Chapter 138

Chapter 138: Chapter 138

Lysander’s pov

I sat in the middle of my art studio floor, my legs crossed, staring at the blank canvas resting on the easel.

The room was bathed in the harsh, overcast light of late morning. Paintbrushes were scattered across the teak floorboards, jars of oil pigments left unclosed, the turpentine fumes thick enough to make my throat burn.

I hadn’t touched a single brush in three days. My hands were still shaking, a low, persistent tremor that started in my wrists and worked its way up into my shoulders whenever the room went too quiet.

Drake had spent the morning trying to be gentle. He had brought me tea, wrapped his heavy arms around my shoulders, and kissed the top of my head before leaving for a mandatory meeting in the capital.

He didn’t say the word insane. He didn’t use the word psychosis. But I saw it in his eyes every time he looked at me, that quiet, agonizing pity reserved for something fragile that was slowly breaking beyond repair.

He thinks I’m losing my mind.

I closed my eyes, pressing the heels of my palms into my eye sockets until bright bursts of white light exploded behind my lids.

Am I?

The security logs showed nothing. The thermal sensors showed nothing. The blood wards hadn’t flickered.

Every piece of logical evidence in this house pointed to one undeniable conclusion: my brain was fracturing, projecting the phantom of the dead onto rain-slicked terraces and store windows because I couldn’t handle the weight of my own trauma.

Except for one thing.

I opened my eyes, looking down at my hands.

When I stood in that art shop, when I looked through the glass during the storm, the sensation wasn’t a memory triggering in my head. It was a physical warning that made my skin crawl and my gut turn to ice.

Gideon was dead.

But Gideon wasn’t a normal man. He was a violent, obsessive monster who had spent his having everything handed to me. He was the kind of man who would rather burn the world down than let me escape his grip.

What if he didn’t die?

The thought hit my chest, making my breath hitch.

What if he bound his life to something else before he fell? What if he built a fail-safe?

There was only one person alive who knew the full, sickening extent of Gideon’s darkness. One person who had permitted him to act the way he did all his life, the same person who could pull his leash.

Darius.

The name tasted like copper and poison in my mouth.

Darius was my enemy. If Drake found out I had reached out to the man who had tried to destroy us, the trust between us would shatter completely.

I stood up slowly, my knees popping in the quiet room.

I didn’t care anymore. I couldn’t live like this, trapped in a golden cage, drowning in my own head, waiting for Drake to put me in a padded room because I couldn’t stop screaming at empty fog. I needed an answer, even if it meant stepping back into the viper’s nest.

I walked over to the corner of the studio, kneeling beside the heavy wooden storage chest where I kept my old canvas rolls. I reached all the way to the bottom, past the rags and oil bottles, until my fingers brushed against a small, flat object wrapped in dark felt.

The burner phone I have to my name.

I unwrapped the felt, my heart hammering a frantic, terrifying beat against my ribs. The screen glowed to life with a faint, harsh white light, showing a single pre-saved contact.

My thumbs hovered over the glass. My whole body was trembling, a cold sweat breaking out across the back of my neck.

If Drake catches you doing this...

"I don’t have a choice," I whispered to the empty studio.

I pressed the call button and brought the phone to my ear.

The line rang once. Twice. Three times.

Every second felt like an eternity, the quiet tone chiming in my ear like a countdown clock. Just as I was about to panic and hang up, the line connected with a soft, static click.

"I wondered how long it would take for you to call me, my sweet boy."

Darius’s voice came through the speaker and it made my stomach turn inside out.

I gripped the phone so hard the plastic casing creaked under my fingers. "Darius."

"Lysander," he purred softly. I could hear the faint clink of a glass on his end, the quiet rustle of silk. "How is the private sanctuary treating you? Is the golden cage everything you dreamed it would be?"

"Shut up," I rasped out, stepping away from the studio windows, retreating into the darkest corner of the room where no one could see me from the courtyard. "I didn’t call to play games with you."

"Of course not," Darius chuckled low in his throat, a sound that sent a cold shudder straight down my spine. "You sound desperate, Lysander. Your breath is short, your heart rate is spiking... what’s wrong? Is Drake not keeping you warm enough in that big, empty house?"

"It’s about Gideon," I cut him off, my voice shaking despite my best efforts to keep it steady.

The line went quiet for a fraction of a second. The mocking amusement in Darius’s aura seemed to shift, sharpening into something watchful and predatory.

"Gideon?" Darius asked smoothly. "What about my son?"

"I think..."

"You think this is some kind of joke?" He growled, "You and that vampire of yours kill my son and now, you are calling to taunt me?"

"No,no." I found myself shaking my head, "No, it’s not like that. I called to ask if you have seen Gideon since he died?"

"Now, why would I see him?" I could hear him smiling from the phone.

My grip tightened around it, he was playing around with me but I was so sure he knew what I was talking about.

"Did he have a fail-safe?" I demanded, my voice cracking with raw, unhinged desperation. "Before he died... did he make a pact? Did he use forbidden blood magic? Did he bind his soul to something else so he wouldn’t stay in the ground?!"

Silence stretched across the line. I held my breath, pressing the phone tight against my ear, listening to the faint, distant static.

When Darius spoke again, his tone was entirely different. Soft, amused, and laced with a terrifying, dark satisfaction that made my blood run stone cold.

"Why are you asking me this, Lysander?" Darius purred softly. "Are you seeing ghosts in the dark?"

Tears of frustration and terror stung the corners of my eyes. "Answer me, Darius! Is he dead or not?!"

"Death is such a flexible term for those with royal blood and the right motivation," Darius murmured, his voice dipping into a conspiratorial whisper that felt like a snake sliding over my skin. "Gideon was obsessed with you, boy. A man with an obsession like that doesn’t just lie down in the dirt, he looks for a way back."

My breath hitched violently in my throat. "What do you mean ’a way back’?"

"I mean," Darius said smoothly, "if you’re seeing him... maybe your mind isn’t as broken as Drake thinks it is. Maybe the dead are walking, Lysander. And maybe you should stop trusting the man who built a cage around you."

"Darius—"

"If you want the real truth," he cut in, "meet my operative at the old chapel on the northern boundary tomorrow at midnight. Alone. Or you can stay in your pretty house and let Drake convince you that you’re insane."

The line went dead with a sharp, abrupt click.

I stood in the corner of the studio, the black phone resting uselessly in my trembling palm as my world crashed around me.