Lucian left before she sat down.
He walked down the gallery stairs and through the eastern corridor and past the columns and into the garden where the salt wind hit his face.
That night, the dark veins returned on Tristan's forearms. Two thin lines. The emotional distance his anger at Vesper had created was enough to trigger the corruption's return.
That did it.
Lucian was done watching.
The decision didn't arrive the way his other decisions arrived, through deliberation, through strategy, through the careful, disciplined analysis that had governed his life since he was old enough to understand that impulse was a luxury someone like him couldn't afford. This decision arrived the way weather arrives: suddenly, totally, with zero interest in waiting for permission.
River was coming home with him.
