CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Lyra’s pov

The air shifted.

A tingle rippled down my spine, like lightning crawling under my skin. I didn’t need to look up to know he was there.

The King.

Ronan’s presence filled the room like a storm. Thick. Wild. Dangerous.

I turned slowly, heart lurching as our eyes met. His gaze flared—dark, burning, furious. My body stiffened, muscles going rigid, instinct telling me to run even though I was rooted to the spot.

He didn’t speak at first. Just stood in the doorway, jaw clenched, fists at his sides, eyes locked on me with a ferocity that made my breath catch.

Then, in a voice like gravel and ice, he asked—no, demanded, “What are you doing here?”

His eyes never left me.

Garrick, bless him, stepped forward, calm and casual like the king hadn’t just radiated death into the room.

“We were just—uh—hungry,” Garrick said. “Came to grab a bite. Thought we’d keep each other company.”

Ronan’s expression didn’t shift. Didn’t soften.

If anything, it darkened.

His stare was searing, branding my skin like fire, and I wanted to curl into myself, to disappear under the weight of it.

“Just talking,” Garrick added with a chuckle, trying to ease the tension in the room. “Swapping stories. Laughing.”

Then Ronan’s eyes snapped to him, and everything in the room stilled.

“That’s why you’re the Beta?” he asked, voice sharp and low. “To be fooling around with a lowborn, Moonstone whore?”

The words hit harder than they should’ve.

Like a slap.

I blinked. Once. Twice. My chest hollowed out. I felt myself shrink, that warm flutter from earlier replaced with something cold. Something that slithered and stung.

Garrick's face twisted. “Ronan—”

“She has you laughing like a child,” the King sneered. “While you abandon your post to entertain some spy. You forget who she is? What kingdom she comes from?”

“She hasn’t done anything—”

“And you—” his voice lashed like a whip as he turned back to me, “—you think you’re clever? Smiling and sneaking around, using your charms like a true Moonstone slut?”

I clenched my fists under the table, eyes burning.

“Enough,” Garrick growled suddenly. “I get that you’re the King, but you don’t get to speak to her like that. We did nothing wrong. Just hanging out. Like friends.”

Silence.

Then a laugh. Low. Cold.

“Friends?”

In a flash Garrick was no longer beside me.

He was in the air.

Ronan had him by the throat, slammed against the kitchen wall so hard the entire shelf above them shook.

“King Ronan!” I shouted, rushing forward. “Stop!”

He didn’t even look at me.

His knuckles whitened around Garrick’s throat.

I reached for him, grabbing his arm, trying to pull him back but then he turned.

In one fury filled motion, he flung me aside like I was nothing.

I hit the floor with a sharp cry, but it wasn’t over. My body skidded into a cabinet with a crack, the edge catching the side of my head. Pain burst through me like fireworks. My vision blurred. Something warm trickled down my temple.

Blood.

My limbs trembled. I tried to push up, but my shoulder screamed in protest.

Silence.

And then his grip released.

I heard Garrick drop, gasping and coughing, but I didn’t look at him.

Because I felt him. The King. Staring.

I dragged in a shaky breath and pushed myself to sit up, every movement sparking a fresh wave of pain. My head throbbed. My lip was split. Blood smeared the side of my cheek.

He took a step toward me.

“Don’t,” Garrick rasped behind him.

But I lifted my hand—shaky and weak—and stopped him before he could get to me.

“Please,” I said softly. “Stay where you are.”

My eyes remained fixed on the floor, my voice barely above a whisper.

“I’m sorry, Your Majesty.”

The words scraped my throat, but I forced them out, even as tears burned behind my eyes.

“I shouldn't have spoken to your Beta. I forgot my place.” I sucked in a breath, the taste of blood sharp on my tongue. “It won’t happen again.”

He said nothing.

Neither of them did.

The silence returned, heavy and suffocating.

My hands moved without thought. I reached for the berries that had spilled. For the broken plate. For the knife Garrick had used to slice bread.

Cleaning.

Doing something.

Pretending I wasn’t bleeding. Pretending I wasn’t shaking. Pretending I wasn’t humiliated.

My vision blurred as I wiped the table, my fingers trembling as I straightened the chairs.

Neither of them moved.

I could feel their eyes on me—one seething, the other silently aching.

And still, I kept cleaning.

Because it was the only thing I could do.