Chapter 105: Guilt

Chapter 105

Clara stopped her pacing abruptly, her shadow stretching long across the floor as she turned to face him.

Her eyes were sharp, reflecting the fluorescent light with an intensity that clashed with the raw, emotional atmosphere of the room.

“What I am driving at, Lucian,” she said, her voice dropping to a low tremor, “is that you are currently protecting a weapon of mass destruction that has no idea it’s loaded. If she wakes up and doesn’t remember, she’s going to look at those marks on your chest—marks that will not fade—and she’s going to ask questions. If you lie to her, you risk the bond. But if you tell her the truth?”

Clara stepped closer, gesturing toward the sleeping girl. “The guilt of nearly killing her her mate, her… whatever you are to her now… that kind of trauma could trigger the beast again. A Lycan’s power is fed by extreme emotion. If she collapses into despair, she might shift just to survive the pain of what she’s done. And this time, there is no Veiled Space to contain her. This mansion will become a slaughterhouse.”

Lucian didn’t flinch. He remained as still as a statue, his wet hair dripping onto the silk of his robe. “You think I should keep it from her,” he stated, his voice devoid of emotion.

“I think you should consider the cost of her sanity,” Clara countered. “She’s finally peaceful. For the first time since she arrived here, the ’foul-mouthed’ girl is quiet. Do you really want to wake her up with the news that she’s a prehistoric monster who tried to eat the King of the Unholy?”

Lucian finally shifted his gaze from Isabella to Clara. The crimson in his eyes was muted by exhaustion, but the authority was still there.

“She deserves the truth,” he murmured, his fingers twitching beneath the sleeves of his robe. “Our lives have been built on deceptions and pain. I will not be another lie in her life.”

“Even if that truth destroys her?” Clara challenged.

Lucian didn’t answer. He turned his back on the witch and walked toward the fireplace, the heat of his new scars pulsing in time with the flickering flames.

“Check on Marco. Tell him I’ll be down shortly. And Clara…” He paused, looking over his shoulder, his face half-hidden by the dark strands of his hair.

“If any of those ’texts’ you’ve studied mention how to feed a Lycan who has fainted from exhaustion, find it. She’s going to wake up hungry.”

Clara sighed, sensing the conversation was over. She gathered her basin and the stained towels, casting one last lingering look at Isabella before slipping out of the master suite.

The click of the door signaled his absolute solitude. Lucian stood by the fire, letting the warmth soak into his damp robe.

He felt the hollow ache in his stomach—the desperate need for blood—but his mind was elsewhere.

He was thinking about the moment Isabella’s eyes would open. Would she see a king? Or would she see a mate?

Suddenly, a sharp, gasping breath broke the silence of the room. Lucian spun around. Isabella’s eyes were closed but she was trashing around the bed. “I’m sorry..i..im sorry”

The sound of her voice, thin and fractured like breaking glass, sliced through the heavy silence of the master suite.

Lucian was across the room in a blurred heartbeat, the hem of his black silk robe snapping against his calves as he reached the bedside.

Isabella was no longer the peaceful porcelain doll Clara had cleaned. She was thrashing against the high-thread-count sheets, her head tossing violently from side to side.

The heavy velvet quilt he had so carefully tucked around her was now a tangled mess, caught between her legs and her frantic, clawing hands.

“I’m sorry… please…it was a lie…” The words were a loop of guilt that made Lucian’s chest tighten—not from the physical wounds she had given him, but from the raw agony vibrating in her tone.

Her knuckles were white as she gripped the silk pillowcase, and beads of cold sweat began to break across her brow, shimmering under the dim fluorescent light.

“Isabella,” Lucian murmured as he reached out, his hand hovering over her trembling shoulder, hesitating for a fraction of a second.

He doesn’t know if touching her would only make it worse but with a shake of his head, he finally made contact, his large hand pinning her shoulder gently to the mattress to keep her from rolling off the edge.

“Isabella, wake up. You’re in the mansion. You’re safe.” She didn’t wake. Instead, she let out a sharp, choked sob, her body arching off the bed.

“No…No… Lucian, please…” The mention of his name, coupled with the desperate plea for whatever, made the air vanish from his lungs.

She was dreaming about something and that something seemed to include him. “I’m here,” He sat on the edge of the bed, the weight of his body causing the mattress to dip, and pulled her toward him.

He ignored the way the movement made the dark, angry scars on his chest throb with renewed heat.

He wrapped his arms around her, quilt and all, hauling her into his lap to anchor her against his solid frame.

Isabella collapsed into his chest, her face burying into the damp silk of his robe, right over the marks she had carved into his skin.

She was still deep under the tide of exhaustion, but her thrashing began to subside as his familiar scent began to permeate her nightmare.

“I’m here,” he repeated, his chin resting atop her tangled dark hair. He rocked her slightly and that seemed to calm the frantic beating of her heart.

He looked toward the dying fire, his jaw set in a hard line. Clara’s warning echoed in his mind: The guilt could trigger the beast again.

He could feel her warmth soaking through his robe, her breathing finally evening out into a heavy, drug-like sleep once more.

She was sorry. Even in the depths of a blackout, she was apologizing to the man who doesn’t care if she pulled his head out over and over again.

Lucian tightened his grip, his eyes glowing fierce and protective. He had told Clara that he wouldn’t lie to her, but as he felt Isabella’s tears dampening the fabric over his fresh scars, he realized that the truth wasn’t just a burden—it was a weapon.

And for the first time in centuries, the King of the Unholy was afraid of the damage he might cause just by speaking.

He wouldn’t leave her. Not to face Marco, not to find food, not for the blood his body screamed for.

He stayed there, a scarred king holding a sleeping god, waiting for those golden eyes to gaze t him again.

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