WOLFLESS: Accidentally Marked By The Devil's Son-Chapter 38: Luxury

Chapter 38

Clara’s declaration hung in the air like a death sentence. She lifted her hand a small smirk appearing on her face as her fingers curled, nails digging into her palm as she drew in a sharp breath and reached for the familiar pull of magic.

She was trying to shift, to vanish into the safety of the ethereal plane as she had done a thousand times before.

But instead of the familiar ripple of space, Clara’s body jerked violently. She doubled over, a terrifying, wet fluid tearing from her lungs as she vomited a spray of bright, hot blood onto the floor.

It mixed with the obsidian water, swirling into a sickening sludge.

"My magic..." For the first time since Isabella had met her, Clara’s composure cracked. Panic flared in her eyes as she suddenly snapped her fingers, her lips moving in a frantic, silent incantation

Clara wheezed, her hands clawing at the rug as it failed again, her white eyes were wide with a new, hollow kind of terror.

"It’s gone. The anchor... it stripped me bare." Isabella didn’t move at first. Her mind stalled, stuck on the impossible image of Clara—sharp-tongued, unshakable Clara—folded over the rug like something breakable.

The blood on the floor looked wrong. Too bright. "Clara..." The name slipped out of her without permission.

Her chest tightened in a way she recognized too well. Not fear exactly—recognition. The same hollow pull she’d felt moments ago, the same wrongness in her bones when the water had first touched her skin.

She took a step forward before she could stop herself. Clara’s head snapped up at the sound. Whatever Isabella had been about to say died on her tongue at the look in the witch’s eyes.

"Don’t you dare." Clara rasped. Isabella froze, her foot half-lifted, heart hammering. "You’re hurt," she said stupidly.

Clara laughed, a thin, broken sound that ended in a cough. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing red across pale skin, then looked at Isabella with something sharp and ugly beneath the fear.

"I’m hurt doesn’t mean I need an abomination help." Isabella flinched as if the words had struck her instead of the floor.

Abomination.

She had heard worse. From her pack. From strangers. From her own blood. From even Clara which just the small time try have spent but Clara had no right to use Lucain insult on her.

"Fuck you!"

Clara froze, her mouth agape as she prepared to hurl another barb, but Isabella didn’t give her the chance.

"Just shut the fuck up and let us help you!" Isabella snapped, her golden eyes flashing with a heat that rivaled the King’s.

"Stop trying to be hated for no reason. You’re dying, the house is freaking smelling already, we have less than ten minutes, and I’m not leaving your ass here just so you can feel superior while you turn into a salt lick. So... shut...the...fuck..up."

Clara’s jaw worked silently, stunned into a rare, bitter silence. Isabella turned her gaze to Lucian.

He was already moving toward her, his large hands reaching out to haul her away from the witch.

His expression was cold. He didn’t care about Clara’s soul or her rotting body anymore; he cared about the fact that Isabella’s skin was beginning to shimmer with a black, crystalline crust that was minutes away from becoming permanent.

"Lucian, wait," Isabella said, dodging his reach. "Carry her. I’ll climb your back."

Lucian’s eyes narrowed, his crimson irises darkening. "There is no time for this drama, girl. The salt is already—"

"I said carry her!" she barked. Through the bond, she shoved her defiance at him, a spike of will that made his own pulse jump.

Lucian’s jaw tightened until the bone looked ready to snap. He hated this. He hated the delay, He hated the power this girl had on him, the weakness of the witch, and the stubbornness of the girl.

But the clock was screaming in his ears, so without a word, he stooped down and scooped Clara’s light, frail form into his arms.

The witch glared at him, her fingers curling into claws against his bare chest, but she was too weak to fight.

"Climb," Lucian commanded Isabella, who didn’t hesitate. She scrambled onto his back, her legs locking around his waist and her arms looping tightly over his shoulders.

The heat from his skin was the only thing keeping the salt on her own body from seizing up completely.

"Where’s the bathroom?" she gasped into his ear. Clara let out a weak, mocking scoff.

Lucian didn’t answer. Instead of heading for the hallway, he turned and kicked the front door of the cabin off its rusted hinges.

He inhaled, the muscles in his legs cording like steel cables, and blurred. Isabella’s vision smeared into a streak of grey trees.

The wind ripped the air from her lungs, the speed so intense it felt like her skin might peel away.

Before she could even scream, the world shifted from horizontal to vertical. They weren’t at a sink.

They were at the edge of the dark, spring-fed lake that bordered the property. "Lucian, what are you—"

He didn’t explain. With a powerful heave, he tossed Clara into the water, and in the same motion, he reached back, grabbed Isabella by the waist, and threw her in right after the witch.

The impact was a freezing, violent shock.

Isabella went under, the cold mountain water slamming into her lungs, stealing Isabella’s breath, but the fizzing hiss against her skin told her the black salt was finally dissolving.

She kicked her legs, arms flailing just enough to rise, gasping, lungs burning from the sudden cold. She broke the surface, water streaming from her hair, and blinked up at Lucian standing on the bank, his crimson eyes dark and stormy as always.

"What the actual fuck?!" she spluttered, spitting out water. "This isn’t a bathroom! Why did you throw me in a lake?!"

Lucian’s expression didn’t waver. Not an apology, not a flinch just cold, precise control.

"Get those cloths off," said Lucain.

"Excuse me?" Isabella blinked at him, if she didn’t know how to swim she would have been cooked but this man didn’t even care as he didn’t answer.

Instead, he watched her with the same lethal patience he always did, eyes calculating every heartbeat, every movement.

Below the surface, Clara had already resurfaced. The witch’s dark hair fanned out around her like smoke, her green gown clinging to her frail frame.

Without hesitation, she began tugging at the drenched fabric, peeling it away with ease.

"Bathroom," Clara muttered, the single word rolling off her tongue with a satisfaction only a witch who loved the wild could muster.

She didn’t look embarrassed, didn’t flinch at the cold, she simply reveled in the element, as though the lake belonged to her.

Isabella narrowed her eyes at Lucian. "You know, I was kinda hoping for warm water and a shower, maybe a bath tub and a champagne and a very fluffy towel that doesn’t smell like swamp," she muttered, her teeth chattering despite her attempt at sarcasm.

Lucian ignored her. Clara, for her part, was already waist-deep in the water, sliding her soaked tunic over the surface, humming something low and incomprehensible that made the hair on Isabella’s arms prickle.

"Bathroom," Clara repeated, louder this time, shaking water from her hair. "Nature’s finest. No walls, no doors, no"—she smirked at Isabella—" stupid and unnecessary luxury"

Isabella rolled her eyes as she glanced a. side eye to Lucain who got the gist and turned as. she quickly pulled off her cloths.