Chapter 104: She might not remember.

Chapter 104

The steam in the ensuite bathroom was thick and heavy, a humid shroud that clung to the dark, cold marble walls and blurred the sharp edges of the gilded mirrors into shimmering ghosts of gold.

Lucian stood motionless beneath the punishing downpour of the shower, his head bowed, the water scalding enough to blister the skin of any living human.

He didn’t feel the heat. He didn’t feel the sting of the spray. All he felt was the suffocating weight of his own limbs and the echo of ivory claws still raking across his psyche, tearing through his memory of who he was.

He had remained by Isabella’s side for another hour, his vigil silent and unyielding, watching the constant rise and fall of her chest until the sight of the dirt and drying blood on her skin became a burden he could no longer endure.

It was his blood, it was her blood, and it was the filth of that collapsing dimension—all of it mingled together on her pale skin.

He had summoned the last of his strength to command Clara to tend to her, ordering the witch to use the finest warm water and silk towels to cleanse the girl while he retreated into the shadows.

He had needed the distance. Not because he wanted to leave her side—never that—but because the sight of her lying there, so devastatingly human and fragile after being so terrifyingly divine and monstrous, was shattering the last of his kingly composure.

Lucian raised his hands, pressing his bruised palms against the wet tile. He watched as the water swirling at his feet turned a muddy, rusted crimson.

The dirt of the Veiled Space and the crusted gore from his own shredded chest washed away, spiraling down the drain in a dark, violent whirlpool.

As the grime vanished, the true map of his survival was finally revealed. His skin, usually filled with the small, faded white scars of his long and violent old life, was now a tapestry of uneven, dark lines that seemed to throb with a life of their own.

His vampiric healing had worked with frantic, desperate speed, knitting the deep furrows back together, but the Lycan’s strike had been laced with a celestial fire that left its permanent mark—a mark he hadn’t fully seen or understood until this moment because of the thick blood that had masked his ruin.

The scars across his collarbone and chest were raised, angry, and dark, a permanent brand of the night the Moon Goddess had reclaimed her own.

He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he traced the longest scar that ran diagonally toward his abdomen.

It felt different under his touch—harder, more sensitive, and significantly hotter than the rest of his skin.

She almost ended me, he thought, the thick steam filling his lungs like a heavy mist. And I would have let her.

The realization didn’t bring him the shame he expected a King to feel. Instead, it brought a terrifying, crystalline clarity.

He had spent centuries seeking a power that could match his own, searching every dark corner of the earth for a rival, and he had finally found it in a girl who usually spent her days here hurling insults at him, cursing his very name, and blaming him for almost killing her during their first encounter.

He shut off the water, the silence of the room crashing down on him. He grabbed a black silk robe, pulling it over his damp, scarred body; the fabric felt like lead against his sensitized, aching skin.

He didn’t bother to dry his hair. The long, dark strands clung to his neck and covered his broad back, dripping cold water onto the floor as he stepped back into the bedroom.

The room was bathed in the soft light from the florescent. Clara was just finishing her task, placing a basin of pink-tinged water on the nightstand.

She had changed Isabella into a soft, oversized linen shirt—one of Lucian’s own—and the girl now looked tucked in and peaceful, the heavy quilt pulled up to her waist.

Clara looked up as Lucian approached, her eyes lingering on the dampness of his robe and the exhausted, dark hollows beneath his eyes.

She looked like she wanted to say something—perhaps a warning, or perhaps a question about the scars he was hiding beneath the silk—but the look on his face remained a closed book, locked tight against the world.

“She’s clean,” Clara whispered, stepping back to give him his space. “The heat in her skin is finally fading, but she’s still deep under. Lucian… the mansion is quiet for now, but Marco is pacing the foyer. He felt it. He would definitely ask what occurred, and I don’t know what story you want him to hear.”

Lucian walked to the edge of the bed, his gaze fixing on Isabella’s sleeping face. He didn’t answer Clara at first, his silence stretching until the air in the room felt taut.

“Lucian,” Clara whispered again, stepping closer as she cast a paranoid, darting glance toward the heavy oak doors.

“You and I both know she was wolfless. I’ve lived centuries, I’ve studied every text in the hidden archives, but I’ve never seen a dormant gene carry that much power. That wasn’t just a shift, Lucian. That was an awakening of something prehistoric.”

Clara stood at the foot of the bed, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as if she were trying to hold her own soul together.

“Lucian. Look at her.” She gestured with a trembling hand to the faint, ethereal glow that still seemed to cling to Isabella’s skin like the persistent memory of moonlight.

“The Moon Goddess didn’t just give her a wolf. She gave her the original wolf. The very first shifter. The one the myths say was locked away because even the heavens couldn’t tame it.”

Clara paced a small, tight circle, her eyes wide with a mix of academic fascination and pure, unadulterated dread.

“Everyone believes she’s wolfless—my mother, you, Marco. Everyone thinks she is, because her body simply couldn’t handle the frequency of a Lycan soul. It was waiting for a catalyst. It was waiting for the bond with a Sovereign’s acceptance to jumpstart the heart and force the blood to change.”

Lucian let his wet hair fall across his face, closing his eyes as the weight of her words settled into his bones.

Clara took a deep breath as she continues, not caring if Lucain is listening to her, all she wanted was to get everything out of her chest.

“She might not remember, Lucain.” Lucian looked down at his covered chest, feeling the heat of the scars beneath the silk.

“So what are you driving at, Clara?

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