WOLFLESS: Accidentally Marked By The Devil's Son-Chapter 116: Tired
Chapter 116
The door had long since clicked shut behind Marco, the heavy thud of the door serving as the final punctuation mark to their strange, stilted encounter.
Isabella remained perched on the edge of the expansive bed, her fingers still curled into the fine, cool threads of the duvet.
The room had returned to its state of suffocating stillness. She reached out, her hand trembling slightly as she pulled the beautifully woven fruit basket closer.
The wicker creaked under her touch as she began to pull back the delicate mesh covering the gift, her eyes scanning the contents with a mixture of bitterness and curiosity.
There were deep crimson grapes, dusted with a fine bloom of frost; apples so green they looked like emeralds; and berries that seemed to bleed juice at the slightest touch.
It was a masterpiece of natural color, a peace offering from a King who was too afraid to hand it to her himself.
She picked up a grape, rolling it between her thumb and forefinger. It was cool, firm, and real.
"Natural sugars for stabilization," she whispered into the empty air, her voice a ghost of its former self.
She popped the fruit into her mouth, the sweetness exploding against her tongue. It was delicious, but as she swallowed, the taste turned to ash.
She wasn’t sick. She didn’t need "stabilizing" in the way Clara or Lucian seemed to think. What she needed was for the man who claimed her to stop treating her like a ticking time bomb.
She sat back against the pillows, the charcoal silk of Lucian’s shirt—his scent still clinging to the fibers—feeling like a taunt.
She looked down at the basket again, a sudden laugh bubbling up in her chest that felt dangerously close to a sob.
He was the king, He was the most powerful creature in history. He had torn through enemies for centuries.
Yet, here he was, hiding in some dark corner of this mansion, sending fruit as if he were visiting a distant relative in a hospital ward.
"Fuck" she muttered, the word tasting sharper than the fruit. Since Marco had left, the isolation had felt ten times heavier.
It was as if Marco visit had been a final welfare check before they truly abandoned her to her own self.
She reached for another grape, popping it into her mouth. She chewed the fruit with a joyless rhythm, the sweetness coating a throat that felt tight with unshed tears and mounting fury.
She was exhausted—utterly, bone-wearily exhausted—of the crushing weight of guilt. She knew she was the one to blame; she wasn’t delusional.
She was the one who had let the lies poison her mind, the one who had lashed out, the one whose "stupidity" had led to that blood-soaked disaster in the orange room.
She had used her own two hands to shatter the only good thing that had ever happened to her.
But Lucian’s silence? This calculated, echoing void? It was a different kind of cruelty.
"Just come here and say it," she hissed at the shadows dancing in the corner of the room. "Tell me to fuck off. Tell me I’m a mistake. Throw me out into a ditch to rot or better yet, drain my blood for sustenance and I wouldn’t even blame you."
Death would be a mercy compared to this absolute silence. Her life had been a chaotic mess long before she met Lucain, a series of tragedies and near-misses that had left her scarred and hated.
Having a mate, especially a powerful King had felt too good to be true. It was a fairy tale told in a language she didn’t speak, and in her typical fashion, she had found the self-destruct button and pressed it until everything burned.
She threw the grape stem back into the basket, her movements aggressive. If he hated her, he should have the courage to look her in those new, terrifying red-ringed eyes and say it.
He shouldn’t be sending a messenger with a basket of fruit like she was some fragile invalid who would break at the sound of a harsh word.
"I’m not a porcelain doll, Lucian," she whispered, her fingers gripping the charcoal silk of his shirt so hard the fabric strained.
She stared at the door, her heart hammering in rebellious beats. She felt like a caged animal, the "energized" heat in her blood making it impossible to sit still.
She wanted to scream, to tear the fine tapestries off the walls, to do anything to provoke a reaction from the ghost who haunted the hallways.
She had been a nobody, a girl caught in a trap, and then she had been his. Now, she felt like nothing at all—a burden draped in expensive silk, waiting for a sentence that never came.
"I won’t beg," she promised the empty room, her voice cracking as she leaned forward, eyes fixed on the heavy oak entrance.
Begging never got anything for her and she wouldn’t start now, sh doesn’t want Lucain taking pity on her.
"If you want me gone, just say the word and I’ll find a ditch to die in. Just don’t leave me here with these goddamn grapes."
The sound of footsteps finally reached her and she stiffened, her fingers digging into the mattress.
She was so ready. If that door opened and Clara walked in with another silver tray and that condescending gaze, Isabella was going to snap.
She had the words "get the fuck out" already sitting on the tip of her tongue like venom. She didn’t care about vitals, she didn’t care about stabilization, and she certainly didn’t care about a witch’s professional boredom.
Even if it were Marco returning for the basket, she was prepared to tell him to take his fruit and his "suggestions" and shove them.
She was done being a patient. She was done being a project. The handle turned with a slow agonizing creak.
Isabella drew a breath, her lungs filling with the fire of her own defiance. Her mouth opened, the first syllable of a biting dismissal ready to be hurled at whoever dared to intrude on her misery but the words died in her throat.
The heavy door swung wide, allowing the cold, artificial light of the hallway to spill into the amber-shaded room, and for a second, Isabella couldn’t breathe.
It wasn’t Clara. It wasn’t Marco. Lucian stood in the threshold. Isabella’s reaction was priceless; her jaw literally went slack, the fire in her eyes doused by a flood of pure, unadulterated shock.
She looked like she had seen a ghost, or perhaps, the very god she had been cursing for the last twenty-four hours.
She remained frozen, half-propped up against the pillows, her hand still clutching a cluster of half-eaten grapes like a guilty child caught in a lie.
