Lucilfer (ChrolloxReader)

Chapter 89

Morning greeted me rapidly, a violent submerge into consciousness, almost as though I'd been suspended in a dream too dark and incoherent for my brain to process, and I'd been thrust out of it. I drew a sharp inhale and felt my stomach gape as a fluttery, uncomfortable sensation coursed through my body in a swift flinch. My eyes twitched in response, but they were heavy, weighed down by a night too restless, muddled by a series of fleeting, confusing images, all of which were drained away from my mind upon awakening, slipping back into the realm of sleep. Letting out a soft groan of annoyance, I curled my limbs closer together, searching for the warmth that had been wrapped around me since I'd first fallen into slumber.

But I wasn't pressed against the body of my lover, nor could I feel his arms draping over my waist. A sigh breezed through my lips, and I furrowed my brows slightly, reaching forward in the hope of making contact with his skin. And again, I couldn't feel him anywhere near me.

Chrollo...?

My muscles sagged into the bed defeatedly—I slept too chaotically to be immediately bothered with finding him, but I realized as I laid, exhausted, beneath our blankets that I was cold, strangely cold. Before I even opened my eyes, I knew that the bed was empty, that his muted energy was not providing the absent comfort or blissful relaxation I usually experienced when waking beside him. Slowly, as I became more aware of my surroundings, a bubbling sensation of unease arose in my chest. It was gentle, not exactly overwhelming, but it unsettled me. I was too cold.

My gaze gradually flickered into focus as I mustered the courage to push myself up, rubbing a palm over tired eyes and releasing another disoriented sigh. I'd been correct—the place beside me where Chrollo had slept was vacant, the blankets only mildly disturbed and ruffled, signifying his leave. My pulse seemed to shift unevenly when I looked past the mattress and over to the bathroom door, thinking that perhaps he had gone to take a shower.

It would be odd for him to shower without me, though, I fretted inwardly.

But the door was cracked open, and it was dark inside—the lights weren't on; he wasn't there, either.

If there had been any other circumstances surrounding such a morning, I might not have been consumed by so much subtle worry so quickly. In fact, I might've almost assumed he had gone downstairs to make breakfast or coffee—he'd done so before, after spending the previous evening with me and the electric current of passions and desires, so why would this morning be any different?

He's probably downstairs.

That thought didn't fare well for me, however. I couldn't listen to it, or allow it to soothe my sudden anxiety. My stomach churned unsteadily, and I dragged my gaze over the remainder of the room, eventually turning my position with the intentions of leaving the bed. Everything else appeared to be the same—a few books still littered the floor here and there, and my duffle still sat slackly against the wall near the door from when he'd brought it up. My feet carefully touched to the rug beneath the bed, and before I stood, my eyes landed on the little table to my left, pausing there for several moments.

His gages were gone; his phone wasn't laying near the lampshade. And it wouldn't have been so instantly concerning to me had I not noticed the sheet of paper resting over the wooden surface, or the ring sitting beside it, facing me—my favorite ring of his, silver and ornately designed, gothic in style, and flaunting an inverted cross. It fit perfectly on his index finger, and bit loosely on my ring finger.

No.

There was no conclusion that I could draw right away, or solid reasoning for the way my breathing became softly shallow, the way my heartbeat stuttered in my chest and thudded lightly in my ears. But something was wrong, terribly wrong. My fingers shook as I grasped the edge of the paper—thick and robust, large, expensive card stock. I recognized it.