LAYLA
What was I expecting?
I should’ve known better. The Lycan King doesn’t change. The word change? Can not be found in his vocabulary. He is chaos and destruction wrapped in a single form. So when he summoned a few days after I had aid with his wound, I thought—just for a fleeting mont—that maybe he had grown a soul.
Oh, Layla, you absolute fool.
The day started off strange. No brooding Sabastine escorting , no cryptic orders barked my way. Instead, a female awaited in the grand hall—a seamstress, or sothing close enough. She didn’t speak much, just gestured toward a side corridor as if I were late for so royal fitting.
The mont I entered the room, I was bombarded by fabric. Rich, gleaming silks, soft velvets, and lace so intricate it looked like spiderwebs spun by gods. Before I could process anything, she began pinning and asuring, muttering to herself about adjustnts.
That’s when it hit .
Maybe this is his way of showing appreciation. A ridiculous idea, I might say, but it lodged itself in my mind. Perhaps this was so twisted thank-you for keeping him from bleeding out like a fool in his own chambers.
But then ca the dress.
The seamstress stepped back with an approving nod, gesturing toward a tall mirror in the corner. I turned, reluctantly, and there it was.
Erald green.
Sa color with my eyes.
The kind of green that whispered of royalty and power, shimring under the light like dew on fresh leaves. The dress hugged my figure, cinching at the waist and flowing out in soft, billowing waves. It was beautiful. Uncomfortably so.
I barely had a mont to adjust to the sight of myself before the door creaked open, and the air in the room shifted.
He entered.
The Lycan King’s presence filled the room, heavy and inescapable. His red eyes scanned slowly, dragging over every detail like he was committing it to mory. And then he smiled—not the kind of smile that offered warmth or reassurance. No, this was a predator’s smile, smug and self-assured.
"You look absolutely breathtaking in this," he said, his voice a deep rumble that made the seamstress freeze in place.
I was about to mutter sothing polite, a reflex I couldn’t quite kill, when he pulled sothing from his pocket.
A collar.
Not just any collar. It matched the dress—a green leather band with silver clasps that glead under the light.
I stared at it, my throat tightening as he stepped closer. My body scread at to back away, to put distance between us, but I was frozen.
Without a word, he reached forward and fastened it around my neck. The cool leather pressed against my skin, a silent reminder of exactly where I stood in this twisted hierarchy.
"There," he said, his voice soft but filled with satisfaction. "Now you look perfect."
Perfect. The word sent a chill down my spine.
I stood rigid, staring at my reflection. Breathtaking, he had said.
Oh, I wished I was breathtaking, alright. I would give anything to have the power to seize his breath permanently. But no, here I was, standing like a doll in his grand ga of control.
"You’re quiet," he observed, his tone amused as if my silence was a source of entertainnt.
"Not much to say, your majesty," I replied, my voice tight.
He chuckled, low and rich. "I can see you’re overwheld. It’s alright—you’ll grow accustod to your new...decoration."
Decoration? That was what this collar was?
His fingers brushed against the leather briefly, adjusting it as if it wasn’t already suffocating enough.
"This suits you," he said, his red eyes eting mine in the mirror. "It marks you as mine."
My stomach twisted, but I forced myself to keep my voice steady. "Never knew you needed so reassurance, your majesty?"
The words hung in the air between us, my attempt at defiance sharp and reckless. I expected him to laugh, or maybe fire back so cruel remark. But instead, he took a step closer.
Too close.
I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. The space between us dissolved until I could feel the heat radiating off his skin. My heartbeat thundered in my ears as his red eyes locked onto mine, sharp and unyielding.
His hand ca up, fingers tilting my chin upward so I couldn’t look away.
There it was again, that smirk—infuriating, dangerous, and entirely too confident. "If I needed assurance," he murmured, his voice low and deliberate, "you just gave it to ."
I wanted to pull back, to break away from the intensity of his gaze, but my body betrayed , frozen under the weight of his presence. His thumb brushed lightly against my jaw, sending an unexpected shiver down my spine.
And just as quickly as he had closed the distance, he stepped back.
He didn’t say anything more. He didn’t need to. His smirk lingered as he turned, his footsteps heavy and deliberate as he walked to the door.
I exhaled sharply, realizing I had been holding my breath.
The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving alone with my reflection in the mirror and the suffocating weight of his words.
"It marks you as mine."
I touched the collar again, the cool leather a reminder of everything I hated about him. Everything I hated about myself for not shoving him away.
Damn him. Damn that smirk.
And damn for letting my heart race at the sight of it.
The seamstress’s soft voice broke through the heavy silence that had settled in the room, her words almost like a whisper against the stillness.
"My lady?"
I blinked, shaking myself out of the haze of thoughts that had been swirling in my mind. I hadn’t even realized I was standing there, staring at my reflection in the mirror, lost in the lingering effect of his words, his touch.
"Yes?" I replied, trying to sound composed, though I felt anything but.
She hesitated, the delicate fabric of the gown she had been adjusting hanging from her fingers. "Shall we continue, my lady? There are still a few more dresses to try on."
For a mont, I considered saying no, telling her to pack up and leave alone, but I didn’t. Instead, I nodded.
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