Chapter 57: Hatchling.

Chapter 57

Isabella lay staring at the ceiling, tracing the intricate, carved patterns of the dark wood until her eyes burned.

The silence in the room was absolute, broken only by the occasional pop of the dying embers in the hearth.

She was bored—restless and agitated in a way that made her skin feel like a suit she was dying to unzip.

She had tried to force herself into the sleep her body clearly needed, but her mind was a frantic engine, fueled by the King’s blood.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw flashes of lightning or felt the spray of sea salt from a cliff that didn’t exist.

“Great,” she muttered to the empty room, her voice sounding flat and alien. “I’m a prisoner in a five-star room.”

She glanced around the room, towards the sleek black television and the high end chandelier. Everything looked so expensive that she fear she would break anything through her breath.

The heavy oak door stared at her. She waited for the latch to click, for the rustle of silk, or for the cold, demanding presence of the man who had put her here.

But Clara hadn’t returned, nor had Lucian.

Didn’t Lucian literally tell Clara to watch over me? Isabella thought, a flare of irritation rising in her chest.

Some bodyguard. The King gives an order, and the jealous witch goes off to pout in a corner the second he turns his back.

The walls felt like they were closing in. The expensive scent of the room and the metallic tang of the blood in her system were becoming suffocating.

“I can’t just stay here,” she whispered.

Gritting her teeth, Isabella gripped the edge of the charcoal duvet and pushed herself up.

The moment her feet touched the cold floor, the world lurched. A violent wave of dizziness hit her, black spots dancing across her vision.

She swayed, her fingers digging into the mattress to keep from face-planting onto the floor. Her heart gave a heavy thud, echoing in her ears with that double-beat she still didn’t understand.

She stayed like that for a moment, head bowed, hair falling over her face, waiting for the room to stop spinning.

The heat in her stomach flared, a pulse of Lucian’s power moving through her veins to stabilize her, as if his blood were a sentient thing sensing her struggle.

As the dizziness receded, Isabella looked toward the tall, arched windows. The moonlight was pouring in, cold and silver.

She didn’t want to just sit and wait to be fed like a hatchling. She wanted answers, and if Clara wasn’t going to give them, maybe she could find a library.

She straightened her back, her legs feeling like jelly, and took her first shaky step away from the bed towards the door.

She padded across the rug, her bare feet silent. As she moved, she passed a tall, golden-framed floor mirror tucked into a shadow between two heavy wardrobes.

She caught a glimpse of movement in the glass and stopped, her heart stuttering. She turned slowly, coming face-to-face with her own reflection for the first time since she had left her pack.

“What the hell…” the whisper died in her throat.

She was dressed in a simple silk shirt—likely one of Lucian’s, given how the hem grazed her mid-thigh and the sleeves swallowed her hands. It was the only thing she had on.

But that wasn’t what made her stomach drop. It was the girl in the glass. Isabella knew she had always been on the thinner side, but the person staring back at her looked as though she were being hollowed out from the inside.

Her collarbones jutted out like blades, and her wrists looked so delicate that a strong breeze might snap them.

She looked pale—not the regal, porcelain pale of the vampires, but a sickly, translucent grey that made her eyes look massive and sunken. She looked like she was about to break if she moved too much.

Then she saw the dark veins branching out from her collarbone and disappearing under the silk.

They looked like ink beneath the skin, or perhaps roots taking hold. And then there was the neck.

Lucian’s mark wasn’t just a bruise or a scar anymore, it was alive, swirling with a soft light that glowed brighter with every double-beat of her heart.

It looked like a brand—a glowing sign of ownership that refused to be ignored.

“I look like a monster,” she breathed, reaching up with trembling fingers to touch the glowing skin. The mark was hot to the touch.

The sight of her own decay fueled a sudden, desperate need to get out—to find a library, a person, or a way to stop the dark roots from spreading further. She turned away from the mirror, unable to look at the “wolfless abomination” a second longer, and grabbed the iron handle of the door.

She expected it to be locked. She expected the “leash” to hold. But when she turned the handle, the heavy oak door groaned and swung inward.

Clara had been so blinded by her own rage that she’d forgotten to engage the secondary latch.

The hallway beyond stretched out into the distance.

Isabella hesitated on the threshold, her toes curling against the freezing floor. She took a breath.

To her left, the hallway disappeared into a darkness that felt heavy and intentional. To her right, a grand staircase spiraled downward, where she could hear the faint, muffled sounds of raised voices.

Lucian.

She chose the darkness. She moved like a ghost, one hand trailing along the wall for support as her legs continued to feel like they were made of water.

Every time her heart gave that strange, double-thud, the mark on her neck flared, lighting up the dim corridor.

As she rounded a corner, her heart nearly stopped. She came face to face with Clara.

The witch stood there, her eyes widening as she took in Isabella’s appearance—the oversized shirt, the sickly pallor, and the pulsating mark of the King.

“Why are you out of bed?” Clara hissed.

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