WOLFLESS: Accidentally Marked By The Devil's Son-Chapter 58: Books.
Chapter 58
"Why are you out of bed?" Clara hissed.
Isabella froze, her breath hitching in her throat as the sudden confrontation sent a jolt of adrenaline through her weakened frame.
The corridor, which had felt like a vast, empty tunnel only seconds ago, now seemed to shrink around her.
Clara stood rooted to the spot, her arms overflowing with a stack of heavy, leather-bound books that looked nearly as old as the walls themselves.
The witch’s sharp gaze swept over Isabella, lingering with a mixture of shock and undisguised disdain on the oversized silk shirt and the glowing mark on her neck
"Why are you out of bed?" Clara hissed, her voice low but sharp enough to cut through the silence.
Isabella didn’t answer immediately. Her brain felt foggy, the double-beat of her heart thudding slowly against her ribs, but her eyes didn’t waver.
Because staying in that room makes me feel like I’m waiting to be buried, she thought sharply, even as her hands instinctively clutched the hem of the shirt to pull it lower.
"I was looking for the library," she said the lie aloud, her voice raspy but steady.
Clara’s expression shifted to a deadpan, incredulous stare. She adjusted the heavy books in her arms, her knuckles white.
"A library? In the middle of the night? Looking like you’re about to snap in two if a draft hits you?"
I’d rather snap in two than rot in that bed, she countered internally as she swallowed hard against her raw throat.
She felt small under the witch’s scrutiny—a fragile ghost in a house that didn’t want her—but she refused to look down. "I needed to see something. To read."
"You thought one would be here?" Clara let out a sharp, mirthless laugh, stepping forward until she was inches away.
The smell of old parchment and bitter herbs rolled off her. "You don’t even know where ’here’ is, do you?"
Isabella blinked, the dizziness threatening to return. She tried to recall the journey to this place, but all she had were fragments of shadow.
"I’m in a house. Lucian’s house?"
"Lucian’s fortress," Clara corrected, her eyes flashing with a cruel sort of triumph. "You were unconscious when he brought you across the border. You aren’t in some cozy manor on the outskirts of your little pack territory, Isabella. You are in the heart of the Unholy Kingdom, in a stronghold built on centuries of blood and secrets."
Clara leaned in closer, the books between them acting like a barrier. "You’re lucky you didn’t wander into the lower pits or find the Sentinel who doesn’t care for the King’s new ’pet.’"
Isabella’s hand went to the wall to steady herself, her fingers brushing the cold stone. The reality of her isolation hit her, but instead of crushing her, it sparked a flicker of cold defiance.
His fortress, his people, his rules. And I’m the only one who didn’t sign up for the tour.
"The only answer you need right now is that you’re still dying," Clara snapped, her jealousy flaring as she looked at the mark on Isabella’s neck.
"And if Lucian finds you out here, looking like a half-dead waif in his clothes, he won’t be angry with you. He’ll be angry with me. Now, turn around and get back to that bed before you collapse and make more work for me."
Isabella felt the sting of the words—half-dead waif—and her jaw tightened. She lacked the physical strength to throw back a retort, but she gave Clara a look that suggested the witch was lucky she was currently incapacitated.
"Move," Clara commanded. She shouldered past Isabella, the corner of a heavy book digging into Isabella’s shoulder.
Isabella followed the swish of Clara’s gown back toward the room, her movements slow and sluggish.
Every step felt like walking through deep water, but she kept her head up, refusing to let the witch see her stumble.
Clara kicked the door open and marched into the center of the room. With a grunt of exertion, she leaned over and let the stack of books slide from her arms.
Thud. Thud-crack.
The volumes hit the floor with a resounding weight, sending a cloud of ancient dust into the air.
"There," Clara panted, straightening her back and brushing her sleeves. "You wanted a library? Here it is. The King’s personal research on things that shouldn’t exist."
Isabella focused on the bed, her legs trembling so violently she feared she wouldn’t make the last few feet.
She practically fell onto the mattress, the charcoal silk cool against her skin. She crawled back under the duvet, pulling the fabric up to her chin as the dizziness began to subside.
"Lucian sent those?" Isabella asked, her eyes drifting to the pile.
"Of course not," Clara snapped, heading back toward the door. She turned the heavy key in the lock with a definitive click before turning back to glare at Isabella.
"He didn’t, and it would do us both good if you just shut it and stayed put." Isabella watched her, her eyes narrowing slightly.
Keep your secrets, Clara, she thought, her fingers itching to reach for the books the moment the witch left but Isabella watched through narrowed eyes as Clara didn’t leave.
Instead of exiting and leaving Isabella to her thoughts, the witch settled onto the cold floor beside the pile of books.
She smoothed her emerald skirts around her with a sharp, possessive rustle, looking less like a nurse and more like a dragon guarding a hoard.
She picked up the top book—the one with the scarred leather cover—and opened it, the yellowed pages crackling in the silence.
The room felt smaller with Clara in it. The fire in the hearth was low, casting long, flickering shadows that danced over the books and the dark veins on Isabella’s arms.
Isabella lay back against the pillows, her body screaming for the rest she couldn’t find. Every time her heart gave that double-thud, she saw Clara glance up, her eyes lingering on the glowing mark on Isabella’s neck with a look that was part curiosity and part pure hatred.
