WOLFLESS: Accidentally Marked By The Devil's Son-Chapter 124: Suspicion

Chapter 124

The steam in the ensuite was thick enough to swallow the world, smelling of expensive sandalwood and the faint, lingering scent of bathing oil Isabella had poured into the bathtub.

She sat back in the clawfoot tub, the hot water lapping at her collarbones, finally feeling the chill of the morning begin to recede from her marrow.

Lucian had left nearly thirty minutes ago. He’d moved with a strange, stiff-backed haste, his eyes never quite meeting hers as he promised to return with a tray of food.

He had looked... haunted. Even through the ’Great King’ mask he wore like a second skin, she had felt the edges of his tension.

"Training injury," she muttered to the tiled ceiling, trailing a loofah over her damp shoulder.

She didn’t believe him for a heartbeat. Lucian was a Sovereign; she had never seen him train or even have a training session.

He was hiding something—something that lived in the dark spaces between her missing memories and his sudden, suffocating protectiveness.

But as she reached back to scrub her shoulder, her mind betrayed her. The suspicion slipped, sliding back into the visceral, bone-deep memory of the night before.

Isabella closed her eyes, and suddenly she wasn’t in a bathtub. She was back against the soft surface of the bed.

The air stolen from her lungs by the sheer weight of him. She could still feel the pressure of his hands—large, calloused, and surprisingly desperate—as they had tangled in her hair.

He had kissed her as if he were trying to breathe life back into her, as if he were starving and she was the only thing in the world that could sustain him.

A hot, prickling blush crept up her neck, darkening her cheeks even more than the steam already had.

She sank lower into the water, the heat of the memory making her heart to thud heavily against her ribs.

She remembered the way she had melted, the way her own hands had clawed at his shirt, wanting to rip away the fabric and the distance between them.

She touched her lips with a damp finger, almost expecting them to still be swollen from his hunger.

"Damn it, Lucian," she whispered, a frustrated, breathless laugh escaping her. He was infuriating. He was a liar, a shadow-dweller, and a man who treated her like a porcelain doll one minute and a queen the next.

She should be furious that he was keeping secrets. She was furious. But every time she tried to summon that cold, righteous anger, her mind just replayed the way his eyes had darkened right before his mouth hit hers.

She knew she was playing a dangerous game. She was letting him win the silence because she didn’t want to lose the man.

She was terrified that if she pushed too hard for the truth, the fragile, beautiful heat they had finally found would evaporate back into the cold, empty halls of the mansion.

Isabella stood up, the water sluicing off her skin as she reached for a plush towel. She caught her reflection in the steamed-up mirror, wiping a small circle clear with her palm.

She looked like someone who had been touched by something ancient and powerful—and someone who was starting to like it.

"Food," she reminded herself, trying to shake the cobwebs of the kiss from her head. "He’s bringing food. Focus on that. Not the way he looked in the dark."

She stepped out of the ensuite, tying the robe tight around her waist. The steam clung to her skin, following her into the cooler air of the bedroom.

Lucian was already there. He had changed into a fresh black shirt, the collar high and stiff, effectively masking every inch of his chest.

He was leaning over the bedside table, his long, pale fingers carefully arranging a silver tray

The scent of toasted bread, honey, and sliced fruit filled the room, cutting through the heavy tension of the night before.

Isabella leaned against the doorframe for a moment, just watching him. In the morning light, he didn’t look like a monster or a king; he looked like a man trying very hard to make amends for a silence he couldn’t yet break.

The suspicion that had been brewing in the tub didn’t vanish, but it softened. She was tired of the coldness.

She was tired of the distance. If he wanted to play at being a normal couple for an hour over breakfast, she decided she would let him.

Lucian sensed her presence, "I brought more grapes," he said, his voice smooth and controlled, though he didn’t turn around immediately.

"I’m assuming you like it because of there’s no one left in the fruit basket...." The words died in his throat, the casual mention of fruit baskets forgotten as his gaze traveled over her.

Isabella stood there, framed by the lingering mist of the bathroom, her damp hair clinging to the white terry cloth of the robe.

She looked small, yet radiant—her skin flushed and stray droplets still glistening on her collarbone.

In the stark morning light, she looked ethereal. Lucian’s fingers, which had been so steadily arranging the silver cutlery, suddenly felt clumsy.

To any other man, she was a beautiful woman in a robe; to him, she was the sun rising after a century of winter.

The intensity in his amber eyes shifted from weary to scorching in a heartbeat. Isabella felt the weight of his stare, and the confidence she’d felt in the bathroom evaporated.

She looked down at her bare toes peeking out from the hem of the robe. "I... I didn’t know you were already here," Her voice barely a thread of sound.

Trying to hide her bashfulness, she took a hesitant step toward the bedside table, intending to help him with the tray.

But as she drew closer, the scent of her—jasmine and warm, clean skin—hit Lucain . It was too much. The intimacy of the morning, the softness of her frame, and the memory of how she had felt against him just hours ago threatened to shatter his control.

Lucian snapped out of his trance, his hand twitching away from the tray as if he’d been burned.

He needed distance. He needed her to not be this close while he was still struggling to keep his own wounds from weeping.

"Don’t," he said, his voice a bit more clipped than he intended as he regained his "King" mask.

He took a half-step back, gesturing toward the center of the bed. "Sit." Isabella paused, her hand hovering in mid-air, a bit startled by the sudden sharp edge in his tone.

Seeing her flinch, Lucian’s expression softened instantly, the cold iron in his eyes melting back into that weary amber.

He let out a shallow breath, his hand moving to guide her—though he stopped himself from making physical contact.

"Please, Isabella," he added, his voice dropping into a low, persuasive rasp. "Sit on the bed. I’ll bring the tray closer. You need to eat, and I... I would prefer to see you comfortable."

Isabella bit her lip, her shyness still clinging to her, but she nodded. She climbed onto the plush duvet, tucking her legs beneath her as she watched him.