Chapter 125: Food

Chapter 124

Isabella climbed onto the plush duvet, the white terry cloth of her robe contrasting sharply against the dark silk of the bedding.

She tucked her legs beneath her, feeling suddenly very small in the center of the massive bed.

She watched him with wide, curious eyes, her shyness still making her pulse skip a beat every time his shadow fell over her.

Lucian lifted the heavy silver tray with a stiff, calculated grace, placing the tray carefully over her lap, the legs of the stand sinking into the soft mattress.

The scent of the food swirled between them. He settled onto the edge of the mattress, movements agonizingly slow to keep the wounds on his chest from tearing further.

He sat close—close enough that Isabella would not suspect something was wrong again. His eyes tracking the way a stray drop of water rolled down her neck from her damp hair.

He reached out, his long, pale fingers picking up a small silver fork. He expertly pierced a piece of the scrambled egg he’d prepared, the meal glistening as he brought it to her lips.

Isabella felt her heart do a frantic little dance against her ribs, shocked to see that Lucain is feeding her.

She opened her mouth, accepting the bite, her eyes locked on his intense gaze. The moment the egg hit her tongue, her expression shifted.

Her brow furrowed, and her nose crinkled in immediate confusion. The texture was perfect, but the flavor was… aggressive.

It was as if someone had confused the amount of salt, and then decided a handful of raw cloves would fix the problem.

It was overwhelmingly salty, sharp, and entirely too much. “Lucian,” she wheezed, swallowing with a visible effort that made her throat bob.

“This is… incredibly salty. Did I offend Clara?” She reached for the glass of water on the tray, taking a long gulp to wash away the stinging brine.

“Clara is definitely angry with me today, because this meal is like poison.” Lucian’s hand froze mid-air, the silver fork trembling slightly. A faint, dark flush crept up his neck—a rare sign of genuine embarrassment that Isabella had never seen on the Sovereign’s face.

“I see,” he rasped, his voice dropping an octave. He looked down at the tray, his jaw tightening. “I suppose my memory of human seasoning has… faded more than I realized.”

Isabella stopped mid-sip, the glass clinking against her teeth. She lowered it slowly, her eyes wide.

“Wait. You made this?”

“The kitchen was empty ,” Lucian said, his tone turning stiff and defensive, though he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“I haven’t set foot in a kitchen in centuries, Isabella. My relationship with ’sustenance’ involves a very different set of senses. I thought the salt would bring out the sweetness of the egg. Apparently, I was mistaken.”

“Oh,” Isabella whispered, her voice softening instantly. The Great King, the man who commanded armies and lived on the blood of the powerful, had spent his morning fumbling with pots and pans just to bring her a tray of fruit.

The “training injury,” the exhaustion, the secrets—it all faded behind the image of him standing over a stove, trying to remember what a human girl liked to eat

“Lucian, I… I didn’t know.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said abruptly, his “King” mask snapping back into place as he reached for the tray to pull it away.

“It is a failure. I’ll have Clara woken up to prepare something edible. This belongs in the waste.”

“No!” Isabella barked, her hand darting out to grab his wrist, stopping him from moving the tray.

She looked at the salty, pepper-laden pear and then back at his guarded face. She took another bite, forcing a smile even as the salt made her eyes water.

“Actually, now that I’m having a second piece… it’s not that bad. It’s… unique. It’s got a kick. I like the kick.”

Lucian looked at her, his amber eyes narrowing with deep skepticism. “Isabella, you are a terrible liar. Your eyes are literally tearing up.”

“It’s the steam from the bath!” she lied, her voice rising in a desperate attempt to be convincing.

She leaned forward, resting her head against his shoulder for a brief second, her wet hair dampening his black shirt.

“It’s perfect because you made it. Don’t you dare take it away.” Lucian let out a huff of a laugh—a sound that was half-amusement and half-disbelief.

He didn’t pull the tray away, but he did set the fork down, his fingers lacing with hers. “I will stick to being a King, Isabella,” he murmured, his thumb tracing circles on the back of her hand. “And you will stick to being a very poor judge of culinary talent.”

Isabella didn’t pull back. She stayed there, her forehead resting against the cool, dark silk of his shoulder.

The air between them was no longer thick with the copper tang of blood or the sharp edges of suspicion; it was soft, quiet, and smelled of the sandalwood on his skin.

“I mean it,” she whispered, her voice muffled by his shirt. “I’d rather eat your salty eggs than a five-star meal from anyone else. Just… maybe let me handle the seasoning next time? For the sake of my kidneys.”

Lucian’s chest vibrated with that low and genuine chuckle. He reached up, his hand hesitating for a fraction of a second before he let it rest on the back of her wet head.

His fingers tangled gently in her damp curls, pressing her just a little closer to him. “Agreed,” he rasped, his eyes closing as he inhaled the scent of her—jasmine.

The sudden intake of his breath was so sharp that Isabella felt it against her temple. An image hit him with the force, more vivid than any dream he’d ever suffered.

It wasn’t the master suite of his mansion, but a room carved from shadow and stone, lit only by the flickering dance of a dying fire.

In the vision, he saw his own hands—not clad in this fine black silk. He was holding a plate of something humble, something he had prepared with the same clumsy, desperate intensity he had felt this morning.

Opposite him sat a woman. Her face was obscured by the shifting darkness, but her eyes—those soft piercing gold eyes—belonged to the girl currently leaning against his chest.

He saw himself bringing a wooden spoon to her lips, and he could almost hear her laugh, a sound that echoed across centuries.

“It tastes like the earth, Lucian,” the ghost of her voice whispered in his mind. “But since you invaded the castle kitchen to bring it to me, I suppose I shall have to endure it.”

The memory flickered and died, leaving him breathless. Lucian’s fingers tightened in Isabella’s curls, a sudden, fierce possessiveness surging through him.

He didn’t remember everything. But he knew her. Memory failed him. Recognition didn’t. “Lucian?” Isabella whispered, sensing the sudden rigidity in his frame.

She pulled back slightly, her eyes searching his. “What is it? Did I… did I press against your chest too hard?”

Lucian blinked, the golden light of the bedroom rushing back in to replace the shadows of the past.

He looked at her, really looked at her, seeing the contemporary girl in the white robe and the ancient soul he had apparently been trying to keep alive for an eternity.

“No,” he managed to rasp, his voice sounding as if it were being dragged over gravel. He forced a smile, though it didn’t quite reach the haunted depths of his eyes.

“Just a momentary lapse of thought. A… shadow of something I thought I’d forgotten.”

He reached out, his thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip, his touch lingering a second too long to be casual.

He felt a sudden, desperate need to keep her here, in this light, away from the stone rooms and the wooden spoons of his half-remembered past.

“Eat your breakfast, Isabella,” he murmured, his voice returning to its protective, Sovereign hum. “Before the salt crystallizes and truly becomes a weapon.”

Isabella laughed softly, the tension breaking, though she kept a wary eye on the way his hand still trembled slightly as he reached for the silver teapot.

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