The Lycan King's Second Chance Mate: Rise of the Traitor's Daughter Chapter 315: Self Control

Jacob~

Who would’ve thought that soone like —an all-knowing being—could ever feel a flicker of fear... over a tiny mortal?

Easter’s heat was nothing like I’d imagined. I’d braced myself for sothing intense, maybe even overwhelming, but I thought the first night would be the peak—the hardest point to endure.

Oh I was so wrong.

By sunrise on the second day, I understood: Easter’s heat wasn’t a passing storm. It was a siege—persistent, clever, and always pressing at my defenses from so new direction. I wasn’t just weathering it; I was the besieged fortress, holding my walls together while she circled, testing every weakness. Every shift in her tone, every brush of her fingers against my skin, every glance that lingered just a fraction too long—it all chipped away at . And every ti I resisted, my body scread in protest, aching with the tension of restraint.

That first morning, I woke to the press of her soft body curled against mine, her warmth lting into like the sun itself. My shirt was gone—vanished soti in the night without noticing—and her lips were tracing lazy paths along my collarbone. The air we shared was warm, tinged with the faint scent of her hair and the heat of her breath. I caught her wandering hand just before it slipped past the waistband of my sweatpants.

"Good morning to you too," I murmured, my voice rough with sleep.

Her answering smile was pure trouble, and it set sothing dangerous alight in her eyes. "You could make it better."

I rolled us gently until she was flat on her back, her hair spilling across the pillow in a dark halo. My arm ca down to pin hers above her head—not rough, but enough to keep her in place. "Easter..." I let her na linger in the air, heavy with warning and unspoken temptation.

Her cheeks were flushed, her erald eyes catching the thin streams of morning light slipping through the curtains. "You know you want ," she whispered, and there was no mistaking the challenge in her tone.

I leaned in, my breath ghosting against the shell of her ear. "That’s the problem," I murmured, low enough that she had to feel the words more than hear them. Then I pushed myself away before my resolve could shatter entirely.

I retreated to the kitchen like it was neutral ground. I decided to make breakfast the mortal way—eggs, fresh bread, seared tomatoes—because the act of cooking gave sothing to focus on. I could’ve summoned the food with a flick of thought, but magic was too easy, too quick. I needed the deliberate clatter of a knife against a cutting board, the hiss of a pan, the rhythmic motions that kept my hands occupied and my mind from wandering back to the bedroom.

Easter’s footsteps padded softly across the floor, the sound light and unhurried. She erged wearing one of my shirts, the hem brushing just above her thighs. Bare legs caught in the pale wash of morning sunlight made her look almost unreal—like she’d stepped straight out of a dream I wasn’t ready to admit I’d been having.

She leaned her hip against the counter, folding her arms loosely as she watched crack eggs into the pan. "You know," she said, voice laced with playful mockery, "you’d be faster with magic."

Without looking up, I kept my attention on the sizzling eggs. "I’m in no hurry," I replied. "Besides, this way I get to show off my excellent cooking skills."

She tilted her head, studying like she could see right through the calm mask I was trying to keep. "Or," she said slowly, her lips curling, "you just like making watch you."

The spatula almost slipped right out of my hand. I fought to keep my face neutral, eyes fixed firmly on the pan. "Eat your breakfast, Easter," I said, and even to my own ears, it ca out tighter than I’d ant.

But she was still smiling when I slid the plate in front of her.

The first day was a blur of touch and retreat. She’d curl into on the couch, her head in my lap, and when I brushed her hair back from her face she’d kiss my palm. She’d trail her lips up my arm when I massaged her shoulders, then pout when I pulled away.

I read to her when the haze gave her a brief reprieve. Old stories, poetry, even a badly-written romance novel I found on my shelf. She listened with her eyes half-closed, smiling faintly, her fingers tracing idle shapes over my thigh.

Whenever she asked for Rose and the baby, I told her the truth—Cassandra and Bubble had them safe, fed, and loved. "You’ll see them when you’re well," I promised each ti. "Right now, they need their mother to be steady." She always nodded, though her eyes clouded with longing.

By the second night, I decided she needed to burn so of the restless energy.

"Co on," I said, tossing her one of my hoodies. "We’re going for a run."

She blinked. "In the middle of the night?"

I grinned. "Werewolves don’t exactly keep human hours."

We ran under the moonlight, our paws—her first real run in wolf form—thudding softly on the forest floor. She was fast, surprisingly so for soone so new to it, her joy bleeding through our connection like sunlight.

When we shifted back by the river, the world felt too quiet for what I was seeing. She stood there—completely naked, chest rising and falling, making her round breast dance to the rhythm, her skin was flushed and glowing under the moonlight. Her hair was a wild, tangled halo, her cheeks kissed crimson from the run.

Then she closed the space between us in a single step, her body still radiating heat, and she crashed her mouth into mine. The kiss was so fierce my knees almost gave way, like the ground had just dropped out from under .

"Easter..." I warned, though my hands clearly weren’t on my side—sliding to her hips, then drifting lower until they cupped the perfect curve of her ass.

She smiled against my lips, that wicked curve that always unraveled . "I need you, Jacob. You have to see that."

I clenched my jaw so hard it hurt, holding back the wave threatening to break. I didn’t even know a man could ache like this, my cock throbbing with every heartbeat. But I forced myself to breathe, to et her gaze, and said low, "I know, sweetheart. But not like this."

By the third morning, exhaustion was settling into my bones—not from lack of sleep, but from the constant restraint. Still, I cooked. Still, I massaged the knots from her shoulders, traced circles on her back when she curled against on the couch, read to her until her breathing evened out.

That afternoon, she perched cross-legged on the kitchen counter, idly swinging one foot as if she owned the space. Sunlight poured in from the window, catching the glint in her eyes while I stood at the stove, lazily stirring a pot of soup.

"You’d make a good husband," she said out of nowhere, like she was comnting on the weather.

I nearly lost my grip on the ladle. "That’s... definitely not sothing I hear every day."

Her lips curved into that half-smile that always made trouble feel inevitable. "I think you like taking care of ."

"I do," I said, quieter than I ant to. "Maybe too much."

Her gaze softened for half a second, but then—there it was again—that slow-burning heat, the kind that didn’t ask for permission. She hopped down from the counter, bare feet padding across the tile, and stopped close enough for to feel the warmth radiating off her skin. "Then stop holding back."

I set the ladle aside, cupped her face in my hands, and rested my forehead against hers. My voice ca out low, steady. "I’m holding back because I care, Easter. When this passes... I don’t want you waking up wishing we hadn’t rushed into sothing you weren’t ready for."

Her breath caught. "And what if I’m ready now?"

Gods, the way she looked at —it almost lted .

That night, the heat finally began to ebb. I could feel it in the way her breathing slowed, the way her eyes cleared. She still pressed close on the bed, still touched constantly, but it was less frantic now, more deliberate.

We lay in bed, tangled together beneath the blankets, her head resting on my chest. I read to her from a leather-bound book, my voice low in the quiet room. The lamplight threw a golden glow over her curls, her freckles, the faint smile playing at her lips.

It felt... dangerously perfect.

She shifted, looking up at . "Jacob?"

"Mhm?"

"Tell how we first t. In detail."

My heart stumbled over a beat. "I told you—we first t at your old house, back when you were still married to Ruben."

She shook her head slowly, like she was sifting through fog. "No... I rember you saying that last ti. I know you also said you and Natalie pulled out of Ruben’s hands. But there’s... sothing missing. Like soone took scissors to my mory and cut whole pieces out."

I froze, my hand still resting against the curve of her back. The truth pressed against my ribs like a weight.

Her voice was soft, curious. "Why can’t I rember?"

My throat felt tight. I forced a small smile, though my stomach had dropped to my feet. "That’s... a long story."

"I’ve got ti," she murmured.

I closed the book, staring at the ceiling. For the first ti in centuries, I didn’t know if I could say the words.