Chapter 176

Clara looked up then, her white eyes meeting Lucian’s gray ones. Her face was a mask of exhausted defiance, her robes disheveled and her hair spilling out.

She looked compromised, and she knew he could see it. Lucian held her gaze for a long second. He saw the way she was holding the boy and without a word, he turned on his heel, leaving the witch and her wolf in the silence of the ruins.

Lucian’s boots clicked against the polished floo as he strode away. He didn’t look back to see if Clara was okay; he knew the High Witch was more than capable of handling herself, even against a feral wolf.

His only priority was the flickering static in the back of his mind, the distress of the girl who was currently suffocating under the weight of his protection.

By the time he reached the master suite, his jaw was set. His mind was already moving past the carnage, mapping out ways to get Isabella out of this luxury fortress and into the crisp, Northern air before the walls began to feel like a cage.

He crossed the expansive bedroom in four strides, his focus narrowing entirely on the locked bathroom door.

Through the bond, he could feel her: a tight knot of anxiety and confusion. He turned the lock, the click sounding like a gunshot in the quiet room.

The door swung inward. For a heartbeat, he simply stood there. The sight of her pierced through the lingering battle-cold in his veins.

Isabella was a small, defiant figure huddled on the floor, literally buried in a mountain of his dark wools and heavy silks.

The moment her eyes met his, the terror in them transformed into unfiltered relief. "Lucian," she gasped, scrambling out of the nest of clothes.

He caught her mid-step, his large hands anchoring her waist as he hoisted her up. Isabella wrapped her legs around him, her arms locking around his neck with a grip that spoke of a deep-seated fear of being let go.

She buried her face in the crook of his neck, breathing in deeply, but her relief was cut short by a sharp, aggressive layer of copper musk clinging to his skin and the shredded fibers of his shirt.

She pulled back slightly, her nose wrinkling. "You smell like..." she whispered, her eyes searching his for an answer she wasn’t sure she wanted.

Lucian’s jaw tightened. He didn’t want the stench of the South in his sanctuary, but there was no hiding the physical evidence of the struggle.

"The boy went into a rut," Lucian started but Isabella interrupted, her voice breathless with shock. "Alaric?"

He nodded grimly. "Yes. And it was a violent one. His wolf was trying to tear the guest wing apart to get to what it wanted."

Lucian set her down, her feet sinking into the plush carpet, but she didn’t let go of his shoulders.

’So it was just him,’ Isabella thought, a strange mixture of shame and relief washing over her. She had been huddled in the bathroom imagining the worst.

imagining a Coup from the Council members who hated Lucain coming and causin havoc. Her mind had conjured an army, but the reality was just a boy. A boy caught in a biological storm he couldn’t control.

Yet, as the immediate fear of a war dissipated, a different kind of dread took its place. Alaric was an Alpha-heir, and a rut this sudden, this violent, was unheard of.

"But he was fine yesterday," she murmured, her brow furrowed in genuine concern. "Mostly. How does an Alpha-heir just... snap like that? To be in a rut the very next day after arriving..." She trailed off.

"Is he okay? Did you hurt him, Lucian?" Lucian looked down at his forearms. The red marks were already fading thanks to his own healing, though the irritation in his eyes remained sharp.

"He is being taken care of. Clara is with him now."

"Clara?" Isabella’s voice rose an octave. "But if he’s in a rut, isn’t it dangerous for her? He claims she is his mate, and she’s a witch, not a....."

"It’s being handled, Isabella," Lucian cut in, his tone final but not unkind. He reached up, tucking a stray lock of damp hair behind her ear.

"There are things about that boy and his ’claims’ that are proving to be more than just the ramblings of a prisoner. But we aren’t discussing politics or biology while you’re shaking like a leaf."

"I just don’t understand how everything changed so fast," she whispered, leaning her forehead against his hand.

"We will have a talk with everyone—Clara, Marcus, the whole lot—once the boy is stabilized and the dust settles. I want answers as much as you do. But right now," he leaned in, his forehead resting against hers, his scent finally beginning to drown out the copper,

"the only thing that matters is getting the smell of that cur off my skin and out of your head."

Isabella looked at his ruined shirt, then back at his face. The stress of the last hour was etched in the lines around his mouth.

She could feel his need to reset the boundaries of their world, to reclaim the air they breathed. "You’re right," she said softly. "I can still taste the heat in the air."

Lucian’s eyes darkened with a possessive heat. He reached for the buttons of his shirt, his gaze never leaving hers. "I’m going to burn this shirt," he muttered.

He stepped toward the large, walk-in shower at the far end of the suite, pulling the dark fabric over his head and tossing it aside as if it were trash.

He paused at the glass door, turning back to look at the beautiful lady he’s mated to. The tension in his shoulders was still there—a coiled spring only she could release.

"Come," he said, holding out a hand, his voice dropping into a soft, commanding velvet. "Let’s start the day together."

Isabella blushed, but she didn’t hesitate. She moved toward him, the silk of her nightgown sliding off her shoulders as she reached for his hand, ready to wash away the ghosts of the East Wing in the steam.