The heavy drapes were drawn, leaving Lucien's room dim, lit only by the flickering flame of a single candle on his desk. The room was unusually still, save for the soft rustle of papers and the distant song of birds outside.
Lucien sat on the edge of his bed, one hand running through his dark hair, the other resting over his chest. His crimson eyes were clouded and unfocused, and his breathing was shallow and uneven.
"Why do I feel like this…"
Ever since last night — since Isadora had licked the blood from his hand — something had been off. At first, it was a warmth, a subtle stirring deep in his veins. But now… it felt like fire creeping under his skin, slow and unfamiliar. His senses were sharper, his pulse a little quicker.
He glanced down at the faint scarlet mark on his palm where the earring had nicked him. It was barely visible now, but it felt hot like it was burning from within.
"It's nothing," he told himself, shaking his head. "I've dealt with worse."
