Mated To The Lycan King Who Can’t Let Go

The moon hung over the treeline—huge, white, and nosy. I sat on my cot, blanket half-slid to the floor, surrounded by a bunch of of laundry, dusty boxes, and whatever creature had decided it was my "bug roommate" this week. The insulation had given up on life a long time ago so it was pretty cold now. But the moon? She looked alive. Mocking me, maybe. Calling me, definitely. This was the just place he kept me—my father, the loyal beta, the shining example of obedience. My existence was the one stain he could never scrub clean. Witch-born bastard child. A walking PR disaster. So he shoved me in the attic, called it "for my protection," and then made sure I never saw sunlight long enough to get a damn tan. School? Outings? Pack life? Cute ideas. I wasn't even allowed to say I shared his DNA. Did it hurt me? Not even close. I got bored with caring very early on. What I didn't get bored with was plotting. Because honestly? I wanted to burn this entire pack down if I could. My

The kitchen felt like the inside of a dragon's mouth—hot, smoky, and full of people I'd like to stab. Every burner blazed, every pot hissed, and every scent of perfectly seasoned food rose like I actually enjoyed being their little household slave. I flipped the trout exactly when it needed flipping, spooned the sauce with precision that would make a five‑star chef weep, and plated the vegetables in neat rows. Naturally, not a soul appreciated any of it. "Try not to burn it this time," Father hissed over my shoulder. "Yes, sir," I murmured, stirring the pan like I wasn't fantasizing about hitting him with it. "And make sure the meat isn't overcooked," Kori's mom added, nose wrinkling like she smelled something foul. "Not that I expect you to understand what that even means. I've seen how useless you can actually be." I didn't even blink. My act was flawless: blank eyes, meek posture, shoulders slightly hunched—my "incompetent little attic gremlin" persona. The thing about pretend

When I woke up, the world was suspiciously... soft. First clue: I wasn't on the gritty wooden floor where I'd passed out like a ragged puppet. Second clue: the jacket draped over me wasn't mine. Third clue: the socks on my feet were thick, warm, and absolutely not from the pack's "give the attic rat whatever scraps are too ugly for thifting" bin. Leviathan was gone—vanished like smoke—but the evidence of his existence clung to me. The jacket smelled faintly of smoke and that strange metallic scent he carried, the kind that made you think he'd crawled out of a war. Whatever. He was gone. Out of my hair. Out of my immediate danger radius. ...Though I hated how quiet the attic felt now. Talking to him—had actually been... nice. Dangerously nice. So I focused on the floor. Scrubbing. Scrubbing. Pretending my life wasn't constantly dangling over an open pit like a carrot over a rabbit with a grudge. Cue the universe, which adores irony: "Well well, look at the dirty rag trying to

The territory gates boomed open behind me, metal groaning like they were relieved to see me alive. My soldiers' boots hit the dirt in perfect rhythm, and the crowd did what crowds do best—lose their damn minds. "THE LYCAN KING RETURNS!!!" "THE MOON GODDESS FAVORS US!!!" "LONG LIVE THE LYCAN KING!!!" Normally I'd bask in that. Usually I'd grin, throw a wave, maybe flex a few muscles for dramatic effect. But not this time. Not when the image of a girl with messy, midnight hair and stubbornly bright yellow eyes kept elbowing its way into the front of my brain like she owned the place. Nyx. Filthy as hell, bruised, starving, shoved in an attic like a shameful secret—and still beautiful. Not the dainty, polished noble beauty. No. She had the kind of beauty that survives fires and walks out of explosions. Lethal beauty. I'd never seen it. But her looks weren't even the loudest thing about her. Her everything was loud. Smart and educated, yet somehow never saw the inside of a school

What the actual fuck was going on? The crowd split open like someone had dropped a live grenade in the center of them, bodies stumbling back, whispers hissing through the air. Then—boots. Heavy, synchronized, disciplined. About fifty men marched straight through the parted sea of pack members, and at the front was Leviathan himself, looking... panicked. Panicked. Over me. Okay, now that was new. Why? Father gasped so hard I thought he might swallow his own tongue and instantly dropped to his knees. "Th—the Lycan King?" The what now? Leviathan. The Lycan King. The same Leviathan written about in the half-finished lore books I read in the attic. Oh fantastic—so the universe sent the heir apparent dramatic plot device to collect me. At least he wasn't a rogue. And more importantly? That meant it was officially time to switch to Plan B: survive by any means necessary, play stupid when convenient, manipulate shamelessly if needed. My comfort zone, really. Leviathan had vanished a f