Chapter 110: Eat.

Chapter 110

The heavy oak doors hadn’t been closed for more than twenty minutes before the soft click of heels against the polished marble of the hallway signaled another presence approaching the oppressive silence of the master suite.

Isabella didn’t move. She remained curled into a tight, defensive ball of misery in the center of the vast, sprawling bed, her face pressed deeply into the dark, cool silk of Lucian’s discarded robe.

She was greedily inhaling the fading, haunting scent of sandalwood and cold rain that still clung stubbornly to the expensive fabric—a sensory reminder of the man who had just walked away from her with such calculated distance.

She heard the door groan open on its heaves, a sliver of light from the corridor cutting an agonizing path across the dim, shadowed room, but she didn’t look up.

In her mind, she was already braced for the absolute worst. She expected Marco to come marching in, his face a mask of loyal, righteous fury, finally arriving to formally banish her for her crimes against the King’s peace and her perceived betrayal of their sacred, frayed bond.

Instead, the familiar scent of dried herbs filled the stagnant air. “He told me you were finally awake,” Clara’s voice announced.

It was uncharacteristically soft, lacking its usual sharp edge, yet it carried an underlying weight that suggested she had been through a harrowing ordeal of her own.

Isabella felt the mattress dip significantly as a heavy tray was set down on the nightstand. The delicate clink of crystal and the savory, rich aroma of warm broth and freshly baked bread felt offensively normal—a mundane, domestic intrusion into a world that had just been violently rewritten in blood, shadow, and screams.

“Clara,” Isabella whispered into the silk in a muffled acknowledgement, her voice thick and raspy with the remnants of her tears and the long, suffocating hours of silence. “Please… just leave me alone. I don’t want to see anyone.”

Clara let out a heavy sigh, a long, weary sound that vibrated with the collective weight of the last forty-eight hours of absolute chaos.

“Isabella, look at me. I have a directive to follow, and your cooperation will make this process significantly less taxing for both of us. The King does not take kindly to his orders being neglected.”

Slowly, with the agonizing strength of someone who had lost all will to fight, Isabella uncurled herself.

Her hair was a tangled mess framing a pale, haunted face that looked as if it had aged decades in a matter of days.

Her eyes, still shimmering with that strange, unsettled red ring that seemed to glow from deep within the iris, landed on the tray.

It was a feast fit for a recovering Queen—honeyed tea, rich broth, and fruits that looked too vibrant, too perfect to be real.

“He left,” Isabella suddenly said, her voice cracking as the realization settled like cold lead in her stomach.

“He wouldn’t even stay to see if I could swallow the water he brought. He’s repulsed by me, Clara. I know it. I can feel the distance between us now like a wall made of iron. He can’t even look at me without seeing the girl who doubted him. The girl who broke everything.”

Clara froze, her hands hovering with practiced precision over her medical case. Her mind flashed back to only moments ago—Lucian had come to her, his face the color of grey ash, his shirt soaked in a heat he tried to hide, ordering her with a terrifying, lethal intensity to make sure Isabella was properly fed and taken care of.

He had nearly collapsed right there in the hallway, his Sovereign strength failing him at last.

Clara had tried to reach out, to offer him the aid of her craft, but Lucian had snapped at her like a wounded animal, giving her a threat that left no room for hesitation.

So, hearing Isabella say all that—claiming he was repulsed, claiming he didn’t care—was so far from the agonizing truth that it made Clara’s jaw tighten.

But the witch remained silent on that front. Lucian had commanded absolute secrecy, and Clara knew better than to cross a Sovereign who was already at his breaking point.

“He ordered this personally,” Clara said, her voice now detached and clinical, as if she were merely reciting a list of ingredients for a complex potion.

She didn’t offer a comforting smile or a single word of solace to the broken girl on the bed. Instead, she simply reached for a small, leather-bound case she had brought with her, her movements precise and wary.

She was hyper-aware of the volatile atmosphere in the room. She didn’t want to say or act in any way that might trigger a Lycan entrance or a surge of the power she knew was currently simmering just beneath Isabella’s skin. Isabella was in a very unstable, foul, and volatile mood, and Clara treated her like a dormant volcano—one that could erupt and level the entire mansion if the wrong nerve was touched.

“Sit up, Isabella,” Clara’s tone was professional and distant, brookng no argument. “I need to check your vitals and ensure that your body is accepting the stabilization.”

Isabella complied, though every movement felt like she was dragging her limbs through heavy, invisible silt. She sat up against the ornate headboard, the silk of Lucian’s shirt sliding over her skin like a cooling balm.

She watched in a hollow silence as Clara went to work, the witch’s movements efficient and entirely devoid of the warmth one might expect for a girl who had just returned from the brink of the abyss.

Clara’s hands were steady as she pressed a cold, wet rag over Isabella’s forehead to combat the rising fever, but the witch’s eyes remained fixed on a point somewhere over Isabella’s shoulder, refusing to meet her gaze.

She checked her pulse, her pupils, and that strange, rhythmic vibration that seemed to emanate from Isabella’s very marrow.

Throughout the entire process, Clara’s face was a masterpiece of stony neutrality. It was a mask that implied “do not ask me a single question.”

It was an expression that Clara wore like heavy armor whenever the secrets that were hers to share—or keep—became too heavy to bear.

Isabella swallowed hard, her throat feeling like it was lined with glass. She desperately wanted to break the silence. She wanted to grab Clara by the shoulders and demand to know how she had ended up back in this bed.

The last memory she held was the suffocating orange light of that hidden room, the mocking shadow of Caleb, and the cold, ethereal presence of Elena.

Between that moment and waking up to find Lucian standing over her like a hollowed-out ghost, there was nothing but a vast, black void.

The questions burned in her mind, scratching at the back of her teeth. How did I get out? Who carried me? What did I do? But one look at the iron set of Clara’s jaw told her that the answers were not going to come from her tonight.

“Your vitals are stabilizing, though your core temperature remains stubbornly high,” Clara finally spoke, her voice as dry as parchment.

She finally looked at Isabella, but her gaze was guarded, a flicker of caution dancing in her eyes as if she were waiting for the girl to suddenly lash out with a strength neither of them understood.

Clara stood, smoothing the front of her dark gown, and gestured toward the silver tray. The steam from the broth had begun to thin, leaving a savory scent that felt heavy in the quiet room.

“Eat, Isabella,” Clara commanded, her tone leaving no room for negotiation. “The herbs in that broth are not merely for nutrition. They are essential for your recovery.”

Isabella looked at the bread and the broth, feeling a wave of nausea that had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with the heavy, silent house beyond the doors.

She didn’t understand why the food wasn’t only for nourishment, and Clara clearly didn’t care to explain as she added,

“I will be back in an hour to take the plates. Ensure they are empty.” Clara was already turning toward the exit, moving with the haste of someone who wanted to be as far away from the master suite—and the creature waking up inside it—as possible.

The heavy doors clicked shut behind her, the sound echoing through the room like a gavel.

Isabella was alone again, draped in the scent of a man who wouldn’t touch her and the weight of a memory she couldn’t find. She looked at the tray, her fingers curling into the silk sleeves of the shirt.

She wasn’t sure if she was hungry, but as the bond thrummed with strange, borrowed emotions that weren’t her own, she felt a sharp, hungry tug.

Through the frayed edges of their connection, she realized with a jolt of sudden clarity that Lucian wasn’t just exhausted. He was absolutely starving.

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