Chapter 170

The moon had reached its zenith, casting an ethereal glow through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the master suite.

The air in the room was thick with the scent of jasmine and the cool, lingering musk of the night.

Isabella lay cocooned in the silk sheets, her head resting against the firm expanse of Lucian’s chest.

The confession had taken hours—a slow, agonizing unraveling of a past she had tried to bury beneath the wind in the North.

She had laid it all bare: the crushing weight of being the "lesser" half of a set of twins, and the haunting shadow of her brother, Ethan.

Lucian hadn’t interrupt. His hand was steady and grounding on her shoulder, his fingers tracing small, soothing patterns against her skin.

He listened as she described Selena—the vibrant "Queen B" of the pack who had flourished in the light while Isabella withered in the dark.

"And Alaric," Isabella continued, a weary, sarcastic huff escaping her lips. "To hear him say Selena isn’t his mate... Lucian, you have no idea how insane that is. They were the golden couple. The entire hierarchy of Blackstone was built on the assumption that they would lead together. To think he walked away from that... that he crossed a thousand miles because he smelled honey and lilies on a witch who wants nothing to do with him."

She shifted, propping herself up on one elbow so she could look down into the gray depths of Lucian’s eyes.

The intensity of his gaze was focused entirely on her, absorbing every detail of her pain with dark and protective hunger.

"Lucian," she asked, her voice dropping into a thoughtful, hushed tone. "Do you think... do you think it’s possible that they have something like we do? A past life? I mean, Alaric is a wolf and Clara is a High Witch. It shouldn’t work. It ’doesn’t’ work. Is it possible they were tied together long before this life, and the stars are just... forcing the debt to be paid?"

Lucian remained silent for a long moment, his thumb moving to catch a stray lock of her hair. The idea of "past lives" was a heavy one—one he knew all too well.

"The universe rarely repeats its masterpieces, Isabella," Lucian murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to hum right through her.

"But it is fond of irony. If they were tied in a past life, it was likely as enemies. A witch and a wolf... it’s a bond forged in blood, not in starlight."

He pulled her back down against him, his arm wrapping around her with a finality that made the rest of the world feel a million miles away.

"But Alaric’s past doesn’t interest me nearly as much as yours," Lucian added, his tone darkening.

"Your father, your mother, this... Selena. They treated a queen like a wolfless mutt. They allowed a goddess to believe she was grit beneath their boots."

He tilted her face up, his eyes glowing with a faint heat. "The debt of your childhood is a long one, Isabella. And eventually, I think I should like to collect the interest."

Isabella felt a sudden, hot prickle of a blush creep up her neck, staining her cheeks a deep rose that stood out against the pale moonlight.

The way Lucian spoke—with that possessive, dark promise of retribution—made her heart skip a beat, but the thought of the Blackstone pack made her stomach churn for a different reason.

She let out a soft, breathy laugh, shaking her head as she looked away from the sheer intensity of his gaze.

"Honestly, Lucian," she murmured, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the intricate red patterns of the mate mark on her neck."They aren’t even worth the effort of collecting. They’re... they’re just small. Everything about that place feels so small to me now."

She shifted closer, tucking her face into the crook of his neck, inhaling the comforting, icy scent of him that always managed to settle her nerves.

"If Alaric hadn’t literally crashed into the kitchen tonight, I actually think I would have forgotten half of their names by a year" she admitted, her voice muffled against his skin.

"Being here, with you... it’s like that entire life was just a bad dream I had a long time ago. I was already reaching the point where I didn’t give a damn about their approval or their cruelty. Why waste your energy on ghosts when I have something so much more real right here?"

She felt Lucian’s chest rumble as he let out a satisfied sound, his grip on her waist tightening just enough to remind her that he wasn’t planning on letting her go anywhere near those ghosts ever again.

"I’m serious," Isabella continued, lifting her head to look at him, her sarcasm returning to her eyes like a familiar friend.

"The idea of you descending on Blackstone to collect ’interest’ is almost as absurd as Alaric chasing a witch. You’d probably find them all so boring that you’d fall asleep before you could even draw blood. Selena would try to flirt with you, my mother would try to sell you a decorative rug, and my father would just stare at a wall. It’s a waste of a good King’s time."

Lucian’s lips tilted into a dangerous smirk. He liked her defiance; he liked that she was beginning to view her tormentors as the insignificant ants they truly were.

But the predatory glint in his eyes didn’t fade entirely. "Boring or not," Lucian whispered, his hand sliding up to cup the back of her head, pulling her face toward his until their breaths mingled in the quiet air.

"No one leaves a debt unpaid when it comes to you, Isabella. You might be content to forget them, but my memory is quite a bit longer."

He leaned down, his lips brushing against her forehead, a silent vow sealed in the dark. "But for tonight," he added, his voice dropping into that dangerously soft register that always made her knees weak, "I suppose I can focus on the ’real’ things. Like why my mate is still awake and overthinking the lives of a witch and a stray wolf."

Isabella laughed, the sound bright and clear, breaking the last of the heavy tension in the room.

She curled back into him, closing her eyes as the warmth of the bed and the safety of his presence finally began to pull her toward sleep.

"Fair point," she sighed, her voice trailing off as she drifted. "Let Clara deal with him. I’m staying right here."

____________________

The scent of burnt sage and ozone clung to the air in Clara’s room, a sharp contrast to the honey and lilies Alaric claimed to smell on her.

Clara sat cross-legged on the floor, the heavy, leather-bound grimoire propped open against her knees.

The pages were thin as dried skin, covered in the cramped handwriting of ancestors who had been just as tired as she was.

"Fated," she whispered, the word feeling like ash in her mouth. She traced a finger over a complex diagram of a lunar eclipse.

Beside her, a single candle flickered, the flame dancing wildly even though the windows were shut tight.

"He’s a wolf," she muttered to the empty room, her eyes narrowed at a passage regarding soul-binding.

"He’s a creature of instinct and moonlight. I’m a creature of intent and nature. It doesn’t add up." She slammed the book shut, the thud echoing in the quiet suite.

The encounter in the kitchen had left her skin itching. It wasn’t fear—Clara didn’t do fear—it was the sheer thought that, that kid thinks they could be mate.

Clara’s eyes flickered toward the open window. The night air was cool, but it did nothing to soothe the heat crawling over her skin.

She sighed, and stood up. She had walked this earth for a long time—long enough to know that the universe rarely gave gifts without a price tag attached.

In all those decades, she had never once imagined she’d be "fated" to anyone. She thought back to Lucian. She’d been young then, or at least felt it.

She had been so sure that his power matched hers that she’d reached for the forbidden, weaving a love spell that had shattered in her hands and left her with a lesson in humility.

Seeing him with Isabella now didn’t hurt—it was a settled peace—but it was a constant reminder that magic couldn’t manufacture a soul.

And now, here was this... boy. This wolf. "He’s a child playing at legends," she murmured, walking to the window and leaning her forehead against the cool glass.

Looking out into the silvered darkness of the estate, her gaze caught a movement near the wrought-iron perimeter.

Barnaby was standing stiffly at the mansion gate. Even from this distance, she could sense his impatience.

With a weary flick of her wrist,the heavy iron gates groaned and swung inward just enough to let the beast through.

As the hound trotted into the light of the garden lamps, Clara saw the limp, grey shape hanging from his jaws. A dead rabbit.

"Lovely," she muttered, her voice dripping with dry irony. "At least someone in this house knows how to handle their instincts without making a scene."

She watched Barnaby drop the prize on the gravel, his tail giving a single thump. He looked up toward her window, his eyes reflecting the moonlight with an intelligence that was far from animal.

In that steady, glowing gaze, Clara saw a reflection of her own absolute autonomy.

Barnaby wasn’t just a pet; he was a manifestation of her will, a sentinel who had seen her through decades of solitude.

He didn’t look at her with the frantic, starving need she saw in Alaric’s eyes. He looked at her as his master—a woman who had carved out a kingdom of her own without needing a "half" to make her whole.

The hound’s silent loyalty was a reminder: she was a High Witch. She was the storm and the anchor.

She didn’t need a mate to tether her to the earth, and she certainly didn’t need a "kid" from a backwater pack in the South to tell her who she was meant to be.

The thought of it—of Alaric’s youthful, misplaced conviction—made her lips curl in a thin, cold line.

She was complete. Her life was a fortress of her own design, shared only with the nature and her hound.

"I don’t need a partner" she whispered, her voice barely a ripple in the quiet room. But the pragmatism that had kept her alive for so long wouldn’t let her just ignore the mess in the hallway.

If there was a leak in her roof, she fixed it. If there was a wolf in her corridor, she dealt with him.