Chapter 189

The sound of the bowl sliding across the marble felt like a gavel coming down. Isabella stood up, her movements possessing that new grace that she seemed notice more now.

She didn’t look at Alaric anymore; he had been stripped bare, and there was nothing left to see.

"I think I’ve had enough of the past for one afternoon," Isabella stated.

"Clara, thank you for the meal. It was... enlightening." Clara remained seated, her fingers still tracing the rim of her bowl. "Knowledge is a heavy meal, Isabella. Make sure you digest it before the sun sets. The Sovereign will be back soon, and he does not like the smell of Southern guilt in his kitchen."

Alaric didn’t move. He sat hunched over the counter, the broad shoulders that had once carried the hopes of an entire pack now looking burdened by nothing but regret.

He felt the pull of the mate bond—that invisible thread—stretching toward Clara, but the witch still didn’t even acknowledge his existence as she began to clear the island.

Isabella walked toward the archway, her mind already shifting toward the barred gates. Lucian was out there, Marcus was out there, and she still doesn’t know a lick of her supposed lycan powers.

She had the strength to crush furniture and eyes that could see through the dark, but the actual shift—the core of being a Lycan—remained locked away. She needed more than just instinct; she needed records.

Her feet found the familiar path toward the grand library. As she walked, she remembered the last time she had sought refuge among those towering mahogany shelves.

It felt like a lifetime ago, though it had only been weeks. Back then, she hadn’t been searching for her own history, she had gone there with a frantic heart, trying to find any scrap of information on how mate bonds worked for vampires.

She had been desperate to understand the pull she felt toward Lucian, terrified that her human heart was being deceived by a supernatural thread she didn’t understand.

Now, the reason for her visit was far more primal.

The heavy double doors of the library groaned softly as she pushed them open.

The scent of old parchment, leather, and cedar wood greeted her. The library was a labyrinth of forgotten lore, and somewhere within its depths, there had to be a mention of the Lycan line.

She moved past the sections on herbalism and regional history, her eyes scanning the spines for anything that looked ancient enough to predate the modern packs.

If she couldn’t leave the mansion to test her body in the forest, she would use the time to sharpen her mind. She wouldn’t be the "miracle" that needed protecting any longer; she would be the Sovereign’s partner, and that meant knowing exactly what she was capable of before any issues arrived at their doorstep.

Isabella moved deeper into the stacks, her fingers trailing along the spines of books that had likely been resting in their places since before the mansion had even been formed.

The silence of the library was absolute, a stark contrast to the emotionally charged air she had just left behind in the kitchen.

She found herself in the Restricted History annex, a section dominated by vellum-bound tomes and scrolls sealed with heavy wax.

Her heart gave a dull thud against her ribs as she realized she was standing in the exact spot where she had once hidden, frantically flipping through texts on vampire physiology and soul-binding.

Isabella began her hunt with a focused intensity, her eyes darting across titles that spanned centuries of history, philosophy, and dark arts.

She moved from one towering mahogany shelf to the next, her frustration growing with every passing minute. She found exhaustive volumes on vampire lineages, detailed accounts of necromancy, and even a section dedicated to the celestial movements that governed magic.

But as she traversed the labyrinthine aisles, the realization began to sink in: there was nothing on shifters.

"How is this possible?" she whispered to the empty, shadowed room. This library was supposed to be a repository of the world’s knowledge, a place where the Sovereign kept the secrets of every race and realm.

Yet, the further she searched, the more it felt as though her kind had been deliberately erased from these shelves.

She saw books on other creatures, ghouls, Fae even demons, but not a single spine mentioned the word Werewolf, let alone Lycan.

She moved to the back of the Restricted History annex, where the books were so old their bindings felt like brittle skin.

The metal railings of the ladders caught Isabella’s attention and her fingers trembled as she reached for the iron rail of a rolling ladder.

She began to climb, her movements sharp and determined, the ladder groaning under her weight as she ascended into the shadows of the upper tiers.

Up here, the dust was thicker, coating the air with suffocating sweetness. She pushed the ladder along the rail, the wheels shrieking in the silence, as she peered at the highest shelves where the books were nameless and bound in unidentifiable hides.

She pulled volume after volume—texts on the shifting of tides, the anatomy of spirits, and the bloodlines of ancient kings—but the results remained the same.

There were no wolves. No shifters. No Lycans.

She felt like a ghost searching for its own obituary and finding the page blank.

Finally, her strength faltered and she leaned her forehead against the cool wood of the upper shelf. The lack of information was almost more terrifying than a bad omen.

It made her wonder if she was even real, or if the "Lycan" blood Lucian spoke of was just a ghost story told to keep her from feeling like a defect.

Was it possible that Lucian had lied? No, she had felt the power. She had seen her own eyes reflect a history that didn’t belong to the Southern packs.

But standing in a library that contained the records of every monster and miracle in the world, the silence regarding her own existence was deafening.

"You won’t find it there." A deep voice rasped.

Startled, Isabella gasped, her body jerking instinctively away from the sound. Her fingers, slick with the fine dust of the upper shelves, lost their purchase on the cold iron rail.