Kiss The Lycan King

(Gwen’s POV)

I didn't make it past the front door before my legs gave out, and my mother found me crumpled against the frame, soaked to the skin and shaking so hard that my teeth clicked together.

"Gwen?" She dropped the cloth she was holding and knelt beside me, her hands moving over my wet hair and my cold cheeks. "Goddess above, what happened? Why are you drenched?"

"Mama." My voice broke on the word. "It's Liam."

"What about him? Did he hurt you?"

"He's gay." The words tumbled out between sobs, ugly and humiliating. "I walked in on him with another man, and he kissed him like he'd never kissed me, Mama, not once in two years. Then he broke up with me, as if I wasn't the one who should have said it first."

She said nothing, and I felt her arms tighten around me, warm in a way that made me cry even harder. She smelled of lavender and bread, the smell of every childhood sickness and every scraped knee I'd ever had.

"Oh, my sweet girl," she whispered into my hair. "Oh, my brave, foolish girl."

"I'm not brave. I'm humiliated. Everyone thought we would be married by spring. Father already told half the council."

"Your father will get over his embarrassment, and so will you." She pulled back, cupping my face, and her thumbs wiped away the tears that kept coming. "You loved him honestly. That's nothing to be ashamed of."

My voice broke even more. "He lied to me."

"He lied to himself first, which is a kind of cruelty all its own." She kissed my forehead. "Now come upstairs and change before you catch your death."

I flinched at that word, but she didn't notice. She drew me a bath, tucked me into bed, and sat beside me stroking my hair until I fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep with my left hand curled tight against my chest.

The scream woke me the next morning.

It was high and raw and utterly unlike my mother, and I was out of bed and halfway across the room before I was fully awake, my heart hammering.

Sunlight streamed through the window, and my mother stood at the foot of my bed with both hands pressed over her mouth.

"Mama? What's wrong?"

"Your hand." She could barely get the words out. "Gwen, your hand."

I looked down. A dark, intricate mark curled across the back of my left hand, black as ink and spreading in thin, branching lines toward my wrist like the veins of a leaf, and it pulsed faintly when I stared at it, as if it were alive.

"No," I whispered. "No, no, no."

My father burst into the room a moment later, still in his nightshirt, his hair wild. "What is it? Who screamed?" Then he saw the mark, and the color fled from his face. "That's a witch's curse!"

"Gwen." My mother grabbed my shoulders. "Tell us everything. Did you meet a witch last night?"

I swallowed hard. "She was sitting by the fountain in the old market, an old woman in a mossy shawl. She poured a pitcher of water over my head for no reason, and I slapped her. I was so angry, Mama, I wasn't thinking."

"You slapped a witch??" My father sank onto the edge of my bed like his knees had failed him. "Gods help us."

"She said that two years from last night, my heart would stop." My voice cracked. "And she knew my name, though I never told her."

My parents exchanged a long look and my stomach dropped, because it wasn't surprise.

"You know her?" I said slowly. "Both of you know her."

"Her name is Morwen," my mother said quietly. "She lives at the edge of the forest. We've known her since, before you were born."

"Then you have to take me to her. Now."

"Get dressed," my father said, rising. "We leave at once."

The path to Morwen's house was through the forest where the trees grew so thick that daylight came down in thin, cold threads, and the air smelled like wet earth and burned herbs.

The house was at the end of it, small and crooked, with a roof sagging under heavy moss and crooked windows that seemed to watch us as we approached.

Bundles of dried roots and bones hung from the eaves, and they clicked softly together.

"I hate this place," I whispered.

"Stay close," my mother murmured, gripping my uninjured hand.

The door opened before we even reached it.

Morwen stood in the doorway, no longer hunched, her silver eyes was bright with amusement, and the red mark of my slap still faintly visible on her cheek. She leaned against the frame and looked me over slowly.

"Little one," she said, smiling, "did your parents never teach you not to slap your elders?"

My face burned. "You poured water on me."

"And you struck me. We each have our crimes." Her gaze moved to my parents, and her expression softened. "Alaric. Seren. It has been a really long time."

"Morwen." My father bowed his head, and I stared at him, because I had never once seen him bow to anyone. "We have come to beg forgiveness for our daughter. She is young and was grieving, and she acted in anger."

"Please." My mother stepped forward, her voice trembling. "She doesn't understand what she did. Remove the curse, and we'll give you whatever you ask."

Morwen tilted her head, studying us. "Come inside. I don't discuss such things on the doorstep."

The room inside was cramped and dim, lit by a single guttering candle, and shelves crowded with jars lined every wall.

A black cat watched us from the hearth with intelligence. Morwen settled into a worn chair and gestured for us to sit, but none of us moved.

"Well?" my father said hoarsely.

"A curse of this kind cannot be broken, Alaric." Her tone was almost gentle. "It can only be reversed."

"Then reverse it." My voice came out sharper than I intended. "Tell me how."

Morwen's silver gaze settled on me, and her smile disappeared. "You must kiss the Lycan King, child. Xaden himself. Three times, before two years have passed, or your heart will stop as I said."

The room went utterly silent, and I heard the cat meow.

"The king?" I whispered. "The ruthless king? The one who has never looked twice at a woman?"

"That one," Morwen said softly, and her smile returned, slowly. "I suggest you start practicing your manners, Gwen."