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Lucius went to his room. He dropped the many shopping bags near the entry door and carelessly removed his jacket and threw it on the armchair in the antechamber. He stood where he had stopped, looking dazed and spent. He rubbed his eyes. Closing his eyes again, he opened them wide after a brief moment, blinking a few times – trying to focus. He poured himself a large glass of port and slumped on the couch as if he had been mildly stunned and the wind was knocked out of him. Socrates came to him chirping. He put his hand out for her to perch and drew her close to his chest, pressing his lips lightly to her tiny, little head. Socrates hated it when he drank (she thought it very undignified) and seemed to be reprimanding him, but he didn't take any notice. He looked down at the faint scar on the palm of his hand. Splaying his fingers out, he stared and furrowed his brow.
"Anuk!" he gasped and rubbed his jaw, looking off toward some far away place that was beyond the confines of the room and then looked down at Socrates.
"Socrates... I think I am in love."
YOU ARE READING
A Semi-Autobiographical Story About Belonging, True Kinship & Real Love... A different sort of Lucius Malfoy: eccentric, Swedish billionaire, Lucian Isholmborg (the ex Lord Malfoy) is handsome, elegant and famous. So why does he want to kill himsel...