The mont the door shut behind , I hesitated, clutching the makeshift supplies I had gathered tightly in my hands. The air inside the Lycan King’s chambers was stifling, heavy with the coppery scent of blood, smoke from the hearth, and sothing distinctly... him. It wasn’t the scent that made my knees wobble, though. It was him.
He stood there, leaning against the far wall like he didn’t have a care in the world, even with blood streaking down his torso and pooling faintly near his feet. His red gaze flicked to , sharp and assessing.
"Well?" His voice was low, almost a growl. "Are you planning to just stand there all night, or are you going to do sothing useful?"
I flinched at his tone, a sharp pang of doubt gnawing at . What the hell was I doing here? Why had I let Sabastine guilt-trip into this madness?
Taking a shaky step forward, I swallowed hard and said, "I... I need you to sit down. Sowhere. Anywhere." My voice barely trembled, but inside, I was screaming at myself for how small I sounded.
The Lycan King arched a brow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Giving orders now, are we?"
"I’m not—" I stopped, exhaling in frustration. "Your majesty, I’m just trying to help. Sit, or don’t. And if I’m being honest, I don’t care either way. Bleed out if you must."
His smirk widened, but to my surprise, he obeyed, sinking into a chair near the hearth with a groan that sounded more like annoyance than pain. His muscles flexed with every movent, his sheer size overwhelming the already shattered piece of furniture.
I stepped closer, every nerve in my body on high alert. He watched like a hawk, his red eyes tracking my every movent. "This isn’t going to be comfortable," I muttered, trying to sound more confident than I felt.
"Comfortable is overrated," he replied, his voice tinged with amusent.
I knelt in front of him, my breath catching as I got a proper look at his chest. The wound stretched from his shoulder down to his ribcage, deep and jagged, as if sothing had tried to rip him apart. Scars crisscrossed his skin, faded and silvery, each one telling a story I didn’t dare ask about.
And then there were the muscles.
Damn it. Focus, Layla.
I cleared my throat, forcing my gaze to stay on the wound. "This might sting," I said, though my voice was barely above a whisper.
"Do your worst," he replied, leaning back slightly, his smirk never wavering.
With trembling hands, I pressed a damp cloth to the wound, and he hissed sharply, his muscles tensing under my touch. The warmth of his skin seeped through, and for a mont, I forgot how to breathe.
"Careful," he murmured, his voice low and teasing. "I might think you’re enjoying this."
"I’m not," I snapped, my cheeks flaming. "Believe ."
Still, my gaze betrayed . Despite my best efforts, my eyes kept drifting back to his chest, to the way his skin seed to gleam in the firelight, to the way his breath hitched every ti I applied pressure.
"I know it might be hard to resist," he said smugly. "But I think It would be better if you didn’t stare so."
I felt a blush crept through my cheeks. "I’m only aiding your wound your majesty, nothing more."
I hesitated before lifting the damp cloth to press against his wound again, hyper-aware of the tension in the room. The Lycan King’s gaze felt heavier than ever, a silent weight that prickled at the edges of my mind. I focused on the task at hand, trying to ignore the sheer magnitude of him—broad chest, ridged scars, and red eyes that seed to bore into like they could unravel every guarded thought I had.
This was dangerous. Not just because of him but because of how easy it was to fall into this false sense of stillness between us, like the world wasn’t one sharp, wrong move away from chaos.
I pressed the cloth against another gash, earning a low hiss from him. "Sorry," I muttered, though I wasn’t entirely sure if I ant it.
He didn’t respond. Instead, his hand suddenly moved, catching a strand of my hair that had fallen loose. The motion was so gentle that it took a second to realize what was happening. My breath caught as his fingers brushed through the strands like he was inspecting them.
"What are you doing?" I asked, tilting my head up to look at him.
His eyes weren’t on my face, though. They were locked on the hair in his hand, his red gaze unreadable. "It’s soft," he said almost absently, the words so quiet I wasn’t sure I heard him right.
I stared at him, completely thrown off by the shift in his deanor. The cruel Lycan King was sitting here, casually playing with my hair like he hadn’t spent every other mont terrifying .
Then, he spoke again. "Last ti... I might have been a little harsh."
I blinked, certain I hadn’t heard him right. "Is this your way of apologizing, Your Majesty?"
That got his attention. His eyes flicked up to et mine, and for a mont, there was an intense silence between us. The kind of silence that made you feel like you were on the edge of sothing huge, sothing irreversible.
"I don’t want my bride to despise ," he said finally, his voice softer than I had ever heard it.
That hit like a punch to the gut. My lips parted, but no words ca out at first.
And yet, suddenly, despite myself, the response ca automatically, dripping with the bitterness I couldn’t hide.
"That’s already too late," I said, my voice low and sharp. "I already despise you."
For a heartbeat, nothing happened. The air seed to still, the tension between us tightening like a drawn bowstring. Then he laughed.
Not just any laugh. A deep, rumbling sound that filled the room, unrestrained and genuinely amused. It startled so much that I jerked back slightly, my hand still midair with the cloth.
"You’re honest," he said, his lips curling into a grin that bordered on wolfish. "I like that."
"Glad I could entertain you, Your majesty," I muttered, my fingers tightening around the cloth.
He shook his head, the remnants of his laughter still in his voice. "You’re full of surprises. Most would grovel or lie. But you? You look in the eye and say exactly what’s on your mind."
"I didn’t think honesty would be a cri," I said, carefully dabbing at another wound, even as my heart raced.
"In my world there are certain type of truth I do consider a cri?" he said, his voice dropping slightly.
There was a weight to his words, but before I could dwell on it, he reached out again, his fingers brushing against mine as he took the cloth from .
"That’s enough," he said, his tone softer now. "You’ve done your part."
I stepped back, hesitant to let my guard down even as he leaned back against the chair with a heavy sigh. His red eyes stayed on , though, watching every move I made like he was still trying to figure out.
"You’re free to leave, bride," he said after a mont.
I hesitated for a second longer, then turned on my heel and headed for the door, my thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and frustration. But just as my hand touched the door handle, his voice stopped .
"Bride."
I froze, not sure if I should turn around.
"Yes?" I said cautiously.
"I don’t think you despise as much as you think," he said, his tone maddeningly smug.
I spun around to glare at him, but the sight of his satisfied smirk made my words catch in my throat. Instead, I shook my head, opened the door, and walked out without looking back.
Because if I stayed a mont longer, I wasn’t sure what I might say—or worse, what I might feel.
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