CHAPTER 62: MOUTHFULS AND MISSTEPS

The room had grown quiet. The fork had been set down, the clink of porcelain a soft punctuation to the silence that followed.

’Take the bed.’

The words hung in the air like mist, impossible to grasp fully as confusion knitted across Ruelle’s face.

"I’m... alright. I can take the couch," she offered softly.

Lucian’s eyebrow twitched. He repeated, "I said take the bed. Don’t test my patience, Belmont."

And there it was—the cold steel edge she had expected. The sudden shift from the man who had offered her warmth to the one who would rather see her crumble. Her fingers tightened around the blanket, her gaze falling away from his.

"You have already done enough. It’s your bed," she tried again, her gaze not quite meeting his. "If I sleep there... where will you sleep? It would be... improper. If anyone heard, it would look—"

Lucian’s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking ever so slightly. He stated flatly, "I’m not concerned about gossip. And I don’t think you’re foolish enough to damage your own reputation."

"But I might stain it," she reasoned, shame rising like heat to her cheeks. "And if that happens, you’ll be angry. You always do..."

Lucian’s eyes darkened and he ordered, "Into the bed, Belmont."

His words weren’t loud, but Ruelle’s breath trembled. Her emotions, bottled since the river, trembled at the surface now. She could feel it. The pressure, the shame, the weight of everything unspoken. Her voice cracked, barely audible.

"You already are angry," she said softly. "And tomorrow, when your patience wears thin, you’ll regret this. You’ll look at me like—like I’m a nuisance. I don’t want to make you angry again. I don’t want to—

She tried to hold it back, but her throat tightened and her eyes betrayed her grief. A single tear escaped, tracing a pale line down her cheek before vanishing against the fabric of her dress. When more followed, she brushed them away with trembling fingers.

A storm appeared in Lucian’s eyes that hadn’t yet decided where to fall. His hand twitched, as though uncertain what to do. His jaw then unclenched, and he finally exhaled.

"I didn’t mean to make you cry," his voice was low and controlled, the single admission softening the harsh lines between them. "I was only trying to help." He paused, as if weighing every syllable, before adding, "You’re not exactly subtle. I can see the pain in your posture from across the room. Unless that’s just how you always stand."

Ruelle’s breath caught and she stared at him.

After a few seconds, Lucian’s expression shifted—subtle, but enough to draw her gaze. He stepped towards her, silent as a shadow, and reached into his coat. From the inner pocket, he withdrew a neatly folded handkerchief, dark as midnight, and held it out to her. It wasn’t exactly kindness, but rather something more complex and honest.

"You don’t have to worry about me," he said. "I won’t be upset with you tomorrow morning."

Ruelle blinked up at him. Slowly, she took the soft handkerchief from his hand.

The raw edge in his tone offered permission more gentle than any apology she could have hoped for. In a small whisper, she managed, "Thank you."

He didn’t speak another word. Instead, he picked up his pillow and crossed the room towards the couch. She slipped under the soft sheets, guilt fluttering in her chest for taking the bed, yet comfort lacing through her limbs.

Once she settled in the bed, she did not know what to make of Lucian—nor what to expect tomorrow. But that brief gesture, that fragile truce, softened the sharpest ache in her chest.

Moments passed before she gathered the courage to speak again. "Lucian?" she ventured, voice low and weary.

"Hm?" He responded, candlelight flickering across his profile.

"Do you hate me less now?" She asked, her words turning into a whisper.

"No. I still hate you with the same intensity," Lucian remarked.

Ruelle hummed, her eyes closed, a small wry smile gracing her lips at the thought of how strange her roommate was.

As minutes slipped into an hour, sleep claimed Ruelle fully. Her body, worn and aching, melted into the unfamiliar luxury of the mattress—soft in a way nothing from her world had ever been. The pain that had throbbed through her limbs dulled, as if even it had surrendered to rest.

Lucian sat with one leg elegantly crossed over the other, the leather-bound book resting open in his lap as the soft flicker of candlelight spread shadows along the sharp line of his jaw. The room was quiet, save for the faint sound of breathing that belonged to the young woman on his bed. Her breathing had steadied into slumber long ago, delicate and quiet.

He had grown used to it. Just as he had grown used to her scent, the rustle of her movements, and the way she curled on the couch in his room.

A soft scrape outside the door drew his attention and he lowered the book, closing it with a muted snap.

His eyes narrowed at the obvious, hesitant footsteps, and he crossed the room. With one swift movement, he opened the door with not so much as a sound before his eyes fell on the two humans.

Hailey froze mid-motion, her hand awkwardly suspended in the air as though she had only just decided whether to knock. Beside her, Kevin’s eyes widened slightly.

His gaze barely met the Elite’s but couldn’t hold for long. His spine stiffened on instinct.

The pureblooded vampire said nothing at first. His presence was commanding, but more than that, it was unwelcoming. Cold. Like winter had stepped into the corridor.

Hailey found her voice faltering under the weight of the vampire’s dark gaze. And Kevin, though trying to hold his ground, felt something primal in him tighten, as if instinct warned him not to cross this person. This vampire didn’t need to raise his voice or bare his fangs. His eyes—those cold, deep red eyes—were enough. Detached. Dispassionate.

Lucian was not like the other vampires who smiled at social gatherings, who tried to imitate civility. He didn’t pretend to be approachable. He didn’t soften the edges of his nature for the comfort of others. Least of all humans. And no matter how calmly he stood, there was a tension in the air, the kind that warned one not to turn their back.

To the two humans at the door now, he was every bit the predator people whispered about in the corridors of Sexton. And yet... Ruelle was asleep in his bed, wrapped in warmth that he had made space for. A quiet contradiction that no one watching from the outside would ever guess.

Hailey cleared her throat, managing a polite but stiff smile. "I—um... we came to check on Ruelle."

"She’s asleep," Lucian replied coolly. He didn’t move aside to let them in.

"Oh," Hailey nodded, shifting the bundle she held. It was wrapped in layers of fabric, clumsy in its attempt to disguise something clearly meant to be private. "I brought something for her. Just in case. I wasn’t sure if she..."

Her voice faded beneath his silence. They were late coming here because she had exhausted her own sanitary cloths and had checked with her fellow classmates to get some. And it was harder with everyone out at the river, while some had left early to visit their homes.

Kevin, usually quick with words, stayed silent. His shoulders were tense, and his mouth opened—then closed—as though uncertain whether he should speak. His eyes darted to the bundle Hailey held, then flicked toward the bed just behind Lucian, as if hoping to catch a glimpse of Ruelle.

His eyes lingered, but he couldn’t see much beyond the edge of the footboard. Pursing his lips, he asked in concern, "Was she... alright before she fell asleep?"

But Lucian didn’t answer right away. His gaze turned heavy as he regarded the human.

"She wasn’t," Lucian said, his voice smooth as still water, but cold beneath the surface. "Had someone thought to remove her from the river a touch sooner, perhaps her embarrassment wouldn’t have been quite so prolonged." His words were wrapped in civility, but the barb was unmistakable.

Kevin’s mouth opened, then shut again. His expression soured at the comment and he said, "We didn’t know what was happening. It all happened so fast and—"

Lucian tilted his head ever so slightly, his silence more dismissive than any spoken word.

"Is it wise to let her sleep here with you?" Kevin’s words weren’t accusatory, but the implication hung thick in the air. "Given... her condition."

"Do you suppose I’d drain her while she sleeps?" Lucian’s lips curved into the faintest edge of amusement—a predator’s grace concealed behind an aristocrat’s poise.

Kevin’s jaw tensed at the very thought of it.

"You," Lucian said, shifting his gaze to Hailey, who stood beside Kevin. "Does Blake sink her teeth when you bleed?"

Hailey’s eyes widened, colour flooding her cheeks at his directness. She stuttered, "N–no. S–she doesn’t."

Lucian returned his gaze to the human boy, seemingly making his point, but the boy appeared to tighten his jaw. The candlelight caught his dark red gaze, unblinking and powerful, and Kevin’s posture betrayed him: shoulders stiff, throat tight.

When Kevin’s lips parted, Hailey quietly nudged her friend to stay quiet, as if telling him not to provoke the Elite.

"Thank you for this noon." Hailey bowed her head, and Kevin gingerly lowered his head for a brief moment. He couldn’t help but have the obvious question, like the other people in Sexton. Why did an Elite save a human? Was it because Ruelle was his roommate? Every word of the pureblooded vampire was dipped in eloquence and sheathed in sharp, unbothered pride.

"I’ll see she gets this," Lucian said, a final nod toward the wrapped bundle that Hailey had given.

"Good evening," Hailey murmured, before dragging Kevin out of there.

When Lucian closed the door once he was inside, the light from the sky had changed its colours and the room had begun to turn dark. He turned to look at the bed where Ruelle slept, his eyes darkening. He stood there at the edge between protector and predator.

When the next day arrived, Ruelle stirred on the bed late in the morning. It being the weekend, the corridors of the Sexton were quiet and almost empty. Even her friends had left to visit their homes. It seemed like everyone else, even Lucian had returned home. Her eyes blinked up at the ceiling, momentarily disoriented by its bareness.

Too tired to leave the bed, she lay curled up in the corner, hoping not to take up too much space. By afternoon, when she began to turn hungry, she left for the dining room.

Upon arriving there, Ruelle made her way to the Groundlings table. Although the room contained only a few students, it was primarily occupied by Groundlings and Halflings who had remained behind. Mostly people who came from families who couldn’t afford food or have proper shelter. And some who were shunned.

She ladled lukewarm stew into a bowl and moved toward an empty bench. But the instant she set the bowl on the table, a swift shove sent it tumbling with a deafening clang. Stew splattered across the wood, dribbling onto the floor.

Ruelle’s breath caught in her throat. She took a steadying breath. Before she could get another bowl, two female Halflings who were Alanna’s minions stepped forward, their expressions cruel. One leaned in, voice as sharp as broken glass,

"Ruelle Belmont," the Hafling cooed, her voice mockingly sweet. "If you’re hungry, the food is on the floor."

Ruelle couldn’t believe how the once-humans could behave like this. She responded, looking at the floor, "I’d rather not. But... you’re welcome to try if you want to."

The Halflings blinked, taken aback by the softness of Ruelle’s tone and the complete lack of venom in it. One of them took a step closer, face twisting.

"What did you say?"

Ruelle bit the inside of her cheek. Her heart thudded, but her face remained serene, almost apologetic. "I just said the bowl suits me better," she answered.

The Halflings stared at her, incredulous, not used to being challenged by a human. Especially not one so infuriatingly... polite. One of them stepped closer, a low hiss curling past her lips as she spoke.

"You think you’re clever? You have quite a sharp tongue for someone whose blood isn’t even worth bottling."

"We all have a mouth..." Ruelle muttered, her hands turning to fists before saying, "I just didn’t think insulting others was a lunch activity."

The taller Halfling sneered, "Didn’t think you would be bold enough to mouth off either. You must be feeling brave with an Elite’s favour on your head."

The second Halfling leaned in closer. "You reek of rotting blood. It won’t be too long before he kicks you out of Sexton himself."

Ruelle froze mid-motion. Her ears burned, her skin too tight. The laughter around the table echoed sharp and cruel. She had hoped not to run into any troubling vampires. She asked,

"Is that the best you can come up with without any backing of an Elite vampiress?"

That did it. One of them surged forward, fangs peeking out—not fully extended, but threatening enough as her hand reached for Ruelle.

"I would watch that tongue," the Hafling hissed.

"And I’d watch your hand," came Lucian’s cold voice that entered the room.

The shadow at the edge of the dining hall stepped into the light. Lucian’s eyes locked on the nearest Halfling, narrowing with intent. His shoes echoed in the hall as he walked forward and his coat trailed.

Ruelle’s breath caught as he advanced. She had thought him gone for this weekend.

He paused inches away from the Halflings, the tension in the air buzzing like lightning in a glass case. His gaze found the tallest of the pair.

"If anyone’s tasting stew from the floor today," he said, cold authority smooth on a velvet tone, "it should be the ones suggesting it."

One Halfling stammered, faltering under his scrutiny. Her words came in a rush, "We didn’t—she just—"

Lucian’s brow raised ever so slightly. The kind of quiet control only a predator could wear like a second skin. "On your knees. Lick it."