Page 64 of Wicked Ends

Thirty-One

Lucien

She enters the dining hall with her hair pulled back, wearing a shirt that fails to conceal the marks on her neck. I catch her scent before she even sits down, and I know. The realization settles like ice in my stomach. I’ve lived centuries, watched empires rise and fall, yet the sight of Rose bearing another man’s scent still provokes a response I thought long extinguished. I settle my features into careful neutrality as she slides into her seat across from me, but my eyes miss nothing.

“Morning,” Rose says, reaching for the coffee carafe. Her fingers tremble slightly.

“You’re up early,” I observe, keeping my tone even. “I thought you might sleep in after your training session.”

She pauses mid-pour, eyes flicking up to meet mine. There’s a wariness there, but no shame. Never shame with Rose. “It was intense,” she says simply.

“Evidently.”

She brings the mug to her lips. Even without vampire senses, anyone could see that something has changed.

“You don’t have to look at me like that,” she says after a moment.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re looking for evidence.”

I allow myself a small smile. “Apologies.”

Rose sighs, setting down her mug. “Just ask what you want to ask, Lucien.”

“Very well.” I lean forward, lowering my voice though the dining hall is nearly empty. “Was it worth it?”

Her eyes widen, clearly not the question she was expecting. “What?”

“Whatever transpired between you and Ash. Was it worth the risk?”

She doesn’t look away. “I’m still figuring that out.”

I nod once, accepting this for now. The early January morning light streams through the high windows, catching in her dark hair, reflecting in her eyes. She looks both exhausted and strangely vibrant, as if some inner fire has been stoked higher.

“You should eat something,” I say, pushing a plate of buttered toast, scrambled eggs and thick slices of bacon toward her.

“I know you’re worried.”

“Concerned would be more accurate.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Worry implies helplessness. I am never helpless.”

That earns me a small smile. “No, I suppose you’re not.”

“Eat, Rose.”

She obliges, taking a bite of toast.

We sit in silence for a few moments, the quiet broken only by the distant sounds of the kitchen staff preparing for the breakfast rush. Rose picks at her food, occasionally glancing at the entrance as if expecting someone’s arrival.

“Do you wish to talk about it?” I offer, surprising even myself with the question.

Rose looks up, equally surprised. “With you?”

“I’ve witnessed centuries of human folly and passion. I may be more understanding than you give me credit for.”