Chapter 150: Nobility
Chapter 150
The walk back toward the master suite felt like a journey through a different house entirely, or perhaps, a different dimension where every physical sensation was magnified to the point of agony.
The air in the wide hallway was objectively cool but Isabella felt as though she were trailing a visible wake of heat.
Every step she took caused the thick, plush fabric of the borrowed robe to rub against her sensitized skin, the friction generating a slow-burning electricity that seemed to settle deep in the marrow of her bones.
Lucian walked half a pace ahead of her, his silhouette tall, imposing, and agonizingly out of reach.
His movements possessed that signature silent grace that usually made her heart race for fearful reasons.
Now, however, her pulse was hammering against her ribs for reasons that were entirely carnal.
Her eyes were fixed unblinkingly on the back of his neck, tracing the way his long dark hair, still slightly damp from the chaos, brushed against the crisp collar of that unbuttoned silk shirt.
Her mind was a traitor, a relentless projector of vivid, forbidden imagery. Every time she blinked, she didn’t see the molding of the hallway; she saw the steam-choked sanctuary of the shower.
She felt the slick friction of water and skin, and heard the raw sound he had made before his "nobility" had forced him to push her away. He was being noble, yes, acting the part of the stoic King, but Isabella found herself wishing with a shameful, hot intensity that he would, just for one singular, breathless moment, forget how to be a King.
She wondered, with a sharp pang of insecurity, if he was thinking of her age. Isabella looked down at her hands, which were still trembling slightly.
Yes, she was without a doubt young but that didn’t mean he wasn’t her mate. The bond didn’t care about birth years or life experience.
Fuck, she thought, her face heating even further, she had given him her first kiss in the heat of a blast—why should they stop at that?
Lucian stopped abruptly at the double doors of the master suite. He didn’t reach for her, didn’t even allow his shadow to overlap hers, but he paused, his large hand resting on the gilded handle with enough pressure to make his knuckles whiten.
He took a shuddering breath, his broad shoulders expanding and straining the silk of his shirt, and for a second, Isabella was certain he would turn around and finish the conversation they had started in the guest ensuite.
Instead, he simply pushed the doors open to reveal a transformed space. "I told you," he began, his voice devoid of its usual sovereign edge, "it’s managed."
Isabella stepped inside and nearly gasped. The room was sparkling, a testament to the efficiency of his power.
The chaos had been completely erased. Her eyes darted instinctively to the corner where the massive, floor-to-ceiling mirror had stood. It was gone, leaving behind a vacant space on the wall.
Isabella’s gaze moved from the empty wall to the center of the bed, which had been remade with fresh, dark linens.
There, sitting atop the silk duvet, was a tray spread with food that looked... surprisingly domestic. There was a plate of toast that was slightly too dark at the edges, a bowl of fruit that had been chopped with more force than precision, and a covered dish that was letting off a faint, savory plume of steam into the quiet room.
She looked back at Lucian, her eyebrows arching in genuine surprise. "Did you... is Clara back?"
Lucian cleared his throat, a faint, uncharacteristic flush creeping up the column of his neck.
He adjusted his cuff with unnecessary force, looking everywhere—at the curtains, the ceiling, the vacancy where the mirror used to be—but at her.
"No, she hasn’t returned yet."
"Marco?" Isabella prompted, a small smirk playing at the corners of her mouth.
Lucian almost sighed, his stoic mask slipping just enough to show his exasperation. "No.Not him."
Isabella walked toward the bed, the heavy hem of her robe sweeping over the carpet like a royal train.
She looked down at the tray, a small, genuine smile tugging at her lips despite the heavy, carnal fog that was still swirling in her gut, refusing to dissipate. "Lucian, did you actually make this?"
He remained standing by the door "I am capable of following basic instructions, Isabella. I can surely navigate a kitchen when the need arises."
She picked up a piece of the toast, inspecting the blackened crust with an amused glint in her eyes.
"The last time you tried to navigate a kitchen for me, you gave me eggs that were fifty percent salt and fifty percent shell. I think my blood pressure is still recovering from that particular meal."
Lucian let out a huff, finally moving away from the door. He walked toward her, stopping on the other side of the tray.
The proximity was immediate and overwhelming. "I’ll have you know I used a different technique this time. I was... focused. And I checked the salt twice."
"Focused, huh?" Isabella murmured, setting the toast down and lifted the silver cover of the main dish.
Inside were scrambled eggs—light, fluffy, and mercifully devoid of shells. Beside them were small, perfectly seared pieces of steak, the juices still glistening.
It was simple, hearty, and clearly made with an excruciating amount of effort. The "cuteness" of it all—this powerful, ancient being fussing over a stove for her—made her clench her thighs together under the robe.
It made her want him with a desperation that was rapidly becoming unmanageable. She wanted to reach across the silver tray, grab the edges of that unbuttoned shirt, and pull him down onto those fresh, black sheets.
She wanted to see if his skin tasted as salt-free and intoxicating as the steam rising from the eggs.
"Eat," he commanded with a sharp edge, as if he could read what was on her mind.
Isabella sat on the edge of the bed, the cool silk of the sheets providing a momentary chill against her warm thighs.
She took a bite of the eggs, nodding slowly as the flavors hit her tongue. "It’s... actually good. No salt-induced heart failure this time. You’re improving."
"High praise," Lucian remarked. He tried to sound indifferent, but his eyes weren’t on the food.
They were locked on her, tracing the way the heavy robe had slipped slightly off her shoulder during her movement, revealing the smooth and flawless skin.
The silence returned, but it wasn’t the sterile, lonely silence of the guest wing. This was thick, heavy, and electrically charged, vibrating with everything they weren’t saying.
Isabella chewed slowly, her heart beginning that familiar, fluttery thud against her ribs. She was acutely aware of the fact that she was wearing nothing but a robe, her skin still humming from the shower, and he was standing less than three feet away with his chest partially exposed.
She looked up at him, her dark eyes searching his amber ones, refusing to let him look away. The air in the room thickened, turning into something viscous and sweet as Isabella held his gaze, her eyes challenging the flickering amber of his.
She could see it all, the slight tremor in his jaw, the raw, unadulterated hunger he was trying to bury under the guise of caretaking.
And Lucian was the first to break. He couldn’t handle the honesty in her stare. He tore his eyes away from hers, his gaze snapping toward the dark velvet curtains.
He let out a breath that sounded more like a stifled, pained growl, his broad shoulders hunching as he fought a visible battle for control over his own instincts.
A slow curve graced Isabella’s lips. Smirking like a little minx, she picked up her fork again and scooped up a generous portion of the light, fluffy eggs he had worked so hard to prepare.
Her eyes traced the rigid tense line of his back and the way his dark silk shirt strained against the muscles of his shoulders.
The eggs were perfect, but it wasn’t the culinary flavor she was focused on. She took a bite, making sure he was listening, and instantly let out a low, long-drawn-out moan of appreciation.
It wasn’t a quiet or subtle sound; it was deep, vibrating from the very back of her throat and settling right in the narrow space between them.
It was a sound of pure, unashamed physical pleasure, thick with a subtext that had absolutely nothing to do with breakfast.
Lucian froze, going completely still. His hand, which had been halfway to his side, clenched into a fist so tight his knuckles cracked audibly in the quiet room.
Isabella didn’t stop there. She was enjoying the power she held over the King. She took another bite, slower this time, her eyes never leaving the back of his head.
She made a soft, hummed sound of approval, a "mmm" that was breathy and suggestive. As she moved, the silk of her robe slid another inch down her arm, exposing the pale, flawless curve of her shoulder to the cool air of the room.
She knew exactly what she was doing. The "high" of the blood was a memory now, but the ache in her lower belly was very, very real.
"Lucian," she murmured, her voice sounding like honey and smoke in the dim light. "You really did outdo yourself. I think... I think I might need you to cook for me every morning. I’ve never tasted anything quite like this."
Lucian finally turned his head toward her. "Isabella," he warned but that only made her skin prickle with heat. "Stop. You don’t know what you’re doing."
"Don’t I?" she challenged, the words a soft goad. She set the fork down on the tray while standing up from the bed, the robe fluttering open just enough to reveal the long, smooth line of her leg.
"You keep talking about my ’agency’ and the ’high,’ Lucian. You keep treating me like a child who doesn’t know her own heart."
She took a slow, purposeful step toward him, her bare feet silent on the thick carpet. "The high is gone from my eyes," she whispered, stopping just inches from his chest, close enough to feel the radiating heat of his body.
She reached out, her fingers grazing the very edge of his unbuttoned shirt, right over the spot where the three new, ghostly scars resided.
"The fever has broken. I can feel the cold floor beneath my feet and the air on my skin. I know exactly where I am. And I know exactly who I’m standing in front of."
She looked up at him, her gaze bold and unwavering, the lust in her veins now a steady, conscious flame.
She let her hand slide upward, her palm flattening against the searing heat of his bare skin, her fingers splaying over the muscles of his chest.
She felt his body reacting against her hand and that told her exactly how much of a lie his ’nobility’ really was.