WOLFLESS: Accidentally Marked By The Devil's Son-Chapter 120: Lies.

Chapter 120

The silence in the room was deafening, a sharp contrast to the intense, wet gasps that had filled it moments before.

Isabella sat on the edge of the bed now, the charcoal silk of Lucian’s shirt sliding further down her shoulder, but she didn’t care.

Her entire world had narrowed down to the dark smear of red on her fingertips. It was his blood. And it was far too much of it.

"Lucian, talk to me," she whispered, her voice trembling as she finally found her feet. The plush carpet felt cold beneath her bare toes, a stark reminder of how quickly the heat had vanished.

Lucian didn’t move. He remained backed against the heavy doors, his shadow stretching long across the floor.

His breath was coming in slow, and he kept his hands at his side, though his knuckles were white.

The crimson in his eyes hadn’t faded one bit, he looked like a man standing on a crumbling ledge.

"You’re bleeding through your clothes, Lucian. That wasn’t just a scratch." Isabella stopped just a few feet from him, reaching out with her clean hand, her palm open in a silent plea.

"Show me. Show me what I felt."

Lucian said nothing. His jaw tightened, his gaze flickering away as if choosing between a dozen lies. He could feel the heavy, warm drag of blood soaking into his waistband, the wound on his chest pulsing with a stabbing heat.

"It is... an old complication," he rasped, his voice regaining a sliver of that cold, distant iron, though his eyes wouldn’t meet hers.

"A training injury sustained earlier this evening. My healing has been... sluggish lately. I shouldn’t have let the moment get so out of hand."

Isabella felt a sting at his words—out of hand. Like the kiss was a mistake. She looked at the way he was leaning his weight against the door, his face pale as death.

She knew a training injury didn’t feel like mangled, jagged earth under a silk shirt. She knew better. Lucian didn’t get ’training injuries.’

He was hiding something, she thought. "A training injury," she repeated softly, her voice low.

She took a small step closer, not wanting to spook him. "Lucian, you’re shaking. If it’s just an injury, let me help. I can get the first aid, I can—"

"No," he interrupted, though the word lacked its usual bite. It sounded more like a plea. "It requires a specific treatment. Cauterization that you shouldn’t have to witness, Isabella. I have been careless, and I will handle it."

He began to shift toward the side, his movements stiff and pained, clearly trying to keep the blood-soaked side of his chest out of the light.

Isabella watched him, her heart aching. She knew he was lying. She could see the way his jaw was locked in agony, the way he was desperately trying to maintain his dignity even as he bled out in front of her.

Part of her wanted to demand the truth, to rip the shirt open and force him to be honest. But she saw the flicker of guilt in his eyes

If she pushed him now, if she called him a liar to his face, he would retreat back into that dark office and stay there.

She couldn’t go back to the silence. She couldn’t let him avoid her again when they had just finally, finally broken the ice. "Fine," she whispered, her gaze dropping to the floor.

"If you say it’s handled, I’ll believe you. But please... don’t be gone long. Don’t go back to the office, Lucian."

Lucian let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for centuries. A flash of relief crossed his face, a momentary softening of his rigid mask.

"I will be in the adjoining washroom," he promised, his voice a ghost of a sound. "I only need a moment to close the skin."

He gave her a curt, strained nod—the King trying to save face—before he turned and slipped through the door.

Isabella stood alone in the center of the room, the scent of his blood still thick in the air. She looked down at the red smear on her fingers, her eyes darkening with a quiet, focused intensity.

"Training injury," she murmured to herself, her heart heavy with the weight of the secret he thought he’d protected.

She knew better, but for now, she would wait.

As soon as the heavy oak door clicked shut behind him, Lucian sagged. He leaned his forehead against the cool wood, letting out a long, shuddering breath that rattled in his throat.

That was too close. Way too close. The air in the hallway felt freezing compared to the stifling, electric heat of the bedroom, but it didn’t stop the sweat from beading on his pale brow.

He regretted the words as soon as they had left his lips—calling their connection "out of hand" was a lie that tasted like ash, but he couldn’t find the strength to tell her the truth.

He couldn’t let her see the weeping mark. He couldn’t let her know. Gritting his teeth against a fresh wave of agony, he moved toward the washroom adjoining the suite.

Every step was a battle; every movement made the mangled flesh of his chest scream. Once inside, he didn’t turn on the main lights, preferring the dim, amber glow of the vanity.

He caught his reflection in the mirror—gaunt, eyes still rimmed with a lingering, hungry crimson, and a shirt that was now ruined by a dark, wet blossom of blood.

With a pained grunt, he peeled the silk away from his skin. The sound was sickening, the fabric sticking to the raw furrows of the wound.

He didn’t look down. He couldn’t afford to lose his nerve now. He moved quickly, his hands trembling as he grabbed a clean cloth and wiped the copper-scented dampness from his skin.

The "cauterization" he had mentioned was another half-truth; he pressed a hand to the center of the mark, closing his eyes as he forced a spark of his own internal heat to sear the edges of the weeping vessels.

He hissed, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the edge of the marble counter, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

Once the bleeding had slowed to a dull throb, he pulled open a drawer and fished out another dark, charcoal shirt—nearly identical to the one he had just bled through.

He threw it on, the cool fabric a small mercy against his scorched skin. He had promised her he wouldn’t avoid her.

He wouldn’t retreat to the office. He wouldn’t leave her alone with the silence again. But as he buttoned the shirt with shaking fingers, he knew he had to be extra careful.

Isabella wasn’t dumb; she had only accepted his excuse because she wanted him to stay. She was playing along for the sake of the fragile peace they had just built.

He couldn’t give her another reason to doubt him. He had to be a King again. He had to be the mate she needed, even if he was rotting from the inside out.

Lucian took one last steadying breath, straightened his collar to hide the tension in his neck, and turned back toward the door.