Chapter 71: Happy birthday.

Chapter 71

The silk of the crimson lining felt like a burn against Lucian’s skin. He stood before the floor-to-ceiling mirror in his other private chamber, the black velvet of his doublet absorbing what little light the flickering torches offered.

He looked every bit the Sovereign of the Unholy. His long, dark hair was slicked back, emphasizing the sharp, predatory angles of his face and the cold, flinty gray of his eyes.

The silver thread of the embroidery caught the light like barbed wire, a warning to any Council member who dared to look too closely for a sign of weakness.

But beneath the structured armor of his clothes, his mind was a battlefield.

What if it’s you?

Isabella’s voice echoed in his head, soft and haunting. He gripped the edge of the vanity, his knuckles turning white.

“Absurd,” he muttered to his reflection.

Him? A fated mate? The idea was a sickness. He was a creature of shadow and ancient, bitter blood—a man who had clawed his way to a throne through corpses and cold iron.

He did not pray to Selena—Moon goddess—. He did not look to the stars for guidance. The Moon Goddess was a distant, fickle mother to the “pure,” and he was anything but pure.

Why would she ever tie one of her precious children—an innocent, even if she was an “Abomination”—to a monster like him?

The bond was a mistake of hunger, a fluke of the taste. It had to be. He adjusted his cuffs, his gaze hardening.

In two hours, the clock would strike midnight. The gala would be in full swing, a den of vipers dressed in silk, all waiting to see if their King would falter.

He would be forced to play the part of the untouchable ruler while Isabella sat alone in the North Wing, her soul hanging in the balance.

He told himself he wanted the bond to snap. He told himself he hoped her “true” mate would appear out of the ether and claim her, whisking away the “bond” and the constant, draining demand of his blood.

He wanted his life back. He wanted to be able to breathe without feeling the flutter of her heart against his own ribs.

But as he looked at the empty cup on his desk, a jagged, ugly spike of possessiveness flared in his chest.

“Let her find him,” he whispered to the empty room, his voice a jagged rasp. “Let the universe take her. I am done bleeding for a girl who dreams of other men.”

But even as the words left his lips, the bond twitched. He felt her unease—that soft, pulsing fear she had felt when she looked toward the woods.

A sharp knock at the door broke his reverie.

“Sire,” Marco’s voice came through the heavy wood.

“The cars are ready. The Council has already arrived at the Great Hall. They are asking for the ’Guest of Honor.’”

Lucian closed his eyes for a brief second, forcing the image of Isabella’s now gold-tipped hair out of his mind.

He straightened his doublet, the black and red making him look like a shadow drenched in blood. “Wait for me at the car, Marco,” Lucian commanded, his voice tight. “I will meet you there in a moment.”

Marco hesitated, his brow furrowing as he glanced toward the corridor leading to the North Wing.

He knew the schedule was razor-thin, and the Council grew more impatient with every passing second, but one look at Lucian’s iron-set jaw silenced any protest. “Yes, Sire.”

Lucian watched Marco disappear down the stairs before he turned. His feet moved of their own accord, carrying him toward the one room he had sworn to stay away from tonight.

He didn’t want his scent to mix with hers when her mate finds her, but who was he kidding. Is blood is literally flowing in her veins.

Every step felt like a betrayal of his own logic. He was dressed to be a King, but the invisible bond around his heart was pulling him like a common mortal.

He reached the heavy door of the North Wing suite and pushed it open, it swung on silent hinges, revealing a room swallowed by the amber glow of the moonlight.

Isabella was there. She was standing by the window, her silhouette small and startlingly pale against the darkening glass.

She was so still she looked like a statue—a ghost waiting for the haunting hour.

“Isabella.”

She didn’t move.

“Isabella,” he said again, louder this time. Still, she remained frozen, her gaze fixed on something deep within the treeline.

A spike of genuine alarm pierced through Lucian’s practiced calm. He strode across the room, the heavy velvet of his cloak sweeping the floor.

When he reached her, he placed a hand on her shoulder—intending to be firm, but his fingers softened the moment they touched her.

Isabella flinched violently, a small gasp escaping her as she snapped her head toward him.

Her eyes were wide, the pupils blown until the amber was nearly swallowed by black. “What were you looking at?” Lucian asked, his voice sharp with suspicion.

He leaned over her, his shadow falling across her face as he peered out the window. He scanned the driveway, the manicured lawns, and the jagged edge of the woods where the shadows were thickest. There was nothing. No figure, no animals, no intruders.

He let out a short, huffed breath, trying to dispel the tension that was making his own heart race. “Don’t tell me it’s another butterfly, Isabella. You look as though you’ve seen a specter.”

Isabella blinked, her long lashes fluttering as she tried to ground herself. She looked back at the woods, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

The red eyes—those vivid, predatory orbs that had felt like they were reaching through the glass—were gone.

The forest was just a forest again, dark and indifferent. She didn’t know how long she had been standing there, gaze locked on the eyes.

She swallowed hard, the secret burning in her throat, but she didn’t speak of it. If she told him she saw red eyes in the dark, he would lock this wing down with iron bars and never let her see the sky again, which was not good for her at the moment.

She needed to find a mate at least. Isabella let her gaze drift away from the window and land on him.

She breathed in, and the scent of him hit her—not just the metallic tang of the blood she had grown to need, but something deeper.

Musk, cold stone, and expensive spice. She took in his outfit, the way the black velvet made his shoulders look impossibly broad and the crimson lining seemed to glow like a warning.

He looked terrifying. He looked beautiful. He looked like the King of a world she wasn’t supposed to survive in.

“You’re leaving,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she realized just how much the “Black and Red” suited him.

For all his talk of being “unholy,” he looked like a god of the underworld preparing to claim his due.

Lucian’s hand stayed on her shoulder, his thumb inadvertently brushing against the lace-like veins on her neck.

Through the bond, he felt her admiration, her fear, and that strange, new sweetness that had begun to color her thoughts of him.

“I have to,” he said, his voice dropping to a low rumble that vibrated through her skin. “The vipers are hungry for a show.”

He looked at her hair, the gold now reaching halfway up the strands, shimmering like a crown she hadn’t asked for. In the dim light, she looked like a piece of the moon that had fallen and stayed.

“Stay away from the glass,” he commanded, his grip tightening for a fraction of a second. “And don’t go looking for things that aren’t there.”

Isabella didn’t pull away from his touch. Instead, she leaned into it just a fraction, a subconscious move that sent a jolt of electricity through their shared bond.

The heat of his hand through her thin shirt felt like the only real thing in a world that was rapidly turning into gold and red shadows.

“The gala,” she said, her voice finding a bit more strength. “Will you be back before… before the hour?”

Lucian’s gaze dropped to her lips, then flicked back to her eyes. The gray of his irises was turbulent, reflecting a war he was losing.

“I don’t know. The Council intends to keep me on my throne until the sun rises. They would want to brask in my presence.”

He reached out with his other hand, his fingers hovering near the gold-tipped strands of her hair. He didn’t touch them, but she could feel the air hum between them.

“You look like a Sovereign, Isabella. Not an abomination. Not a wolfless.”

“And you look like you’re going to war,” she countered.

A ghost of a smirk touched his lips—dark and devoid of humor. “In this kingdom, there is no difference between a celebration and a battlefield.”

He straightened his posture, the regal mask sliding back over his features with agonizing slowness.

He stepped back, the loss of his heat making the room feel ten degrees colder instantly. He looked toward the door, then back at her, his expression unreadable.

“Marco is waiting,” he said, his voice regaining its cool, measured distance. “The locks will be doubled tonight in my absence but Clara will be outside the door. If you feel… if you feel the ’fated bond’ pulling at you, you tell her. Do you understand?”

Isabella nodded, though she knew Clara wouldn’t be much help if her magic was truly being drained.

“I understand, Lucian.” He turned on his heel, his heavy cloak fanning out behind him. He reached the door and paused, his hand on the handle.

He didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

“Happy Birthday, Isabella,” he said, the words sounding less like a celebration and more like a farewell.

The door shut with a heavy, final thud. The lock turned—once, twice. Isabella stood in the center of the room, the silence rushing back in to swallow her.

She waited until the sound of his boots faded down the hall, until the distant roar of a car engine signaled his departure.

She turned back to the window. “Are you still there?” she whispered against the glass.

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