Chapter 148

Chapter 148: Chapter 148

Lysander’s pov

It was eight in the morning, and the sun was trying to bleed through the heavy, grey mist outside the dining room glass. I stood by the marble island, holding a mug of coffee between both hands just to feel the heat soaking into my palms.

Drake sat at the far end of the long teak table. He was fully dressed in a dark suit, a glass of water sitting untouched beside his tablet. He hadn’t spoken more than three words to me since we woke up.

Last night had taken me by surprise, he hadn’t exploded or hadn’t accused me of anything. When I lied to him in bed and spun that story about the north boundary and the rusted wire—he had accepted it. He had pulled me close, rumbled his low commands into my skin, and let the room go quiet.

But he didn’t believe me.

I knew it in the way his red eyes tracked me across the room. It wasn’t the fierce, protective warmth he used to wrap around me like a blanket.

He was letting me think the lie had worked and that was ten times worse than a confrontation. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

"You’re not drinking your coffee," Drake said softly.

His voice didn’t carry anger, but it had a fine, razor-sharp edge that cut straight through the hum of the refrigerator. He didn’t look up from his tablet screen.

"I am," I said, forcing my voice to stay even as I lifted the mug to my lips. I took a small sip. It tasted like ash, but I swallowed it anyway, setting the cup down on the stone counter with a quiet, deliberate tap. "It’s just hot."

Drake tapped the screen once, set the tablet face-down on the wood, and stood up.

His movement was terrifyingly controlled. He walked toward the kitchen island, his long strides making no sound against the slate floor. The air in the room seemed to drop five degrees with every step he took toward me.

I didn’t step back, I couldn’t if I tried. My heels were locked against the base of the island cabinets, my spine stiff as a board.

Drake stopped directly in front of me. He didn’t touch me right away. He just stood there, towering over my frame, his shadow completely swallowing mine in the morning light. Up close, I could see the pale, icy tint lingering around the edges of his dark crimson irises.

He reached out, his broad hand coming up to touch the collar of my sweater.

My heart gave a sudden, hard thud against my ribs, but I forced my posture to stay relaxed. I didn’t flinch. I looked straight up into his eyes, keeping my face soft, open, and placid—the dutiful, traumatized mate waiting for his lord’s touch.

Drake’s long fingers hooked into the thick, charcoal wool of my sweater, pulling the high collar down half an inch. His thumb brushed over the raw, tender skin beneath my collarbone, the mark left by Darius’s iron collar.

He didn’t press down. He didn’t ask how a wire fence could leave a neat, curved band of bruised skin that wrapped around the curve of my neck. He just stroked his thumb over it once, slow and agonizingly deliberate.

"Does it hurt?" Drake asked quietly.

"A little," I lied softly, my breath fanning across his lapel. "It’s fine. It’ll fade in a couple of days."

"Everything fades eventually," Drake murmured.

He didn’t let go of the sweater. Instead, his other hand came around the back of my waist, his broad palm flattening against my spine. He pulled me forward until my chest was pressed flush against his dark suit jacket, locking me in place with a possessive yank that took the air right out of my lungs.

He leaned down, burying his face in the side of my neck, right over my pulse point. He didn’t kiss me. He just held his face there, his nose pressed firm against my skin, taking a long, heavy breath.

I gripped his shoulders, my fingers digging into the expensive fabric of his coat. I stayed completely still, letting him smell the heavy cedar, the sandalwood, and the metallic tang of my own fear.

"You’re staying in the house today," Drake rasped out against my skin.

It wasn’t a suggestion.

"I have paintings to finish in the studio—"

"You’re staying in the main house, Lysander," Drake interrupted, his grip on my waist tightening just enough to make my ribs ache. He pulled back, his red eyes burning into mine with an intense, unyielding coldness that made my blood run stagnant. "The studio doors will remain locked until I come home tonight."

My throat locked up. "Drake... you don’t have to lock the studio."

"I don’t have to do anything," he said softly, his tone completely devoid of warmth. "Yet here we are."

He raised his hand, his thumb tracing the sharp line of my lower lip, pressing hard enough to force my mouth open a fraction. He stared at my face for five long, suffocating seconds, searching for the crack in the facade, waiting to see if the sheer weight of his control would break me open right here on the kitchen floor.

I didn’t break. I swallowed the bile rising in my throat, tilted my head into his hand, and gave him the quiet submission he was demanding.

"Okay," I whispered. "If that’s what you want."

A flicker of something dark and dangerous passed over Drake’s face—not satisfaction, but a cold, heavy disappointment. He knew I was performing. He knew every drop of submissiveness coming from my mouth was a calculated shield designed to keep him from asking the one question that would shatter this house to pieces.

He let go of my sweater, stepping back so abruptly the sudden rush of cool air made me shiver.

"The guards have new orders," Drake said, turning his back on me as he picked up his tablet from the dining table. "They will be stationed inside the lower corridors today. Not outside. Inside."

My pulse spiked again. He was building a prison wall from the inside out. He wasn’t guarding the estate from threats coming up the valley anymore; he was guarding the estate from me.

"Drake," I called out, my voice cracking slightly as he walked toward the grand foyer.

He stopped near the floating stone staircase, his dark coat tail swinging slightly, but he didn’t turn around to look at me.

"I’m here," I said, the words sounding small and pathetic in the massive, quiet space. "I’m right here."

Drake stood still for a moment, his broad shoulders squared against the light streaming through the front doors.

He said nothing and he stepped through the heavy front doors, the iron latches disengaging and snapping shut behind him with a loud, absolute thunk.

I stood alone in the kitchen and looked down at my hands. They were trembling again. I shoved them deep into the pockets of my sweater, stepping toward the window to watch his black SUV glide down the misty driveway.

He knew something had happened. He knew I had lied. He knew the scent of another man had touched my skin, even if his pride and his obsession wouldn’t let him speak Darius’s name out loud until he had proof.