bleeding from where the vase had shattered in her hand.
She cocked her head, hair wild, tears and blood smeared across her face, but she was smirking, her eyes glued to Lucian's hand at my throat.
"Lucian..." she breathed, her voice barely more than a hiss, cold and venomous as a snake. "You're protecting her? Have you forgotten how Mom died?"
Lucian went rigid.
His grip at my neck tightened abruptly.
Pain shot through my throat from the pressure.
He didn't turn around.
He forced the words through clenched teeth, "Shut up."
But Vivian just laughed louder, her laugh shrill, almost hysterical, edged with tears. "Go on, protect her! Keep it up! Whatever, "
She paused, licking the blood from her lower lip. "In ten minutes, you'll never see another sunrise."
Her words pierced my ears like icy drills.
My blood froze solid in an instant.
But just then, Lucian released his grip on my neck.
He bent down and swept me up in his arms, cradling me across his chest.
He moved so fast, it felt like a gust of wind.
My back pressed against his chest, and I could hear his heartbeat,
It wasn't the calm, steady thump anymore.
Now his heartbeat was wild, chaotic, pounding like a drum, completely out of control.
He swept me up and strode over to the single sofa in the corner, gently setting me down.
Then he knelt in front of me, took my hands in his, and pressed his forehead against them.
His shoulders shook.
It wasn't fear.
It was something he was holding in, barely contained.
It was a force so overwhelming, it threatened to burst through, thundering, roaring, crashing inside his veins.
He lifted his head.
His eyes were bloodshot.
Tears welled up at the corners, but he stubbornly held them back.
"Zoe," his voice was so hoarse it barely sounded like him. "If... if I can't protect you this time..."
His throat worked furiously. "Promise me, don't trust what anyone tells you."
I stared at him, in shock.
Outside, the church bell sounded, its heavy toll echoing through the air.
The first chime.
Nine minutes left until the wedding begins.
I parted my lips, desperate to ask, "Why?" "What's really going to happen in ten minutes?" "Who are you, really?"
But before I could speak, he leaned in so close our noses brushed, his lips hovering just a breath away from mine.
His breath, warm and laced with the metallic tang of blood and the scent of cedar, swept across my cracked lips.
"Don't be afraid," he whispered, the same way he had every time death hovered between us.
"It'll all be over soon," he said.
But this time, that icy look was gone from his eyes.
All that remained was the ashes of something that once burned bright.
Just as the priest was slipping the silver ring onto my right hand, his throat jerked, like someone invisible had grabbed him by the neck.
I watched his eyes roll back, bluish-purple veins bulging under the surface, writhing like frozen worms.
A rough, broken gasp rattled out from deep in his throat.
He collapsed forward, his knees slamming into the red velvet cushion with a heavy thump.
His head struck the base of the altar with a heavy thud, like a ripe watermelon dropping to the floor.
Without thinking, I reached out, my fingertips just brushing the cold sleeve of his robe,
A gush of thick, foamy white bubbles spilled from his open mouth, mixed with dark red blood, glistening slick under the candlelight.
A strong, bitter almond scent burst into the air.
It was definitely not perfume.
It was that sickly sweet, almost bloody scent, released only when cyanide scorches the inside of your mouth.