Chapter 141: Don’t doubt him.
Chapter 141
The sizzling of the butter on the stove changed to an irritating hiss. In Lucian’s world, the sound was drowned out by the sudden, deafening roar of Isabella’s pulse.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. He didn’t realize he had let go of the pan. It sat lopsided on the burner, the eggs beginning to crisp and burn at the edges, the smell of charred protein filling the air.
But Lucian’s nostrils were flared, filtering out the smoke, hunting only for the iron. Isabella slowly pulled her thumb from her mouth.
She looked down at the small nick on the pad of her finger, her expression one of mild annoyance—until she looked up and caught his eyes.
The teasing girl from moments ago vanished. She froze, her breath hitching in a way that sent a fresh puff of her scent directly into his lungs.
She saw the transformation: the way his skin had gone from pale to a translucent white, the way his eyes—those charcoal-gray depths were gone, replaced by crimson.
"Lucian?" she whispered. Her voice was trembling now, the "Assistant" joke dead and buried.
He didn’t answer but he took a step toward her, his movements no longer humanly graceful. Beneath his shirt, the celestial fire was reacting to the presence of her exposed life-force, the heat becoming so intense that a thin wisp of steam seemed to rise from the collar of his shirt.
His body was telling him the truth: The cure is six feet away. The cure is dripping from her finger.
"It’s just a scratch," Isabella said, her voice rising in pitch as she instinctively backed up against the counter, her wounded hand held close to her chest. "I... I was clumsy. It’s nothing, really."
A single bead of blood welled up again, heavy and dark, shimmering like a ruby against her skin.
It was too much. The "red haze" snapped shut, narrowing Lucian’s world down to that one, perfect drop.
In a blur of motion, he was across the kitchen. He didn’t pin her to the counter this time. He didn’t growl.
He simply reached out, wrapped his fingers around her wrist and lifted the hand toward his face. His touch was ice-cold, a stark contrast to the feverish heat radiating from his chest.
Isabella’s heart rate was starting to pick up with the weird behavior from Lucain. She watched as he took her hand, his movements rigid, his focus so absolute it was as if the rest of the world had dissolved into ash.
For a second, the absurdity of the situation hit her—they were supposed to be making eggs and jokes about salt—and she tried to pull back, a nervous, breathless laugh bubbling in her throat.
"Wait—Lucian, hey, no," she stammered, her voice fluttering against the heavy silence of the kitchen. "My hand is dirty... there’s flour and... Lucian?"
She didn’t get to finish. The King didn’t hear her. He didn’t hear the sizzle of the burning butter or the distant chirp of birds outside the mansion walls.
He only heard the siren call of the iron. He didn’t bite. He didn’t tear. With a sudden, desperate tilt of his head, he brought her wounded finger to his lips and simply... drank.
The moment his tongue swiped across the small nick, a sound tore from the back of his throat. A deep, belly groan that vibrated through his entire massive frame and into the bones of Isabella’s wrist.
Beneath his silk shirt, the wounds reacted with a blinding surge of power. The celestial fire that had been eating him alive suddenly met its match, the heat of the blood acting as a cooling, healing balm that flooded his system.
His grip on her wrist tightened, not to hurt, but out of a sheer, terrifying need to stay present as his senses exploded.
Isabella gasped, her back hitting the edge of the marble island. The sensation wasn’t painful, but the intensity of it was overwhelming.
She could feel the suction, the heat of his mouth, and the way his entire body seemed to shudder against her.
"Lucian..." she breathed, her own heart racing in confusion of fear and an inexplicable, soul-deep pull.
He sucked harder, his eyes fluttering shut as a long, shivered breath escaped him. Isabella stood paralyzed, her mind racing to find a shelf to put this on—to find a reason that didn’t involve the word predator.
She watched his closed eyes, the way his thick lashes brushed his pale cheekbones, and the sheer, raw relief that had smoothed the jagged edges of his face.
He’s just helping, she told herself, the thought flickering like a candle in a gale. Like that night with the scratch on my cheek from those shard glass. He’s just... healing me.
But the logic was thin, and it snapped completely when Lucian didn’t pull away. Instead, he stepped deeper into her space, his massive frame looming over her, forcing her back until the marble of the island pressed firmly into her spine.
One of his hands released her wrist, but it didn’t drop to his side. It traveled upward, the cold silk of his sleeve brushing her skin before his palm settled against the sensitive curve of her neck.
His thumb traced the line of her jaw, his touch possessive. He’s going to kiss me, Isabella thought, her heart hammering against her ribs.
A flush of heat that had nothing to do with fear crawled up her skin. She remembered the fire of their last kiss, the way it had made the world tilt.
She wanted to believe this was that. She didn’t want to be the mate who flinched; she didn’t want to look at the man who had accepted her and see a monster.
Don’t doubt him, she pleaded with herself. He’s hurting. He’s tired. He just needs to be close.
But Lucian wasn’t looking for her lips.
His head tilted, moving away from her finger, but his mouth didn’t leave her skin. He trailed a path of searing, humid heat along the inside of her wrist, moving up her forearm in agonizing deliberation.
Every time his tongue flicked against her pulse, a fresh groan rumbled through his chest—a sound that was becoming less like relief and more like a growl of territory.
He reached the crook of her elbow, his breath coming in ragged hitches. Isabella’s head fell back instinctively as his hand on her neck tightened, his fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of her neck to hold her steady.