Chapter 173

The master suite was a sanctuary of deep velvet insulated from the rest of the fortress by layers of silence.

Isabella woke slowly, a low moan catching in the back of her throat as she shifted against the silk sheets.

The air in the room was cool, but she was enveloped in a warmth that felt like a permanent hearth. Lucian’s arm was a protective weight across her waist, his fingers curled slightly into the fabric of her nightgown as if even in rest, he was anchoring her to him.

She blinked her eyes open, the silver-grey light of the northern morning filtering through the heavy drapes.

For a moment, she simply breathed him in while rubbing her cheek against his chest, feeling the solid, immobile strength of him.

Then, the unmistakable reality of being human—or at least, a living Lycan—interrupted the bliss. Her bladder gave an insistent tug.

Isabella groaned softly, trying to ignore it, but the discomfort was winning. She looked up at Lucian, expecting to see those gray eyes already watching her with their usual possessive intensity.

Instead, his features were unusually slack, his breathing slow and steady. It was a shock to see him like this.

From everything she had learned since arriving in the North, vampires were perpetual sentinels. They didn’t "sleep" in the way mortals did; they rested in a state of hyper-aware meditation.

But Lucian was deep in it. She didn’t want to wake him. He looked almost peaceful—a rare expression for the man who carried the weight of a specie on his shoulders.

Carefully, acting with the delicate precision of a cat, Isabella gripped his forearm and slid it off her waist.

She held her breath as his hand hit the mattress, but he only let out a soft, huffed exhale, his head tilting slightly toward her empty side of the bed. She scrambled out of the covers, her toes curling against the cold floor, and hurried toward the en-suite bathroom.

The relief of the bathroom trip was quick, but as she stood at the sink to wash her hands, her eyes drifted toward the large mirror above the basin.

Isabella paused, her hands still damp, and slowly turned her head to the side. There, at the junction where her neck met her shoulder, the mate mark stood out in a vibrant, pulsing crimson.

It wasn’t just a scar, it was a living piece of him. As she watched, the skin around it seemed to shimmer with warmth from the bite as it settled into her soul.

A heat that had nothing to do with the temperature crept up her neck and settled in her cheeks. She reached up, her fingertips grazing the tender skin.

As she touched it, a flash of memory hit her so hard it made her knees weak—the weight of him, the absolute, shattering intensity of his gaze, and the way his voice had broken when he finally claimed her.

Losing her virginity had been a terrifying thought once, but with Lucian, it had been a revelation. It had been... wow

She looked at herself, really looked, her skin was glowing, her eyes held a new depth, and she moved with a confidence that hadn’t been there two days ago.

She was a woman mated to a King, and for the first time, she felt like she actually belonged at his side.

The bond felt different now.

It had settled into the steady and comforting pressure in the back of her mind. She knew Lucian could feel her every spark of joy, her every flicker of embarrassment—she could almost sense his subconscious satisfaction at her current state.

Since she hadn’t marked him back yet, his own emotions remained a bit more veiled to her, only bleeding through when they reached a fever pitch, but she was okay with that. Being his was enough for now.

She looked at the mark again, and her mind suddenly drifted to Alaric. A small, thoughtful frown touched her lips as she remembered the boy’s desperate eyes.

He had been so convinced, so loud about his claim that Selena was his mate. She felt a strange pang of irritation and curiosity.

Part of her really wanted to sit down and have a long chat with him about everything and both of the life she left behind. How was her family and all.

But then she looked back at the bed through the cracked door and sighed. As much as her heart went out to that, she still needed this.

She needed more alone time with her mate, more time to let the dust settle on their new reality before the chaos of the world rushed back in. She splashed cold water on her face, trying to shake the dazed, lovesick expression before she went back to bed.

But as she reached for a towel, a smell hit her so hard she almost got sick.

It was a thick, cloying stench. It didn’t just fill her nose; it felt like it was trying to crawl into her lungs and take root.

The bathroom door creaked open, and Isabella jumped, her heart hammering against her ribs. Lucian stood in the doorway. He wasn’t the peaceful man she had left in the bed.

He looked like a storm given human form. His eyes were no longer gray; they were pits of endless, ink-black shadow, his pupils blown wide.

He didn’t look at her mark. He didn’t look at her glow. In his arms, he clutched a pile of the clothes he had worn the day before—heavy, dark fabrics that carried the concentrated, overwhelming scent of him.

Without a word, he stepped into her space. He moved so fast she didn’t see him move, only felt the sudden, cool rush of air as his arms wrapped around her.

He pulled her flush against his chest, his grip tight and possessive, crushing her into the scent of sandlerwood

"Lucian?" He didn’t answer. He pressed his face into the crook of her neck, right over the mark he had given her, and took a deepbreath.

He stayed there for a heartbeat, grounded by her, before he pulled back just enough to look at her. His face was a mask of controlled rage. He shoved the pile of clothes into her arms while whispering. "Stay in here. Do not open the door. Do not come out until I come for you."

He leaned in, his lips brushing her forehead as he forced her to hold the clothes against her face. "Breathe into these. Only me, Isabella. Focus only on me."

Before she could even open her mouth to ask what was going on, he released her. The sudden loss of him made her shiver.

Lucian turned and strode out of the bathroom. The door clicked shut, and she heard the distinct *thud* of the heavy bedroom door slamming shut seconds later.

Isabella stood alone in the silence of the bathroom, clutching lucain dress shirt to her chest.

——————————

The hallway felt as though it were shrinking, the stone walls vibrating with every heavy, bone-rattling strike Alaric made against the reinforced door.

Clara could still feel the phantom heat of his skin searing her palm—a blistering reminder that the boy she had met yesterday was currently being consumed by a primal fire.

"Stay here," Clara commanded, her fingers trembling slightly as she smoothed her disheveled robes. "Do not open that door. Do not engage him. If he breaches the silver lining, don’t hesitate to slice his throat."

Marcus leaned back against the opposite wall, his expression shifting from unreadable coldness to a dark amusement.

He watched her with an arched brow as she turned on her heel, moving toward her own wing in a blur of ivory silk.

Clara reached her private quarters, the silence of her room a jarring contrast to the violence she had just escaped.

She didn’t head for the bookshelves. Instead, she moved straight to her bed, her hands diving beneath the velvet pillowcase.

Her fingers closed around the cold, textured leather of a volume hidden there, a book of tethering spells too dangerous to be left in the open library.

She yanked the book out, and sprinted back into the hall. She was ready to seal the wing, ready to douse Alaric’s fire with a layer of ancient frost. But she halted mid-step, the breath catching in her throat.

At the far end of the corridor, the shadows seemed to bleed together. Emerging from the gloom was Lucian.

He wasn’t running. He was walking with grace, his dark gray eyes fixed on the East wing. Even from this distance, Clara could see the tension in his jaw and the way his nostrils flared as he caught the aggressive, musk-heavy scent of the Southern Alpha’s rut.