Chapter 61: Fated.

Chapter 61

The corridors of the North Wing felt longer than usual, the shadows stretching and curling at the edges of Lucian’s vision.

Every step he took towards the heavy oak doors that led to his bedroom felt like he was walking into a trap he had set for himself. Behind him, Marco walk as silent as s ghost.

The bond between him and Isabella gave a violent, greedy tug but it wasn’t a cry for help; it felt like a draw.

Lucain increased his pace and with one single push to the closed door it opened. The doors flew open with a crash that rattled the chandelier in the foyer.

The sight that met him was chaotic. Isabella was on the floor, but she wasn’t the fragile, dying thing he had left hours ago.

She was kneeling in a sea of books, a small piece of stone clutched in her hand. Clara was a feet away, kneeling next to Isabella.

“What,” Lucian roared, his voice shaking the stone walls, “is happening in my house?”

Isabella’s head snapped up, the little ritual they were performing burned out as her eyes fell on Lucain scowling face.

Isabella’s heart did a frantic somersault against her ribs. She looked down at the cracked stone in her palm—now cold and useless—and then back at Lucian.

The glow on her skin was still fading, a shimmering remnant of the magic she had just inhaled.

“We were…” Isabella started, her voice sounding far too loud in the sudden, ringing silence.

She cleared her throat, trying to find her footing as she pushed herself up from the floor. “We were trying to find Clara’s magic. I thought… I thought if we followed the spells, we could fix whatever happened to her.”

Lucian didn’t move. He stood in the doorway like a monolith of impending judgment, his gaze tracking the silver-inked books splayed around her feet.

“And did you find it?” he asked, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble.

Isabella glanced at Clara.

The witch was uncharacteristically still, her hands buried in the folds of her gown. She looked like a predator that had suddenly realized it was being hunted, her eyes darting toward the floor.

She wasn’t offering any help, clearly terrified that Lucian would realize she had been using his “bonded” as a lab rat.

“I found it,” Isabella whispered, her gaze dropping to the sea of parchment. She felt a sickening twist of guilt in her stomach.

“I’m the reason it’s gone, Lucian.. I’m… uh I’m stealing it. Every time she tries to reach for her power, I’m the one who pulls it in. I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t know I was doing it.”

The admission hung in the air. Lucian’s eyes narrowed as he stepped into the room, the door clicking shut behind Marco who followed.

Lucain ignored the books, ignored the witch, and walked straight toward Isabella until he was looming over her, a shadow that blotted out the weak morning light.

He didn’t look surprised. He looked like a man who had just had his worst suspicions confirmed. “The Void of the Vessel,” he murmured, the words sounding like a curse.

He reached out, his large hand wrapping around her upper arm as he pulled her up from the floor.

Isabella stumbled slightly as Lucain moved her to the bed, her legs feeling like lead now that the immediate “high” of the stolen magic was settling.

She sat on the mattress, the soft give of the feathers a sharp contrast to the cold floor she’d been kneeling on.

Lucian loomed over her again. “How many winters, Isabella?” he asked, his voice a low, vibrating hum that made the mark on her neck throb.

Isabella looked up at him, her hair a tangled mess over her shoulders. “What?”

“Your age,” Lucian growled, “Tell me exactly how many years you have walked this earth.”

“I’m seventeen,” she snapped, her defiance flaring even through her exhaustion. ” Why? Are you planning on throwing me a party?”

Lucian went deathly still. The air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees, the frost of his realization creeping across the floor.

He let out a sharp intake breath that was half-laugh, half-snarl.

“Seventeen,” he whispered, looking down at his own hands as if they were covered in someone else’s blood, he had already guessed after reading the book but hearing it again felt surreal.

“I am bonded to a premature child. A fledgling who hasn’t even seen her own dawn.” Isabella’s eyes narrowed, her temper finally snapping.

“A child? I was old enough for you to hunt, wasn’t I? You didn’t seem to care about my birth certificate before you were sticking your fangs in my throat and turning my blood into your personal cocktail!”

Clara, who had been hovering in the shadows like a ghost, let out a soft, choked sound. She was staring at the floor, her fingers twitching against her gown.

“No wonder…” Clara muttered, her voice trembling with a mixture of horror and dawning clarity. “No wonder the reversal ritual failed. I was trying to force a spiritual purge on a soul that hasn’t even bloomed yet. It’s like trying to harvest fruit from a seed that’s still underground.”

Isabella looked from the brooding King to the witch, her confusion boiling over into a frustrated shout.

“What the hell does any of this have to do with my age? I’m the same person I was yesterday! Why are you both acting like I’ve suddenly turned into a ticking bomb?”

Lucian didn’t answer her directly. Instead, he loomed closer, the embers in his eyes glowing with a terrifying intensity that pinned her to the mattress.

“When is the day?” he asked, his voice stripped of emotion. “When exactly do you turn eighteen?”

Isabella swallowed hard, the weight of his gaze making her chest feel tight. “In less than two weeks,” she whispered.

“Twelve days, I think. I’ve lost track of time in this nightmare.” She looked from Lucian to Clara, her frustration mounting.

“Can someone please explain what the fuck is going on? Why does it matter if I’m seventeen or seventy? You already ruined my life, so why is the calendar suddenly the enemy?”

Lucian straightened his back. He looked over at Marco, who remained a silent guard at the door, then back to Isabella.

“You are going to stay in this room,” Lucian commanded, his tone final. “For the next twelve days, you do not cross that threshold. You do not wander around. You will wait here until your birthday.”

Isabella blinked, stunned. “Locked up? Again? For what?”

“For your Awakening,” Lucian said, pacing the length of the bed. “At eighteen, a werewolf’s soul finally matures. The veil lifts. If you have a fated mate—the soul the Moon actually intended for you—that is the moment they will be able to find you. And that,” he pointed a finger at the book in his hand,

“is the only way to clear this ’accidental’ bond between us. We find him, he claims you, and I am finally rid of this parasitic bond.”

Isabella stared at him for a beat as a hysterical laugh bubbled up in her throat. She leaned back against the headboard, her shoulders shaking with mirthless amusement.

“Fated mate?” she choked out, her voice dripping with irony. “Sure. Let’s find the lucky guy.”

She laughed harder, the sound sounding a bit ragged in the quiet room. “Lucian, have you forgotten who you’re talking to? I’m wolfless. I’m the girl my own pack threw away because I don’t have a beast, I don’t have a wolf, and I sure as hell don’t have a soulmate waiting at the finish line.”

She wiped a mock tear from her eye, her expression turning cold. “There is no ’True Mate’ coming to save us, Lucian. I’m a blank slate. You didn’t just mark a child; you marked a ghost. There’s no one else coming for me.”

“The books say otherwise,” Lucian hissed, slamming the volume down on the nightstand with a thud that made the lamp rattle.

“The Moon does not leave a void unfilled. If there is a soul meant to balance yours, the Awakening will draw him to you like a beacon.”

“And if there isn’t?” Isabella challenged, her voice dropping to a whisper. “What happens in twelve days if no one shows up to take your ’accident’ off your hands?”

Lucian didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Because he know the answer to that too.

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