CHAPTER 113
The sun had risen and fallen again, painting the master suite in shades of amber and bruising violet before finally surrendering to a second night of heavy, suffocating silence.
Isabella was still in the master suite. She hadn't seen a single glimpse of Lucian since he had walked out of the room twenty-four hours ago.
He hadn't returned to sleep, hadn't come to check on her, and hadn't sent a single word. He was a ghost in his own home, a presence she could only track through the frayed, static-filled edges of the bond.
Clara had been the only intrusion. The witch had come to the room multiple times, her movements stiff and her face a mask of professional boredom.
Sometimes she brought trays of food that Isabella barely touched, and other times she insisted on checking Isabella's vitals with a coldness, treating her less like a person and more like a patient with a highly contagious, highly volatile disease.
