Chapter 129: Chosen pt2

Chapter 129

Isabella’s fingers tightened on the edge of the chair, the dark, expensive silk of Lucian’s shirt bunching in her frantic grip.

The logic she had built her entire life on—the rigid, fated, and unbreakable laws of the Blackwood Pack—was crumbling into dust beneath her feet, leaving her feeling dangerously exposed and utterly adrift.

She stared down at the ancient text, the words “deliberate act of the will” taunting her from the yellowed page.

Did he only see value in me once I smelled like a mate? The silence of the library suddenly felt heavy and judgmental, as if the thousands of leather-bound books surrounding her were all silent witnesses to her utter insignificance.

She thought of Selena and Aleric again, the image of them burning in her mind like a brand. She hated them—hated them with a white-hot fervor that scorched her gut—but in this moment, she found herself envying the one thing they possessed: certainty.

Selena didn’t have to wonder if Aleric would wake up one morning and find her ’scent’ boring or redundant. The Moon Goddess didn’t allow for “un-choosing.”

But Lucian… Lucian was a Sovereign. He had spent centuries watching kingdoms rise and fall like the tide, watching entire civilizations wither and die like autumn leaves.

What was she to a man like that? A hundred years of her life would be nothing more than a blink of an eye to him.

She flipped the page with a shaky jerk. She needed to find more. She needed to know if there was a way to make a “choice” permanent, or if she was destined to spend the rest of her fleeting human life—however long he graciously allowed her to have—waiting for the inevitable, heartbreaking moment his formidable “will” shifted elsewhere.

The silence of the room was suddenly shattered by the echoing thud of the library’s front doors closing.

The vibration traveled up through the floorboards, settling in her very bones and making her pulse spike.

He was back.

Isabella scrambled to close the ancient book, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped, panicked bird seeking an exit.

She wasn’t ready to face him—not while her head was a chaotic storm of willful bonds and the terrifying possibility that she was nothing more than a biological whim.

She stood up, her legs feeling like leaden weights beneath the long, trailing silk of his shirt, and desperately tried to shove the heavy volume back into its narrow, dark place on the shelf.

The library’s inner doors creaked open behind her. Isabella spun around so fast she nearly tripped over the hem of the oversized shirt, her back slamming hard against the dark wood of the bookshelves.

Her breath hitched, a gasp dying in her throat as she prepared herself for Lucian’s icy, red or gray—depending on his volatile mood—eyed glare.

But it wasn’t the Sovereign who stood in the doorway. Clara stood there, her hands folded neatly over a crisp, white apron, her expression unreadable.

She didn’t move, her sharp eyes immediately tracking from Isabella’s flushed, panicked face to the way her trembling fingers were still clutching the spine of The Chronicles of the Night-Born.

Isabella swallowed hard, trying to smooth out the wrinkled silk of the shirt with hands that refused to stay still. “I… I was just looking for something to read. Lucian said I was free to move about.”

Clara stepped into the room, her gaze lingering pointedly on the way Isabella was literally enveloped in the Sovereign’s clothing, looking small and swallowed by his essence.

A flicker of something complicated—a mixture of old longing and a sharp, stinging irritation—crossed the witch’s face.

“Moving about is one thing, Isabella. Rummaging through the Sovereign’s private history is quite another,” Clara said, her voice like velvet stretched over shattered glass.

She didn’t move to help Isabella with the heavy book; she simply watched, her presence making the air in the library feel thin, restrictive, and suffocating.

“Lucian said I could move around, Clara,” Isabella’s voice was small, almost a whisper, as she finally managed to shove the volume back into its slot with a dull thud.

She felt a sudden, desperate need to talk to someone, anyone, about the crushing insecurity blooming like a dark flower in her chest. “What happens when an Unholy doesn’t want to…?”

“Stop,” Clara interrupted, her tone sharp, authoritative, and utterly devoid of sympathy. She took a single step forward, the light from the massive chandelier catching the unnatural, magical shimmer in her white eyes.

“Your existential crises are not my concern.”

Isabella flinched as if she had been physically slapped.

The coldness in Clara’s voice was a harsh reminder that despite the luxury of this house, she still had no true allies here.

“I just thought… since you know so well…” Isabella began, her voice trailing off.

“I know well enough to know that having doubts in a newly formed bond is not good, Isabella.” Clara’s gaze raked over Isabella’s disheveled appearance in Lucian’s shirt.

She clearly didn’t appreciate the sight of the girl draped in the King’s essence, the scent of him clinging to Isabella’s skin in a way that Clara never could achieve.

It stung, a dull ache of what could have been, but the witch had long ago accepted the cold reality that she and Lucian were not meant for each other.

He was the king, and Isabella was the mate—a fact Clara had been forced to digest, no matter how bitter the taste.

She moved closer, her voice losing some of its sharp edge, though it remained firm. She needed Isabella to understand the weight of what she had, if only to ensure the stability of the man she had served for so long.

“He is with you not because of the bond but because of what you both had before any of these, so please, Isabella, have no doubt again. An Unholy’s choice is a sacred thing, and once made, it’s not easily broken.” Clara’s eyes softened just a fraction, a rare moment of honesty.

“He has chosen to tie his eternity to yours. Do not insult that choice with your fear.” Isabella remained silent, her heart still thumping, though Clara’s words were trying to pull her out of her spiral.

Instead of finding comfort, she felt a fresh wave of confusion crashing over her. What we had before any of these? The phrase echoed in her mind, distorted and strange.

She thought back to that miserable and manipulative vision that was shown to her by Caleb. In that vision Lucain had been a monster, she hoped Clara isn’t implying….

“Now,” Clara’s voice rang through Isabella thought, her voice returning to its usual, brisk tone as she gestured toward the door.

“He is occupied, and I have work to do. He mentioned you both talked about meals, so come. We shall prepare the evening meal together. It will serve to keep your mind off your over-thinking and put those idle hands to use.”

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