CHAPTER 143
The silence of the mansion was a suffocating shroud that seemed to press down on Isabella's lungs even as the smoke began to thin.
Every breath was a struggle. Her throat felt as though she had swallowed glass, and the metallic tang of the air—part smoke, part her own blood—was making her stomach churn.
Isabella sat slumped against the wall opposite the grand staircase, her legs pulled weakly toward her chest.
Her eyes, wide and stinging from the soot, were fixed on the tear in her arm. The puncture wounds from Lucian's fangs were deep; the flesh had been jaggedly pulled in his frantic, violent haste to retreat.
The crimson was still wet, hot, and pulsing slowly, staining the skin of her cloth and dripping onto the floor in a silent accusation of what had just happened.
He bit me. The thought was a cold stone in her gut, heavier than the smoke in her lungs. He really bit me.
