WOLFLESS: Accidentally Marked By The Devil's Son-Chapter 100: He bowed.

Chapter 100

The silence left in Elena’s wake was heavy, pressing against Lucian’s eardrums like the weight of the deep ocean.

Beside him, Clara was frozen, her breath coming in shallow hitches. She knew enough—every supernatural knew of this myth to realize that they were no longer standing in a room with a woman—they were standing in a territory that had already been claimed.

"Lucian," Whispered Clara. "We have to go. Now. The rift is still open behind us. If we leave, we can find a way to bind her, to—"

"No." The word was short, clipped, and final. Lucian didn’t take his eyes off the Lycan. He couldn’t.

The beast had lowered its center of gravity, its powerful haunches coiled like springs. The silver fur along its spine stood like glass, and the heat radiating from its body was beginning hit them hard.

It took another step, silently challenging them to come at it first. Lucian felt the power within him churning, responding to the threat. His vampiric instincts lashed out instinctively.

He tried one last time to pierce the veil of the beast’s mind. Isabella, he called out through the bond, pouring every memory of the forest, every drop of blood he had given for her, into the mental link.

Bella, look at me. It’s Lucian. The response was a mental roar that sent him reeling. It wasn’t words or thoughts; it was a wave of pure, territorial aggression.

To the Lycan, his mental reach wasn’t a plea, it was an intrusion. An attack on its sovereignty. The beast let out a low, vibrating hum that started in its chest and rattled the stones beneath Lucian’s boots.

"She doesn’t know you," Clara’s hand reached out to tug at Lucian’s arm. "Elena was right. To her, you’re just another predator in her space.

Lucian, look at her eyes—there’s no sight of Isabella left. There’s only the hunt."

Lucian watched as the Lycan’s tail flicked, It was sizing him up. It was looking for the weak point in his armor, the hitch in his breath, the flicker of hesitation in his crimson eyes.

He realized then that Elena’s parting gift was the ultimate cruelty. He had spent his life as the apex predator, the King who took what he wanted and crushed what he didn’t.

But he couldn’t crush this. To defeat the Lycan was to kill the woman he had spent thousands of years waiting for.

But to remain still was to let the beast tear the life from his body. The Lycan’s eyes flashed, the red ring around its golden irises pulsing with light.

It shifted its weight, its claws sinking into the floor, carving deep grooves into the rock. "Clara," Lucian said, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl that mirrored the beast’s own frequency.

"Get through the rift. Close it."

Clara’s head snapped toward him. "Lucian... what?" Clara’s voice cracked, "If I close it from the other side, I can’t guarantee I can rip it open again! You’ll be trapped in a folding reality with a Lycan that wants to wear your ribcage as a crown!"

"I said close it," Lucian repeated, his voice vibrating with a subterranean power that made the dust on the floor dance. He didn’t look back.

His eyes were solely locked on the molten gold of the Lycan’s gaze, watching the way the beast’s pupils dilated, tracking the pulse in his neck.

"If she breaks out of this space in this state, she will level the mansion. She will kill everyone in her path before she even realizes who she is. I will not let her become the monster the world fears."

"She’ll kill you!"

"Then I die by her hands." Lucian growled. "Go, Clara!"

Clara hesitated for a heartbeat, looking at the bare chested, blood-stained King and the silver-furred beast, before she scrambled backward through the shimmering tear in reality.

As she crossed the threshold, she cast one final, grief-stricken look at Lucian. With a quick incantation and a flick of her chalk-stained wrist, the rift collapsed

They were alone.

The Lycan let out a short huff of air, its head tilting as it watched the exit vanish. It seemed almost amused, its thick tail twitching.

Now that the "litter" was gone, it could focus entirely on the only threat left in the room. Lucian let his Sovereign presence bleed out, no longer trying to hide his strength.

The air turned freezing, frost crystallizing on the stone walls, meeting the Lycan’s golden heat in a clashing fog of steam.

"Alright, Bella," Lucian whispered, his voice steady despite the adrenaline screaming in his veins.

He didn’t get to speak again because in a blur of light, the beast moved. It launched it’s six and a half feet of celestial muscle and ivory claws hurtling across the distance in a fraction of a second.

Lucian barely had time to dodge the attack. She’s fast. He thought. She was faster than anything he had encountered in centuries of existence.

This wasn’t the sloppy, desperate speed of a newborn vampire or the predictable lunges of a standard shifter; it was a terrifying fluidity.

Lucian’s boots scraped against the stone as he twisted his torso, the air whistling past his ear where a claw had been a millisecond before.

He didn’t strike back. He couldn’t. His fists remained unclenched, his palms open in a gesture of non-aggression that the beast seemingly ignored.

The Lycan pivoted with a grace that defied its massive size, its hind legs kicking off the wall to launch another assault.

Lucian dipped low, the silver blur of her tail narrowly missing his head. He was a master of combat, a king who had survived wars that burned maps to ash, but here, he was merely a dancer on the edge of a claw.

Again. She moved with a shimmering heat that distorted his vision. He moved his head to the left, feeling the displacement of air as her paw slammed into the stone pillar behind him, shattering the solid rock into dust.

Lucian felt the vibration through the floor. "Isabella, stop!" he commanded, his voice echoing in the windowless room.

The response was a snarl. The beast didn’t like his voice or his tone. it seemed to trigger a deeper aggression.

She lunged again, and this time, Lucian’s footing betrayed him. A loose piece of rubble from the pillar he’d just dodged rolled under his heel.

In that split second of imbalance, the Lycan caught him. She struck with a roar that shook the very foundations of the pocket dimension, her right claw swept across his chest in a brutal act.

Lucian was sent flying. He hit the far wall with a bone-crunching thud, the stone cracking behind him as he slumped to the ground.

The pain was immediate and blinding—a searing, white-hot agony that felt like molten lead being poured into his veins.

He looked down, his breath coming in gasps. The Lycan’s claws had torn through him with precision and monstrous strength.

Three deep, jagged furrows ran from the base of his neck, across his collarbone, and down to his abdomen.

His trousers were shredded, and his chest was a map of crimson ruins. He could see the gleam of his own ribs through the torn muscle.

The Lycan paused, its snout wrinkled, inhaling the scent of the Sovereign’s blood filling the room.

It watched him with those molten gold eyes, waiting for him to stay down. But Lucian was the king of the unholy for a reason.

He gritted his teeth as his vampiric healing kicked into overdrive. The skin around the wounds knitted, the blood reversing its flow, the torn muscles weaving themselves back together.

Within seconds, the lethal gashes had closed into thin scars, and then into nothing but smooth, pale skin.

He pushed himself up, his eyes never leaving the beast. He was exhausted, the rapid healing draining his reserves, but he stood tall.

"Is that all you have?" he rasped and the Lycan let out a sound of genuine frustration—a high-pitched whine that turned into a menacing growl.

She didn’t understand why the prey just wouldn’t die. She crouched again, her fur bristling, preparing for a more terminal strike.

Lucian knew he couldn’t keep this up. Dodging was a temporary solution in a room that was slowly shrinking as the pocket dimension began to fold in on itself.

If he didn’t find a way to break through the Lycan’s instinct and reach the girl underneath, he would eventually run out of blood to heal with, or the dimension would crush them both into the same grave.

He saw her muscles bunch for the next lunge. He saw the gold-red fire in her eyes brighten.

I can’t hurt her, he thought, his hand drifting toward the place on his chest where the wounds had just been.

A sudden thought settled over him like a cold shroud. To fight was to justify her instinct. To dodge was to prolong a dance that could only end in her exhaustion or his eventual dissolution.

If he was truly her mate, he could not be her opponent. He could not be the rival she needed to conquer.

He looked at the beast, her massive chest heaving. She was beauty and terror entwined, a masterpiece of a forgotten age, and she was currently preparing to tear the throat out of the only man who loved her past.

As the Lycan’s hind claws dug into the cracking stone for a final, lethal spring, Lucian did the one thing her instincts hadn’t calculated for.

He didn’t tense his muscles. He didn’t narrow his eyes in preparation for a counter-move. Instead, he let out a long, shuddering breath.

He reached deep within himself and, with a wrenching effort of will, he withdrew his Sovereign presence entirely.

The freezing, oppressive aura that had defined him for centuries vanished, leaving him feeling dangerously small and startlingly human in the face of her divinity.

The Lycan launched. She was a streak of moonlight and silver death, hurtling through the air with enough force to shatter his skull.

Lucian didn’t move. At the last possible second, as the heat of her fur began to singe his skin and the shadow of her claws fell over his face, he dropped.

He fell to his knees, against the stone. He didn’t brace for impact. He didn’t look up, Lucian bowed his head, exposing the vulnerable nape of his neck—the ultimate sign of submission in the predator’s tongue.

He was the King of the Unholy, yet before the Lycan, before the woman who owned his soul, Lucian chose submission over survival.

The King bowed his head. If death wore Isabella’s claws, he would accept it.