CHAPTER 183
The room felt larger than it had ten minutes ago, the silence stretching into the corners now that Lucian had retreated.
He had taken the tray with him, the clink of the spoon against the porcelain bowl echoing in her mind. She had eaten every bite of the porridge and every slice of the citrus fruit.
Her body had demanded it with a ferocity that was almost frightening, a primal hunger that had bypassed her pride and gone straight for survival.
Now, she was alone with her thoughts, and they were a tangled mess. She reached for the chair where a fresh shirt of Lucian's had been left.
It was dark as a bruise, and far too large for her. She slid her arms into the sleeves, the cool fabric sliding over her skin—the skin that shouldn't be whole, but was.
As she buttoned the front, her fingers fumbled. She kept looking down at her palm, expecting to see the ghost of the red line she had carved there, but there was nothing.
