CHAPTER 174
The silence that followed Lucian's approach was more deafening than the crashing sounds echoing from the guest wing.
He moved unhurried, the temperature around him dropping until the moisture from Clara's breath hung.
Clara clutched the tethering book to her chest, the leather biting into her palms. She had seen Lucian in many states—cold, calculating, even vulnerable in the rare moments with Isabella—but she had never seen him like this.
He stopped ten paces from her. He didn't look at Marcus, who had straightened from the wall. Lucian's eyes, darker than a winter midnight, were locked on the iron-reinforced door at the end of the hall.
"Clara," Lucian voice was vibrating with a lethal resonance that made the stone floor beneath their feet react.
"Explain why the stench of a cur is polluting my home."
"Lucian, wait," Clara stepped forward, her voice surprisingly steady despite the static of his aura. "He's not in control."
