Chapter 68: Taste only him

Chapter 68

The silence Lucian left behind was not empty; it was heavy, ringing with the echo of the iron lock and the cold finality of his words.

Isabella remained on the floor, her knees pulled to her chest, staring at the door as if she could still see his retreating shadow through the wood.

Stay in the present. With me.

It was a command, yet it sounded like a plea.

Isabella looked down at her palms. The soot from the shattered stone had stained her skin, a dark reminder of the bridge she had crossed.

Lucian called it a lure. He called it the grave. But the “Void” in her chest—the one he claimed was rotting her—felt quieter now.

The peace she had felt when her doppelgänger passed through her hadn’t felt like death. It had felt like the first full breath of air she had taken in years.

She closed her eyes, trying to summon the scent again. Cedar. Jasmine. Rain.

Lucian said it wasn’t good. But as she sat there, the scent didn’t fade with his departure.

Meanwhile, Lucian strode down the long, shadowed corridor of the North Wing, the heavy click of his boots against the stone sounding like a countdown.

His face remained a mask of coldness, but beneath the surface, his thoughts were a chaotic swarm.

He had meant what he said. To him, the peace, the jasmine, and the faceless man were not omens of a past life reclaimed—they were the whispers of a predator more ancient than himself, reaching out to claim what was his.

Every time Isabella touched the supernatural, she nearly broke. Every time she reached for the “beyond,” she returned more fragile, more transparent.

To Lucian, anything that pulled her focus away from the reality of his blood and his walls was a hand trying to drag her into the earth.

He would not allow it. He would anchor her to the here and now, even if he had to burn the memory of that “peace” right out of her soul.

As he reached the grand staircase, Marco appeared from the shadows of the landing as if he had been woven from them.

“Sire,” Marco began, bowing his head slightly as he fell into step beside the King. “The most expensive clothing company have sent their finest. The materials have arrived and are laid out in the solar. They await your final selection.”

Lucian didn’t slow his pace. “The gala is a week away, Marco. I have more pressing concerns than the weave of a doublet.”

“With all due respect, Sire, the Council’s eyes will be sharpest on that night,” Marco pressed, his voice low and urgent. “They are looking for any sign of decay, any hint that the King is distracted. Your appearance must be a statement of absolute, unshakable power.” Marco said, his gaze flickering toward the upper floors.

Lucian paused at the base of the stairs, his hand gripping the carved banister. The mention of council brought a fresh spike of irritation, he pictured how all eyes would be on him. Calculating, accessing.

“Very well,” Lucian rasped. “Let us see what the vultures have brought.” He followed Marco into the solar, where long tables were draped in rolls of velvet, silk, and heavy brocade.

The colors were a grim palette of the Unholy Kingdom: deep crimsons that looked like drying blood, midnight blacks, and charred silvers.

Lucian walked the length of the table, his fingers trailing over a piece of midnight-blue velvet. It was soft, expensive, and utterly lifeless.

“This,” Marco pointed to a shimmering roll of dark, iridescent fabric that seemed to change color in the light, shifting from black to a bruised, violet-gray.

“It is woven with shadow-silk. It would mask the pulse of a King’s mark better than any other.”

Lucian stared at the violet tint. It was the exact color of the light Isabella had described in her vision.

“No,” Lucian said, his voice a lethal edge. He moved to a roll of heavy, unyielding black wool, trimmed with silver thread that looked like barbed wire.

“I want something that looks like armor. I am not just attending a celebration, Marco. I might be attending a battlefield also” His hand moved along the table, bypassing the delicate silks and the shimmering illusions of the shadow-silk.

He stopped before a roll of black velvet, so dark it seemed to absorb the torchlight of the solar, paired with a heavy, crimson brocade that possessed the deep, visceral hue of arterial blood.

It was a combination that spoke of ancient lineages and the violent price of the throne.

“This,” Lucian commanded, his voice echoing in the vast room. “The black for the base, the crimson for the lining. I want it structured, sharp. Every seam should look like a blade’s edge.”

Marco stepped forward, dipping his head in approval as he signaled a waiting scribe to mark the selection.

“A wise choice, Sire. It is a formidable palette. The tailors will be notified immediately; they will work through the nights to ensure the fit is as precise as a second skin.”

Lucian barely heard him. He was staring at the red fabric, his mind conjuring the image of Isabella’s pale throat and the veined mark that bound her to him.

The red of the cloth was too close to the color of the fluid that kept her heart beating. It was a constant reminder that her life was a finite resource he was manually replenishing.

The heavy oak doors creaked open.

Clara stepped inside, silent as breath. In her hands, she carried a silver cup.

Lucian did not ask.

He extended his arm without a word and drew his dagger across his wrist in one smooth motion.

The scent of iron bloomed instantly in the air.

Dark blood welled and spilled into the cup in a steady, controlled stream. Not a tremor in his hand.

Not a flicker in his expression.

“Marco,” Lucian said calmly, cleaning the wound with a strip of cloth torn from his cuff. “See to the tailors.”

“Yes, Sire.”

Lucian turned toward the door.

Clara followed behind him, the silver cup warm and heavy in her hands as his blood settled into it.

Upstairs, Isabella still smelled the rain.

And below, Lucian ensured she would taste only him.

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