Chapter 154: The circling wolves
The chamber was quiet in the way that only old, thick walls could provide, shielding them from wind, distant footsteps, and the shifting bones of the house itself. A single lamp burned on the nightstand, casting honeyed light across the edge of the bed, where Lucas sat with his legs tucked beneath him and the tablet balanced against one thigh.
The comforter was pulled over his knees, the scent of warm soap still lingering on his skin. He’d taken a bath an hour ago, and his hair was mostly dry, with a slight curl around the edges. A bowl of ice cream sat on the nightstand beside him, slowly melting in the room’s faint heat, half-finished because he’d become distracted while rereading the notes he’d made in the early months after waking up in this life.
The memories weren’t perfect. Some were blurry at the edges, like frost on glass, while others were far too sharp, fragments of pain, loneliness, and quiet resignation. Nevertheless, they were his. He’d written them in the dead of night, when his hands were too trembling to sleep. When breathing felt like an accusation. When remembering was the only power he had left. And the most recent notes in the peace Trevor and his new home have brought him.
The door to the adjoining bath opened with a soft creak, and Lucas glanced up.
Trevor stepped out barefoot, towel slung low around his hips, droplets of water trailing down his chest in lazy rivulets. His hair was damp and swept back with only his fingers, and he was, for lack of a better word, sinful. The kind of vision bards would have wept over centuries ago, and Lucas would have mocked them for.
But there was no arrogance in his posture. Just the same Trevor, steady and quiet, holding a shirt loosely in one hand and something unreadable in his eyes.
"Are you still writing?" He asked casually, while tossing the shirt on a nearby chaise to retrieve something from the walk-in dresser.
"Sometimes, I’m just trying to get them organized. Didn’t you read those?"
Trevor glanced over his shoulder, one brow lifting as he disappeared briefly into the walk-in. A rustle of fabric, the soft scrape of wood against hangers, and then—
"No." His voice was clear, even in its quiet. "I didn’t."