Chapter 8: The Weight of a Name
The silence was suffocating. Ethan couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Couldn't even think.
Lucien's gaze had sharpened to something cold and merciless, the kind of look you gave someone right before you took everything from them.
"Wycliffe?" Lucien repeated, his voice quiet and clipped. Like he was forcing the word through clenched teeth. "So you're one of them."
The accusation hit Ethan like a punch to the chest. He wanted to speak, to say something that would make the rage in Lucien's eyes disappear, but his mouth wouldn't cooperate.
His brain was screaming at him to run, to apologize, to say something—anything—that would convince Lucien not to kill him right here and now. But all he could do was stand there, his entire body frozen under the weight of Lucien's stare.
This was bad. Worse than bad. This was every worst-case scenario he'd ever imagined rolled into one.
"Guess that explains a lot," Lucien said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. "The arrogance. The way you were throwing spells around like you had something to prove. It all makes sense now."
Ethan tried to swallow, but his throat felt like sandpaper. "I-I... It's not... I mean..."
The words tumbled out of him like broken glass. There was no way he could explain himself. Not when Lucien was looking at him like he was nothing more than a bug waiting to be crushed.
His mind reeled, memories crashing over him in a chaotic flood.
He remembered the story he'd spent years building. The tragic backstory he'd crafted for Lucien Ashford. A broken childhood. A family that had once been prosperous, respected—until the Wycliffe family tore it all apart.