Page 15 of The Vows He Buried
A faint, knowing smile touched his lips. “I own the building, Ms. Blake,” he said simply.
Of course he did. Zion Suites. Lucian Thorne of the Zion Group. My fortress was his property. The realization was both unnerving and, strangely, intriguing. He had a key to my cage that I didn’t even know existed.
He stepped out of the elevator, his presence filling the space, making my sprawling penthouse feel suddenly intimate. He looked around, his gaze taking in the legal papers on my dining table, the sketchbooks, the laptop still glowing with my email.
“Declaring war, I see,” he observed, his voice a low, smooth murmur.
“Just reclaiming what’s mine,” I countered, not giving an inch.
“Is that what you call it?” he asked, taking a step closer. He stopped a few feet away, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body. “It smells more like revenge. A very potent, very expensive revenge.” He tilted his head, his eyes searching my face. “It’s a look I’m familiar with. It suits you.”
His perception was a physical blow. Maddox had seen my pain as an inconvenience. Lucian Thorne saw my rage as an accessory. He wasn’t afraid of it. He was drawn to it.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, my voice clipped.
“Don’t you?” he said, that ghost of a smile returning. “You have the eyes of a woman who has decided that if she can’t have justice, she’ll settle for ashes. I find that… compelling.”
We stood in silence for a long moment, a silent battle of wills. He was a predator, I realized, but not like Maddox, who bludgeoned his way through the world. Lucian was a panther, all silent, coiled power and lethal grace. He saw the world as a hunt, and right now, he was studying me, trying to decide if I was prey or a fellow hunter.
“What do you want, Mr. Thorne?” I asked finally, tired of the game.
“Lucian,” he corrected softly. “And I want nothing. I’m merely a… neighbor. I happened to be in the building and was curious to see if the storm had passed.” His eyes flickered with a dark amusement. “It appears it has not.”
He knew about Maddox’s visit. Of course he did. He probably had the security footage from the hallway. The thought of him watching that raw, pathetic encounter made my cheeks burn.
“My personal life is none of your concern,” I said stiffly.
“On the contrary,” he replied smoothly. “When it intersects with my property and involves one of the most powerful families in New York, it becomes very much my concern. And my entertainment.”
His honesty was brutal, and yet, I found I preferred it to the Vales’ suffocating lies. With Lucian, at least I knew where I stood: on a chessboard he likely owned.
He took another step, closing the remaining distance between us. He reached out, not to touch me, but to pick up one of my sketches from the table. It was a design for a dress, a column of black silk with silver thread embroidered along the seams, like lightning on a dark sky.
“This is good,” he said, his voice thoughtful. “Fierce. Uncompromising.” He placed it back on the table carefully. “You should not have let them bury this part of you. It’s your greatest weapon.”
He turned to leave, walking back towards the elevator. He had come and gone like a phantom, leaving me more unsettled and intrigued than ever. He paused at the threshold, turning back to face me.
“A piece of unsolicited advice, Ms. Blake,” he said, his voice dropping to that low, conspiratorial tone. “If you plan to bury them… don’t forget to leave one alive.”
He held my gaze for a beat, letting the chilling words sink in.
“To remember why.”
The elevator doors slid shut, leaving me alone in the sudden, deafening silence, the echo of his dark prophecy hanging in the air.
Chapter 11: The Trap
The Vale mansion was a tomb. Not a place of mourning, but a place where life went to die. Sienna Ward had learned this truth over three years of careful observation. She had watched Savannah Blake wither and fade within these opulent walls, her light systematically extinguished by Evelyn’s chilling cruelty and Maddox’s cold neglect. Sienna had felt a flicker of pity for her then, the kind of pity a wolf might feel for a lamb caught in a snare it hadn't set. But pity was a useless emotion. Power was not.
Tonight, Sienna was setting her own trap.
She moved through the master suite with a proprietary air, her crimson silk robe whispering against the cold marble floors. This was Maddox’s sanctuary, a space of dark woods, brushed steel, and masculine scents of leather and sandalwood. It was a fortress he retreated to, and tonight, she would conquer it from within.
Her target was the small, ornate incense burner on a side table near the seating area. For weeks, she had been conditioning him, burning calming lavender and sandalwood scents in the evenings. “To help you relax, Maddy,” she’d murmured, playing the part of the concerned, caring friend. “You’re under so much pressure.” He had barely noticed, but the routine was established. The presence of incense was now normal, unremarkable.
Tonight’s incense was different. It came in a small, black-lacquered box, a gift from a shadowy contact she had made in her previous life, a life she had worked hard to bury. Thestick was thin and black, almost invisible in the dim light. It was calledKoinophe, or “The Fog.” It wasn’t a poison. It was a key. It unlocked inhibitions, blurred judgment, and amplified suggestion, wrapping the mind in a thick, sensual haze. Combined with alcohol and emotional exhaustion, it was devastatingly effective.
Her movements were precise. She lit the stick, the tip glowing like a tiny, malevolent star. A thin, almost imperceptible wisp of smoke curled into the air, carrying a complex scent—dark amber, black orchid, and something else, something earthy and hypnotic. It was a scent of secrets and surrender.
