CHAPTER 200
The silver-gold fur on Isabella's hand shimmered under the moonlight, the individual hairs pulsing as if they were alive.
The blood on her claws—dark and thick—began to steam slightly in the freezing mountain air. Lucian remained motionless, his eyes locked on her transformed limb.
The annoyance that had sharpened his features moments ago was gone, replaced by a profound, haunting silence. "Isabella," he whispered, the name barely a breath.
She didn't answer. She couldn't. Her entire body was vibrating with the echo of the strike. She felt a strange, primal satisfaction humming through her—the part of her that had been furniture for years was suddenly, violently awake.
A wet cough from the dirt broke the spell. The charcoal wolf was struggling to shift back. The wound Isabella had dealt was deep; three jagged furrows ran from his shoulder to his hip, bypassing the thick fur as if it were parchment.
