CHAPTER 111
Meanwhile, the King of the Unholy was no longer the monolith of iron and grace the world knew him to be.
Lucian had barely made it through the back entrance of the mansion, his boots dragging against the steps with a heavy sound that would have horrified his ancestors.
Every step was a battle against the darkness encroaching on the edges of his vision. The air in the hallway felt too thick, too stagnant, and far too distant from the raw elements he needed to soothe the fire in his chest.
He didn't stop to call or signal for Marco. To be seen in this state, staved out, trembling, and smelling of his own blood—was a vulnerability he could not afford, even within his own walls.
He stumbled past the doors that led to the rear gardens, his hand leaving a faint, smeared trail of red against the cold metal.
The moment the night air hit his face, his lungs expanded in a pained gasp. But the scent of the forest, usually a comfort, was now a torment.
