CHAPTER 178
Isabella couldn't breathe.
She sat at the edge of the massive bed, fingers trembling as they clutched the lapels of her silk robe, her gaze locked on the scars carved across Lucian's chest.
Three long, silvered lines. She knew those marks. She had seen them refuse to heal. She had touched them. But she had never—not once—allowed herself to imagine she was the one who put them there.
Across from her, Lucian stood motionless, shirtless, his damp hair clinging to his neck, his expression stripped of everything but truth. The silence between them wasn't quiet. It was suffocating.
"You're lying," she whispered, a small, breathless laugh escaping her—a sound of pure, high-pitched denial.
"Lucian, you're lying, right? This is... this is some sort of dark joke. You're trying to deflect again?" She searched his face, waiting for the smirk, for the cold glint of amusement that would tell her he was just trying to shock her into focus.
