Claimed by the Prince of Darkness-Chapter 58: The Box and the Blow

The slap echoed through the corridor like a gunshot in winter. For a moment, even the flames in the torches seemed to still, holding their breath in stunned silence.

Lucian’s head tilted slightly with the blow—not in recoil, but in acknowledgment. His posture remained unshaken, regal and still. But something in his eyes flickered which was quiet and razor-thin.

His grip tightened on the velvet box in his hand.

Ruelle’s hand dropped to her side, burning with the sting of contact. Her breath was shallow, and her eyes—wide, glassy—swam with tears she tried to hold back, and it locked onto his.

"Whoa—easy, easy now—" Sawyer’s voice broke the silence, low with disbelief as he pushed himself away from the wall he had been leaning against. "What did you just do?"

But Ruelle didn’t look at him.

She stood unmoving, eyes burning into Lucian’s. And Lucian, for the first time, met her gaze—not with arrogance nor disdain, but something colder. Something unreadable.

The silence in there stretched, pulling taut like a string of a cello. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely a whisper.

"How could you?" her words trembled accusingly. She was well aware of Lucian’s contempt for humans like her, but she had never expected him to stoop so low. "You took the box so I would fail..."

"I think there’s some misunderstanding going here," Sawyer tried to reason. "This box is from the Seduction Department. I took it earlier this evening."

"What?" Ruelle’s breath caught. Her lashes fluttered, just once. His words felt like cold water over burning skin.

Sawyer shifted uneasily and stated, "You can ask Gemma. I took it."

Lucian hadn’t moved, hadn’t said a word. His eyes, intense and locked onto hers... unforgiving.

"T–That isn’t mine?" Ruelle’s voice cracked on the last word, like the breaking edge of something sharp.

She stared at Lucian for a second longer. The shame of her own assumption burned hotter than the sting of her slap. And yet, she couldn’t shake the weight of what she had overheard. His voice, the contempt, the timing. She sensed his silence like a stone dropped in water—deep, widening ripples of doubt.

Ruelle’s breath shuddered in her chest, her lashes still damp with unshed tears. Her gaze dropped from Lucian’s, unable to hold the weight of his stare.

"I... I’m sorry," she apologised, the words clumsy. "I—I shouldn’t have— I thought...I thought it was mine. The box looked the same. I—I heard you two speak and—" her words caught in her throat. Her voice dissolved, like parchment soaked in water. Her hands clenched at her sides.

She could only imagine the rage in Lucian’s now possibly narrowed eyes. Ready to snap her neck like a twig for her audacity.

"I’m so sorry," Ruelle said again, stumbling back a step. "I didn’t mean to—please, I didn’t know—"

And then she turned. Her shoes scraped against the cold stone as she bolted down the corridor without looking back. She ran—ashamed, horrified, and terrified of what that silence might become.

The corridor seemed to blur, her breath catching in uneven bursts, footsteps echoing until she reached her room. Her hands trembled as she pushed the door open and slipped inside.

She stood in the room, heart hammering against her ribs, her fingers curling and uncurling with restless guilt. She paced back and forth.

"Stupid," she muttered under her breath. "Stupid, stupid. How could I—"

She couldn’t believe what she had done. She had struck an Elite. Accused him. Publicly. On nothing but suspicion and a look-alike box. frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓

When she heard footsteps outside the corridor, she quickly darted towards the couch. Grabbing the edge of the blanket, she pulled it over herself.

The door opened with a soft click.

Would he punish her? Demand an apology? Throw her out of the room for the night, or worse for good? Would he report her?

Ruelle squeezed her eyes shut when the pair of boots clicked gently across the floor, drawing closer to where she lay curled on the couch, breath held so tightly her lungs ached. The boots stopped right next to the couch.

She heard something click on her desk. Slowly moving the blanket away, her eyes fell on Lucian’s long, pale fingers withdrawing from her desk. And there lay the velvet box.

"Why—My assignment is done. I don’t need the spare—"

"They are yours," Lucian responded cooly. "Not the one Sawyer had."

Ruelle blinked.

"Mine... but..." Her words trailed, her throat too dry to carry the rest. Her gaze fell on the box again, now clearer in the candlelight. As if in realisation, she accused him, "Did you... did you take this? Did you make me fail?"

With Lucian standing with his back against the fireplace, she could see his silhouette and his face covered in shadow.

"Yes," he finally answered. No apology. No regret.

She turned angry again, but it was overwhelmed with pain that she felt it in the pit of her stomach.

"Why?" She whispered.

"Because it’s better for you to fail," his words echoed around her like shards of glass.

"Better?" She repeated. "To watch me fail?"

"Better now," Lucian remarked. "Than somewhere else."

"What does that even mean?" Ruelle’s heart pounded in disbelief. She stared at him, stunned, unsure whether to be furious or confused because his words didn’t make sense. "You don’t get to decide what’s better for me. Do you hate me that much?" she asked. "Because I’m human? Because I’m here?"

Lucian didn’t flinch. But his jaw locked tight, a muscle ticking beneath pale skin. The firelight cast sharp shadows across his face.

"You are right," his voice was low rather than cold—steadier, darker. "I hate you, and I hate you for being here. You should remember your place."

Ruelle’s chest tightened as she stared at him. It wasn’t the first time he had said it. She replied, "No. You don’t get to decide which place I belong in. Not you."

Something flickered across Lucian’s face briefly. And the next second, the glass on the table shattered violently, the sound slicing through the room like a bolt of lightning.

Ruelle flinched, her eyes widening.

She didn’t know if he had broken it with intention—or if his rage had simply spilled into the world. After that, neither he nor she uttered another word.

----

Author’s note: Apologies for being away this long without a note and not responding to any messages. I was mentally out with everything going on, and reading some of the comments would chip the remaining mental peace out so I didn’t look at it. Short version my father got scammed, and I got dragged into it just because my father is a blabbermouth and tells people I work and earn. So I have been accused as a criminal, and the first lawyer purposely got my bail rejected because he was mixed with the bad guys. My bank account is frozen, I am on a video with my face plastered and my father sort of got kidnapped but he’s fine now. I have been running between court, lawyers and criminal burea. So I couldn’t get back to writing sooner.