Page 13 of A Touch of Madness

Unfortunately, the knife slips before I can register the sting.

I stare down at the thin red line forming on my fingertip, a bead of blood swelling quickly before spilling over. The sharp metallic scent hits my nose, subtle but unmistakable, and I frown.

“Damn it,” I mutter, reaching for a dish towel as the blood rushes from the split in my skin.

Before I can wrap the cloth around my hand, a presence freezes me in place.

I glance up and my breath hitches.

Lucian stands in the doorway, his tall frame filling the entrance like a shadow come to life. He looks otherworldly, his dark hair tousled, his sharp features partially obscured by the dim light. But it’s his eyes that hold me captive—those piercing, storm-laden eyes that lock onto my hand with a focus that feels almost primal.

“Lucian?” I ask hesitantly.

He doesn’t respond. His gaze flicks to my face for a split second before snapping back to the tiny wound. His lips part, and though no words come out, I can see the tension building in the set of his jaw, the tightness in his shoulders.

“Are you okay?” I press, stepping toward him, though it’s a ridiculous question given the circumstances.

“I…” His voice is low, strained, as though it’s been dragged out of him against his will. “You’re bleeding.”

I blink down at my finger. “It’s nothing,” I say, trying for nonchalance. “Just a small cut.”

“Leave.”

His command is sharp, cold. It takes a moment for the meaning to register.

“What?”

“Leave the kitchen. Now.” His voice is firm, but there’s a tremor beneath it, a crack in his usual composure that sends alarm bells ringing in my mind. I watch as his shoulders rise and fall in quick succession, and he swallows hard.

The air feels heavy, like the moment before a storm breaks. I set the knife down carefully, my movements slow and deliberate, and step closer toward him.

“Lucian,” I say softly, watching the way his hands clench into fists at his sides. “What’s going on? You’re scaring me.”

“Do not come closer.” He shakes his head as if warding something—me?—off. “Please, Sylvie.”

I stop in my tracks, my heart pounding. His tone is like ice, but there’s a heat in his eyes that sends a shiver down my spine.

“I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s wrong,” I say, more firmly this time.

His head tilts back slightly, as though he’s trying to catch his breath. When he finally looks at me, his expression is raw, haunted.

“It’s the blood,” he admits, his voice a hoarse whisper. “The shortage is affecting me more than I anticipated.”

I don’t know what to say. The idea of Lucian struggling, of something as primal as hunger reducing him to this, leaves me at a loss.

“How bad is it?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

He hesitates, then looks away. “I feed using the blood packs every few days in addition to normal food. Not just for sustenance but to keep my body… balanced. The blood keeps my mind clear, my strength steady. Without it…” He trails off, his jaw tightening.

“Without it,” I repeat. “What happens without it?”

He closes his eyes, and when he speaks, his words are low, deliberate. “I become unpredictable. Dangerous. Everything I’m afraid of.”

The weight of his confession sinks in, and for a moment, the room feels colder.

“I didn’t realize it was this bad,” I say, feeling both guilty and alarmed.

“I didn’t want you to.” His gaze returns to me, sharper now, though his eyes soften at the edges. “But this isn’t something I can hide anymore. Being around you…” He cuts himself off, his expression unreadable.

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