Page 6

The kitchen is vast, its high ceilings supported by dark wooden beams that seem to stretch endlessly. A wrought-iron chandelier hangs above, its intricate design casting dancing shadows across the stone-tiled floor. The walls are lined with deep mahogany cabinets, their polished surfaces reflecting the dim glow of flickering candles perched in silver sconces.

An island dominates the center of the room, its black marble countertop smooth and cool beneath my hands. The faint aroma of spices lingers in the air, though the shelves stocked with aged copper pots and jars of preserved herbs suggest the kitchen is more for display than use.

The staff is eerily quiet, their movements precise and efficient. A housekeeper—Margaret, if I remember correctly—nods politely as she passes, her expression unreadable. Another worker moves through the room with a tray of polished silverware, barely making a sound. The atmosphere feels heavy, as though the air itself holds its breath.

Despite the imposing surroundings, there’s an intimacy to the space, a strange contrast to the cold grandeur of the rest of Lucian’s estate. It’s here, surrounded by muted light and silent staff, that I begin to prepare a simple task—slicing fruit for my tea.

Unfortunately, the knife slips before I can register the sting.

I stare down at the thin red line forming on my fingertip, a bead of blood swelling quickly before spilling over. The sharp metallic scent hits my nose, subtle but unmistakable, and I frown.

“Damn it,” I mutter, reaching for a dish towel as the blood rushes from the split in my skin.

Before I can wrap the cloth around my hand, a presence freezes me in place.

I glance up and my breath hitches.

Lucian stands in the doorway, his tall frame filling the entrance like a shadow come to life. He looks otherworldly, his dark hair tousled, his sharp features partially obscured by the dim light. But it’s his eyes that hold me captive—those piercing, storm-laden eyes that lock onto my hand with a focus that feels almost primal.

“Lucian?” I ask hesitantly.

He doesn’t respond. His gaze flicks to my face for a split second before snapping back to the tiny wound. His lips part, and though no words come out, I can see the tension building in the set of his jaw, the tightness in his shoulders.

“Are you okay?” I press, stepping toward him, though it’s a ridiculous question given the circumstances.

“I…” His voice is low, strained, as though it’s been dragged out of him against his will. “You’re bleeding.”

I blink down at my finger. “It’s nothing,” I say, trying for nonchalance. “Just a small cut.”

“Leave.”

His command is sharp, cold. It takes a moment for the meaning to register.

“What?”

“Leave the kitchen. Now.” His voice is firm, but there’s a tremor beneath it, a crack in his usual composure that sends alarm bells ringing in my mind. I watch as his shoulders rise and fall in quick succession, and he swallows hard.

The air feels heavy, like the moment before a storm breaks. I set the knife down carefully, my movements slow and deliberate, and step closer toward him.

“Lucian,” I say softly, watching the way his hands clench into fists at his sides. “What’s going on? You’re scaring me.”

“Do not come closer.” He shakes his head as if warding something—me?—off. “Please, Sylvie.”

I stop in my tracks, my heart pounding. His tone is like ice, but there’s a heat in his eyes that sends a shiver down my spine.

“I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s wrong,” I say, more firmly this time.

His head tilts back slightly, as though he’s trying to catch his breath. When he finally looks at me, his expression is raw, haunted.

“It’s the blood,” he admits, his voice a hoarse whisper. “The shortage is affecting me more than I anticipated.”

I don’t know what to say. The idea of Lucian struggling, of something as primal as hunger reducing him to this, leaves me at a loss.

“How bad is it?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

He hesitates, then looks away. “I feed using the blood packs every few days in addition to normal food. Not just for sustenance but to keep my body… balanced. The blood keeps my mind clear, my strength steady. Without it…” He trails off, his jaw tightening.

“Without it,” I repeat. “What happens without it?”

He closes his eyes, and when he speaks, his words are low, deliberate. “I become unpredictable. Dangerous. Everything I’m afraid of.”

The weight of his confession sinks in, and for a moment, the room feels colder.

“I didn’t realize it was this bad,” I say, feeling both guilty and alarmed.

“I didn’t want you to.” His gaze returns to me, sharper now, though his eyes soften at the edges. “But this isn’t something I can hide anymore. Being around you…” He cuts himself off, his expression unreadable.

“What about me?”

“You’re…” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “You’re too close. Your blood—it’s…” He swallows hard, his voice dropping. “It’s difficult to ignore.”

The revelation hits me like a slap, and I instinctively step back. “You mean?—”

“I won’t hurt you,” he interrupts quickly, his voice fierce. “I’d die before letting that happen. But you need to understand… this isn’t easy.”

His emotions project themselves onto me. It’s one of the very first abilities I discovered about myself when I came into my magic—after Lara was first taken. I actually asked Ravenna about this because I couldn’t wrap my mind around why I came into the abilities when I did. She said some witches, ones who are full-blooded, come into their magic at a certain age determined by their lineage. For me, it was a life event that triggered my magic. When I had to stand on my own after Lara went missing, that’s when my abilities finally appeared. To save me. To protect me.

A tense silence stretches between Lucian and me. I’m not sure whether to feel afraid, angry, or heartbroken.

“You could have told me,” I say finally.

“And what would that have changed?” He looks at me, his expression weary. “You’d only worry, and I’d still be the same. Hungry.”

“You don’t have to be hungry,” I whisper.

His eyes snap to mine, wide and disbelieving, the storm within them freezing as though my words have shattered some invisible restraint. “What?”

“I can help you,” I say, stepping closer, the air between us charged and suffocating. My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it, but I refuse to back down. With deliberate care, I begin unwrapping the towel from my hand. The red-stained fabric falls away, revealing the fresh wound.

His gaze drops to it, his breath catching audibly, a low sound in his throat that’s somewhere between a growl and a groan. The sharp, coppery scent of my blood thickens the air, and I see the way his chest rises and falls, his breaths becoming shallow, strained.

“Sylvie, don’t,” he rasps, is voice frayed and desperate, each word weighted with warning as he turns his head away from me. “You don’t understand what you’re offering.”

“I trust you,” I murmur, the words trembling with conviction as I take another step closer and gently turn his face toward me. “You’d die before hurting me, remember?” My palm presses lightly against his chest, right over his heart. The fabric of his shirt is cool under my touch, and I can feel the faint rhythm of his heartbeat beneath it, erratic and unsteady. “I’m offering.”

He stiffens, his body coiling as though bracing against some invisible force. His hands hang at his sides, trembling, fingers curling into his palms in a futile attempt to anchor himself. “I can’t,” he says, his voice breaking, his eyes clenched shut like he’s trying to block out the sight of me, of the temptation I’ve become.

“You can ,” I say softly, tilting my head. His eyes flicker open, and for a moment, they blaze with raw hunger, a darkness, the kind of need that steals the breath from my lungs. “And you won’t hurt me.”

The tension between us crackles like a live wire, and for a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then, slowly, hesitantly, I lift my hand toward his mouth. His breath hitches, his lips parting slightly as I press my wounded finger to them. The warmth of his exhale brushes against my skin, and for a fleeting moment, he hesitates.

Then his mouth closes around my finger.

A shiver runs through me the moment his lips make contact. The cool press of his mouth is startling, but it’s the heat of his tongue brushing against the cut that sends a jolt through my body, a strange, electric current that races to places I can’t name. My knees feel weak, and I sway toward him instinctively, like a moth to a flame.

Lucian groans quietly, a deep, guttural sound that vibrates against my skin, and his hands shoot up to grip my wrist. His touch is firm but not painful, and I realize he’s not holding me in place to push me away—he’s holding me because he can’t let go.

His eyes are shut tight, his brows furrowed as though he’s fighting some internal battle even now. But the way his lips move against my finger is slow, deliberate, reverent, as though he’s savoring every drop.

The room around us seems to disappear, the edges of my awareness blurring until all I can feel is him. The gentle pull of his mouth, the way his tongue brushes against the wound with a precision that feels both tender and carnal. My pulse thrums wildly, each beat sending a fresh wave of sensation through me, intoxicating and consuming.

I don’t realize I’m leaning into him until his free hand presses against my hip, steadying me. His fingers splay across my side, cool and firm, grounding me even as I feel myself spiraling into something deeper, something I can’t name. My breath catches, and I let my eyes flutter closed, losing myself in the moment.

The sensations are overwhelming—heat and cold, sharpness and softness, hunger and surrender. It’s as though the act itself is more than physical, as though some unspoken connection has flared to life between us, binding us in a way that feels ancient, inevitable.

Lucian’s breathing grows uneven, each exhale warm against my skin, and I can feel the tension radiating from him, the way his restraint is unraveling thread by thread. His fingers tighten slightly around my wrist, his grip almost possessive, painful, and a low, desperate sound escapes him as he draws more blood from the wound, sucking my entire finger into his mouth in an undeniably erotic way.

For a moment, I think I’ll drown in the intensity of it all—the way his touch sets my nerves alight, the way his need feels like a mirror of my own. I can’t even fathom having him truly drink from me. Feed from me. The intoxicating sensation would only be that much more heightened.

It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once, and I don’t want it to end.

But then, suddenly, as if sensing this is real, he pulls back.

The abruptness of the loss sends a wave of cold through me, and I stumble slightly, catching myself against the counter. His hands fall away as though my skin has burned him, and when I look up, his expression is a mixture of anguish and regret.

“Lucian,” I breathe, my voice unsteady, still caught in the haze of the moment.

“I can’t,” he says, his voice rough and raw, each word heavy with self-loathing. His eyes open, and they’re wild, swirling with a storm of emotions—hunger, guilt, longing, and something I can’t quite place. “This… I shouldn’t have?—”

He cuts himself off, shaking his head as though trying to clear it. Before I can say anything, he turns on his heel and strides out of the room, his movements quick and deliberate, like he’s fleeing something he can’t face.

I’m left standing there, breathless and trembling, my heart caught somewhere between exhilaration and devastation. My hand still tingles where his lips touched it, the memory of the moment seared into my skin.

And as the silence settles around me, I realize I’m not sure whether I should feel relieved or broken by the space he’s put between us.

* * *

The lingering sensations of what had happened earlier with Lucian still buzz faintly beneath my skin as I step into Petals and Potions for my first shift. The wound on my hand, now neatly bandaged, throbs in time with my heartbeat—a constant, subtle reminder of the connection we shared. The memory of his lips on my skin and the way his storm-filled eyes had flickered with an emotion I couldn’t name—hunger, guilt, something else—hasn’t left me since.

I can still feel the ghost of his touch, the electric charge between us that seemed to hum louder with every second we stood close. The intensity of that moment lingers in my chest, wrapping tightly around me like an invisible thread I can’t break.

I don’t know how to categorize the emotions swirling inside me. It wasn’t fear, not exactly—though there was an undeniable edge of danger to everything about him. It was trust, too—a reckless, consuming trust that I had no right to feel but did anyway. And now, as I stand surrounded by shelves of vials and jars, I wonder if the wild thrum of my pulse is something I’ll ever grow used to.

I try to push it all away—for now—so I can get started on my first shift with Ravenna.

The shop looks exactly as I remember it: ivy curling lazily around the edges of the windows, shelves brimming with jars and vials in every imaginable hue, and a faint, calming aroma of lavender, sage, and something earthier that I still can’t quite place. It feels like stepping into another world, another dimension, one I belong in—one that hums with quiet, unassuming magic.

Ravenna looks up from the counter where she’s arranging a new display of colorful crystals. The sunlight filters through the window, glinting off her braids and making her silver streaks shimmer. She greets me with a warm smile, setting down a delicate amethyst point.

“Sylvie, right on time. I knew you’d be dependable,” she says, her voice carrying that soothing yet commanding quality she seems to exude effortlessly.

“I figured it wouldn’t be a great start if I was late,” I reply with a small smile.

She chuckles softly, gesturing toward the counter. “Come over here. Let’s ease you into the day.”

Shrugging off my coat, I drape it over the back of a nearby chair and join her at the counter. A nervous flutter stirs in my stomach, but Ravenna’s presence is as grounding as it is intimidating.

“Before we dive in,” she says, leaning on the counter and studying me with those piercing gray eyes, “how are you holding up, dear?”

The question catches me off guard. It’s not the casual, obligatory type of question people ask in passing. There’s weight behind it—genuine concern.

I hesitate, unsure how much to reveal. “I’m... managing,” I say finally. My voice is quieter than I intended. “Some days are harder than others.”

She doesn’t press, but her expression softens, and she nods like she understands more than I’ve said. “That’s fair. You’ve been carrying a lot lately. Just know this place isn’t only a refuge for customers—it’s a haven for you too.”

Her words settle over me like a comforting blanket, and I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“All right,” she says briskly, straightening. “Take some time to settle in and then you can get to work by restocking the shelves over there.” She gestures toward a wall filled with jars of dried herbs and powdered roots. “Everything’s labeled, but I’ll be nearby if you have questions. If you’re curious about the elements of anything, let me know. I can give you a brief overview.”

I nod, grateful for the distraction, and make my way to the shelves. The jars feel cool under my fingertips as I pick them up, reading the faded labels: mugwort, valerian root, angelica, damiana. The simple, repetitive task gives my mind something to focus on, and for the first time in days, I feel a sliver of calm.

The doorbell chimes periodically as friendly and knowledgeable customers come and go. Ravenna greets each of them warmly, answering their questions with an ease that suggests she’s done this for centuries. I overhear snippets of conversations—requests for tinctures to ward off bad dreams, crystals for emotional balance, oils for spellwork. I feel like I’m learning so much just by overhearing different protocols and remedies.

The blend of the mundane and the mystical is oddly soothing, and I can’t help but be fascinated by the small rituals unfolding around me.

By mid-afternoon, I’ve gotten the hang of the shop’s layout, and Ravenna seems pleased with my progress. “You’re doing well,” she says as she watches me restock a shelf with small vials of shimmering blue liquid. “You’ve got a good instinct for this.”

Her words bring a warmth I hadn’t expected, and I can’t help but smile.

A few hours later, after the shop has quieted and the customers have started to trickle down in amount, Ravenna approaches me with a small bundle of herbs tied with twine. “Here,” she says, holding it out to me. “Burn this when you need clarity. It might help you untangle whatever’s weighing on your mind.” She smiles. “Especially things with your sister. We can get more into things with her and your goals with her humanity, but let’s ease into it so we don’t overwhelm you, dear.”

I accept the bundle, the faint scent of rosemary and chamomile reaching my nose. “Thank you,” I say, meaning it.

She gives me a knowing look. “I told you before, Sylvie, you’ve got a spark. You’re here for a reason, and it’s not just coincidence. Trust your instincts.”

The weight of her words settles over me as I slip the bundle into my bag. The gentle words remind me of my mother, how she always said the same thing. Trust your gut, Sylvie. Trust your instincts.

It must be a witch thing.

As the sun begins to set, casting golden light through the shop’s ivy-framed windows, Ravenna waves me off with a smile. “Go get some rest, dear. You’ll be back soon enough. Your next shift is on a slow day, so I thought we could practice some spellwork and study a bit more about the humanity curse.”

After bidding Ravenna a good night, I step out into the crisp evening air, clutching the bundle of herbs she so graciously gave me in my hand. The cobblestone streets of Blackthorne stretch ahead of me, but for the first time in what feels like weeks, the weight on my chest feels just a little lighter.

When I spot Lucian waiting at the corner, I shake my head despite the flicker of warmth that blooms in my chest. Of course he’s here. He wouldn’t let me wander the streets of Blackthorne alone, not after everything that’s happened. He’s predictable in that way—steady, watchful. It’s something I’ve come to count on, even if I’m not sure I should.

It strikes me, as I approach, how normal this moment feels. Too normal, considering how not-normal it all is. My hand still aches faintly from the way he sucked at my skin, but there’s no awkwardness between us, no strained silence to mark what happened. Lucian had fed on me—an act that should have left me reeling, terrified, something—but instead, we’d kissed like it was the most natural thing in the world. And now here he is, waiting for me on a quiet cobblestone street like none of it ever happened. Like we’re just... us. And he was able to restrain himself in a way he didn’t believe he could.

“Stalking me again?” I tease as I approach, but my voice softens at the edges, betraying the growing fondness I feel.

Lucian raises a brow, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “You make it sound sinister,” he replies, his tone low and smooth. “I prefer to think of it as keeping you alive.”

I roll my eyes, but the corners of my mouth twitch upward. “I think I’ve done a pretty good job keeping myself alive, Professor.”

I say the word just for theatrics, considering he isn’t my professor, but I can’t help the flicker of heat it sends surging inside of me.

His smirk fades slightly, replaced by something gentler. “That you have, love.”

The space between us evaporates, and I rise on my toes to kiss him—a quick, fleeting brush of lips meant to say hello. But Lucian surprises me. His hands come up to cradle my face, and he kisses me back, slow and deliberate, as though he’s trying to keep us both in this moment. It’s not rushed, not desperate, but it’s everything—soft, consuming, and impossibly steady.

When he finally pulls back, his lips curl into a faint smile, the kind that’s rare enough to make my heart ache. It’s not the smirk he wears like armor. It’s something real, something vulnerable—something undeniably human.

As we walk side by side into the gathering dusk, I let my fingers graze over my bandage. It’s healed more than it should have in the time that’s passed. Another not-normal detail in a string of not-normal days. And yet, walking next to Lucian, I feel... safe. Whole.

I glance at him, catching the faintest flicker of something in his expression before he smooths it away. He doesn’t speak about what happened earlier, and neither do I. Maybe we’re both pretending it didn’t matter, that it didn’t change something between us. But as his arm brushes mine, I wonder if we’re both lying to ourselves.

Because my feelings have been building by the day for this man—with each lingering stare, each sentiment of love that spills from his lips, each time he protects me in a way only he can. But after what happened in the kitchen, everything seems to have shifted once more.

And as we walk side by side into the evening shadows, I can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, this is a step in the right direction.