WOLFLESS: Accidentally Marked By The Devil's Son-Chapter 41: Left
Chapter 41
The walk back to the cabin was steeped in silence, thick with things left unsaid.
Clara’s glare burned into Isabella’s back like a curse that hadn’t finished forming, sharp and venomous in its restraint.
Isabella felt it anyway and smiled to herself, small and private, the kind of victory that didn’t need witnesses.
Lucian led the way through the trees, his presence a solid, unyielding force ahead of them.
His stride never faltered, never slowed, but beneath the calm exterior, awareness pulsed through the bond.
He felt Isabella’s flicker of triumph. Felt Clara’s simmering fury. And ignored them both. He had more pressing matters to get to.
His mind was a storm of cold calculations.
Why did it fail? The question looped in his head, mocking his supposed brilliance. Clara was a master, yet the ritual hadn’t just stalled—it had inverted into something else.
Instead of unpicking the threads of the bond, it had fused them with the force of an explosion
He could still feel the silver shards piercing into his skin. He could still taste the sunlight in her blood on the back of his throat.
Then there was Marco. His newfound servant would be pacing the mansion balcony by now, eyes fixed on the tree line.
If Lucian didn’t return soon—and alone—the Council would sniff out the weakness. Those wretched vipers were already looking for a reason to question his crown.
A bonded wolf-girl wasn’t just a scandal, it was a death sentence for his authority. He pushed the door open, his silhouette cutting through the warm light of the room.
After wiping the mud from her legs against the edge of the blanket, Isabella stepped inside behind him and stopped dead. Her jaw actually dropped.
The last time she’d been in this room, it was a literal house of horrors—obsidian sludge, shattered glass, and the smell of ozone and rot.
Now, the floorboards were scrubbed so clean they gleamed in the firelight. The broken furniture had been cleared, and the remaining velvet chairs were pulled toward the roaring hearth.
It didn’t even smell like a swamp anymore; it smelled of cedar and burning pine. Clara really was just a dirty witch, Isabella thought, a small, involuntary smirk tugging at her lips.
She looked at Lucian’s broad back as he moved toward the fire, stunned that a King—a man she assumed had never picked up a towel in his life—had done all this in the few minutes he was gone.
"The room in the back has dry bedding," Lucian said as he picked up the black coat he’d discarded earlier.
He didn’t wait for her to process the instruction because in one fluid motion, Lucian turned and snagged her wrist through the blanket.
Isabella yelped, her heart jumping into her throat as she instinctively tightened her grip on the heavy blanket wrapped around her. She stumbled slightly, caught off guard by the sudden pull as he led her toward a heavy oak door at the far end of the hallway. 𝘧𝘳𝘦ℯ𝓌𝘦𝒷𝘯𝑜𝑣𝘦𝓁.𝒸𝘰𝓂
"Wait....Lucian!" He ignored her protest, his focus singular. He shoved the door open, pulled her inside, and kicked it shut behind them with a thud.
The room was small, but remarkably untouched by the chaos in the main hall. A narrow bed sat in the corner, piled high with thick blankets and a goose-down duvet that actually looked inviting.
A single candle flickered on a side table, casting long, dancing shadows against the wood-paneled walls.
Isabella stood by the bed, clutching her makeshift cloak and looking around warily. "Where is Clara going to sleep?" Her voice was hushed.
"I don’t want to take her bed. She’s already... well, she’s already having a bad night." Lucian walked to the window, checking the latch with practiced ease.
"She has her own quarters on the upper crawl space. This is a spare" he replied abd Isabella froze, her eyes narrowing as she watched him move through the space.
He didn’t look like a guest, he moved with the subconscious confidence of someone who knew exactly which floorboards creaked and where the spare blankets were kept.
He really knows this place, she thought, a strange prickle of jealousy—or perhaps just curiosity—stinging her chest.
He must have been here often. Long before I was ever in the picture. Lucian turned back to her, his gray eyes unreadable in the candlelight.
He held out the black coat, the expensive fabric looking massive in the small room. Isabella took it tentatively, her fingers brushing against his.
The fabric was still warm from the heat of the main room’s hearth, smelling faintly of the same cedar and rain that clung to him.
"It’s clean and dry. Put it on before the chill settles into your bones. You’ve had enough shocks for one night." Isabella clutched the coat to her chest, but she didn’t move to drop the blanket.
She looked at him pointedly, her eyebrows lifting as if to say, ’Are you going to watch?’
Lucian seemed to get the gist. His jaw tightened for a fleeting second, but he gave her a stiff nod and turned his back.
He moved to the window, his large frame silhouetted against the pane as he peered out into the thick darkness of the forest.
Night had truly fallen, swallowing the lake and the trees. Behind him, Isabella moved quickly. She let the damp blanket fall to the floor with a soft thud and slid her arms into the sleeves of his coat.
It was enormous on her, the hem reaching her knees and the cuffs swallowing her hands.
She buttoned it with fumbling, cold fingers, the scent of him suddenly everywhere, wrapping around her like a physical presence.
"Done," she whispered. Lucian turned back. He had intended to keep his expression a mask of stony indifference, but as his eyes landed on her, the bond flared with a sudden surge of satisfaction.
Seeing her enveloped in his scent, wearing his clothes like a mark of ownership, triggered something ancient and possessive deep in his marrow.
He cleared his throat, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "Stay inside," he said, his voice regaining its icy, kingly edge.
"Lock the door. Do not trust Clara. She is unpredictable and desperate. And a desperate witch is more dangerous than a powerful one. Do not underestimate her simply because her magic seems to be failing. Spite is a magic all its own."
The gravity in his tone made Isabella’s stomach drop. "Why are you telling me this now? Where are you going?"
"I have things to do," Lucian replied vaguely. He took a step toward the door, his movements fluid. He paused, his hand on the latch, and looked back at her over his shoulder.
The candlelight caught the gray of his eyes, making them look like cold steel. "If you feel anything—even the smallest spark of fear—I will know. The bond will notify me instantly, and I will come back immediately. Do you understand?"
Isabella swallowed hard. He sounded so certain, so anchored in his power, but the way he was looking at her made her feel like the world outside that door was already closing in. "Why leave me with Clara when I can’t even trust her?"
Lucian’s hand tightened on the iron latch. He knew Clara wouldn’t dare lay a finger on Isabella.
The witch was physically spent and far too aware of what Lucian would do to her if she spilled a single drop of the girl’s blood.
But he also knew Clara’s mind was a master of manipulation. She didn’t need magic to hurt someone.
She just needed to whisper the right lie at the right moment. And Isabella, for all her newfound fire and stubbornness, was still soft in the ways that mattered.
She was empathetic, curious, and—from his cold observation—far too easy to lead into a trap if the bait was right.
"Because right now, she is the only thing reliable in this house, and I am not," he said, his voice dropping into a hollow, haunting tone.
He didn’t explain that his own blood was screaming, that his hunger for her was clashing with his duty to the crown, or that he needed to step away before the bond forced him to do something they would both regret.
To him, distance was the only weapon he had left against the strong pull of her soul. "Don’t leave the room," he repeated one final time as he stepped out, the door clicking shut.
Isabella stood frozen in the center of the small room, the oversized coat hanging off her shoulders.
She heard his footsteps retreat down the hallway, then the front door of the cabin groaned open and slammed shut.
The silence that followed was thick and suffocating. She looked at the door, then at the flickering candle.
She was alone in a house with a witch who had just promised to destroy her, wearing the clothes of a King who made her heart race and her skin crawl all at once.
What the fuck had her life turned into?
