Chapter 165

The massive doors of the mansion glided open on silent, state-of-the-art hinges, revealing an interior that was a blend of hyper-modern architecture and ancient, brooding luxury.

The foyer was vast, a cavern of glass and stone where polished concrete floors reflected the clinical glow of minimalist LED strips recessed into the ceiling, while high above, a heavy iron chandelier, thick with centuries of accumulated wax and weighted by history, hung like a silent threat from a forgotten age.

As Clara stepped across the threshold, followed by a swaying, disoriented Marcus and a shivering, naked Alaric, the atmosphere hit them hard—a physical wall of sensation that demanded total submission.

It carried an acrid, biting scent of something burnt, like scorched sugar or singed fabric, but beneath that superficial layer was a far more primal, suffocating aroma that made the lungs ache.

It was the salt-thick scent of arousal and raw musk, a pheromonal haze that made Alaric’s wolf hackles rise even in his vulnerable human form.

A familiar scent, one that he couldn’t pick, was now tinged with something dark and unfamiliar, making Alaric’s nose prickle with a sense of impending doom.

"By the heavens," Clara muttered, her nose wrinkling in visible distaste as she surveyed the opulence.

She didn’t stop her forward momentum, but her pace slowed to as she navigated toward the open doors of the kitchen.

On the central island, a heavy copper pan sat discarded, its bottom coated in a blackened crust that was still sending thin, wispy ribbons of bitter smoke into the high-end ventilation system.

The stove was off, but the heat still radiated from the burner in shimmering waves, distorting the air.

Clara leaned over, her white eyes narrowing with precision as she inspected the charred remains of whatever meal had been abandoned in a moment of sudden, overwhelming distraction.

She reached out to touch the handle of the pan, perhaps to clear away the mess, but before her fingers could make contact with the metal, the very air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

The temperature plummeted until the breath hitched in their throats. "Who," a voice rang out, vibrating with a frequency cold enough to freeze the blood in Alaric’s veins, "let a wolf into my house?"

All heads snapped toward the grand, sweeping staircase that overlooked the open-concept kitchen.

Lucian stood at the top of the landing, framed by the minimalist glass balustrade like a portrait of beautiful destruction.

He looked less like a King and more like a god of war who had just been dragged, unwilling from his bed.

He was half-naked, his broad shoulders and chest exposed to the biting Northern air. The pale, marble-like skin of his torso was marked by those three jagged scars that trailed down in a violent path toward the waistband of his dark trousers.

His feet were bare against the cold stone, his dark hair was a chaotic mess, and his red eyes were burning with a fury that made the LED lights in the ceiling flicker and dim.

The scent Alaric had smelled at the door—the musk of arousal and raw, animalistic heat—was radiating off Lucian in suffocating waves.

It was thick, and undeniably dominant, claiming every square inch of the space. Lucian’s gaze didn’t land on Clara; it didn’t even acknowledge Marcus. It went straight to Alaric.

The King moved. He didn’t walk down the stairs; he descended with his supernatural speed that made him look like a shadow falling through the air.

In a heartbeat, he was at the bottom of the staircase, his bare feet making no sound on the marble floors.

He stopped ten feet away, his chest heaving slightly with a restrained anger,his nostrils flaring as he caught the scent of Alaric’s blood, his fear, and the lingering taste of Clara’s teleportation spell.

"You?!" Lucian’s eyes narrowed into slits of lethal ice at the recognition of the same boy from that fateful night.

The memory surged back. The last time he had seen this boy, Alaric had been a snarling, chocolate-furred beast lunging through the mud of the ravine.

The King moved again. One second Lucian was at the base of the stairs, standing still as a statue, and the next, the very air in the kitchen was displaced by the sheer violence of his speed.

Before Alaric could even draw a breath to breath, before he could even register the blur of motion, a hand as cold as the Siberian permafrost slammed into his throat.

The force of the impact was staggering. It carried Alaric backward, out from Marcus hold, his heels dragging uselessly across the polished concrete, leaving white streaks behind until his spine collided with the black marble of the kitchen island.

The heavy copper pan rattled violently from the vibration, sending a final puff of Isabella’s burnt offering into the air.

"You," Lucian hissed. The word was a low, vibrating growl that Alaric felt more than heard, resonating deep in his chest.

Lucian’s fingers clamped down with agonizing pressure into the soft tissue of Alaric’s windpipe, constricting just enough to make every desperate gasp a battle for survival.

Alaric’s hands flew up, his fingers clawing frantically at the vampire’s iron wrist, but he might as well have been trying to move the foundation of the mansion itself.

He looked up, his eyes wide and watering from the lack of oxygen, only to be met by the lethal, blown-out red of Lucian’s gaze.

"You brought that stench here," Lucian whispered, his face inches from Alaric’s.

Then, the unmistakable and familiar smell of jasmine hit the choking Alaric.

It was her scent. Isabella’s scent. It was clinging to Lucian’s skin, woven into his very pores.

He knew that smell better than his own. And as he looked up at the man whose hand was currently crushing the life out of him, he recognized that jawline and those eyes that seemed to hold the weight of a thousand years of winter.

This wasn’t just any vampire; this was the monster that had stolen Isabella from his pack. This was the creature that had vanished with her into the mist, leaving Alaric broken and howling in the dirt.

"It’s... it’s you," Alaric managed to rasp, the words bubbling through the blood in his throat. He tried to straighten his battered, naked body, and for a fleeting second, his golden eyes flashed.

"Where is she? What have you done to her, you blood-sucking bastard?"

Lucian’s lips curled into a thin, beautiful smile that was infinitely more terrifying than any expression of rage. He was about breaking the wolf jaw when...

"Lucian?" Lucian’s head tilted sharply toward the sound, his grip loosening only by a fraction. At the top of the stairs, a figure stepped out from the deep shadows of the hallway.

Isabella was there, wrapped in a dark silk robe that drowned her small frame, the fabric dragging against the floor.

Her hair was a wild, tangled mess, cascading over her shoulders in knots of chestnut silk, and her lips were bitten raw, swollen and red.

She looked down at the carnage in her kitchen—at the naked, bleeding boy she had grown up with, her first love and her Ex pack-mate, and the half-naked, scarred King who had claimed her as his own.

"Alaric?" her voice was a tiny, fragile whisper.