Chapter 41
Isabella stared at the heavy oak door as if it might speak back to her. A week ago, she was a wolfless outlier, trying to fade into the background of a pack that didn’t want her.
Now, she was wearing a Vampire King’s coat as a nightgown, hiding in a witch’s spare room while that sa witch was sowhere in the house, undoubtedly planning her next move.
Isabella crossed the room and sank onto the bed, the goose-down mattress sighing under her weight. The scent of Lucian was so thick in the fibers of the coat that she felt like she was being held by him.
It was a suffocating comfort. She pulled her knees to her chest, the hem of the coat bunching around her thighs.
She was supposed to be terrified of him—he was the monster from the stories. The sa stories that didn’t feel quite real anymore.
Vampires were said to be gone, her ancestors—if she could call them that—had led the great war and won. Vampires and witches alike had been reduced to myths, whispered as warnings ant to scare children into obedience.
And yet here she was, caught between both worlds, with nowhere left to pretend she belonged to neither.
She reached up, her fingers tracing the bite mark on her neck. It didn’t throb with pain anymore. It felt warm, the kind of warmth that was bonded to a man who was currently stalking through the dark.
Isabella let her hand drop, leaning her head back against the wooden headboard, staring at the ceiling as her mind began to wander back to the life she had left behind.
By now, the pack house would be settling into its nightly routine. If she were there, she’d be finishing the last of the dinner dishes, her hands raw from scrubbing grease with cold water.
She’d be bracing herself for Selena’s nightly ritual of reminders—casual cruelties delivered with a smile. Jabs about her lack of a wolf. About the way she moved through the halls like a shadow that had overstayed its welco.
Poor, wolfless Isabella. Her twin’s voice echoed in her head, dripping with that fake, sugary pity that stung worse than a slap.
A hollow laugh bubbled up in her chest. If Selena could see her now—wrapped in the scent of a dangerously handso man, hidden away in a witch’s sanctuary—her sister’s head would probably explode.
And then there was Arleic. He would have told the Elders about the mark on her neck the mont he could breathe properly again. That much was inevitable. But would he ntion that she had snapped his arm like a dry twig?
Hell no.
Arleic’s pride was his only real personality trait.
He’d brand her a traitor and conveniently leave out the part where a "weak" girl had brought him to his knees.
Isabella frowned, rembering how he had let her go. Was it guilt? So half-hearted attempt at redemption? Or just another performance?
Her gaze drifted to her hands. She tried to summon that feeling again—the white-hot surge of power that had turned her blood into liquid fire back at the pack house. She flexed her fingers, waiting for the weight of it, for the strange pressure she’d felt before seeing those wolf souls.
She rembered the voice, too.
The one that had commanded her. The one that had told her not to jump. The one that had felt terrifyingly strong inside her head.
But there was nothing.
Even the unnatural strength had vanished, leaving her small and painfully human once more. The only thing that remained was the way her skin had healed after the glass shards. No scars. No bruises. Just smooth, pale skin.
Was it all a one-ti thing? she wondered, disappointnt settling heavily in her chest.
Was it just the bond reacting to the danger, or is there actually sothing inside ? Ha! She let out a short, humorless laugh at her miserable self.
How liberating it had felt to believe she was sothing more than an abomination. How crushing it was to realize that hope might have been nothing but a lie. Standing up for herself had never felt so hollow.
A loud, aggressive groan erupted from her stomach, cutting cleanly through her spiral.
Isabella pressed a hand to her abdon, wincing. She hadn’t eaten in nearly twenty-four hours.
Between running for her life, nearly drowning, almost being killed by a witch’s pet, the failed ritual, the explosion, and the freezing dip in the lake, her body was finally screaming for fuel.
Hunger was an old friend, though. Back at the pack house, she’d often gone two days without a proper al, surviving on scraps and stolen bread even though she was the one who cooked the feasts for everyone else.
It was a cruel irony she’d grown used to, feeding the people who hated her while her own ribs began to show.
But this hunger felt different, it was more demanding. Maybe the healing process had drained her more than she realized.
She looked toward the door, Lucian’s parting words finally clicking in her head. To lock the door and not open it even if it’s Clara.
"Shit," she whispered, scrambling off the bed. She hadn’t checked if the latch was even turned.
She moved quickly, the oversized coat flapping around her bare knees, her heart picking up speed as she reached for the handle.
Just as her fingers brushed the iron, the latch clicked and the door swing inward. Isabella stumbled back, her breath hitching as she braced herself for a fight.
She expected the sneering and jealous witch from the lake, or perhaps so shadow-creature summoned from the woods.
Instead, Clara stepped slowly into the room.
The witch looked smaller than she had an hour ago. She was wrapped in a dry, dark robe, her hair still damp but combed back.
Her white eyes were weary, lacking that sharp, murderous spark. But the most shocking part was what she was holding.
A wooden tray with a steaming bowl of soup and a thick slice of dark bread. Isabella froze, her eyes darting between the food and Clara’s unreadable face.
"Eat,"
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