8: Him?

Natasha’s POV

The room was too big, too bright and too soft for a girl like me.

The door shut behind us with a quiet thud and I just stood there. Still barefoot. Still unsure. The two maids walked in ahead of me like it was nothing. Like this kind of room didn’t swallow you whole. They didn’t glance back at me as they opened the tall wardrobe, setting down the folded clothes they brought. Another set of hands dropped a small towel on the wide bed. The bed alone looked like it could fit five people. The sheets were white and clean, the kind of clean that smelled like flowers and money. I didn’t move.

“This is your room,” one said without looking up.

She didn’t need to add “for now.” I already felt it.

“Freshen up. The King will send for you soon.”

That made my stomach twist. I stayed quiet. Just nodded a little, hoping they’d leave quickly. They didn’t wait around for questions. They turned and walked out, soft shoes brushing against the marble floor, skirts swaying gently with each step.

Then I was alone.

I turned in a slow circle, trying to make sense of it all. The curtains looked like they were made of velvet. Heavy and dark green, long enough to brush the floor. The walls had carvings on them, little silver details that shimmered when the light caught them just right. There was a full mirror against one wall, tall and wide. I looked away from it fast. Didn’t want to see what I looked like. My hair was probably a mess. My face still swollen from crying. That bruise still blooming on my cheek.

The room felt like it wasn’t meant for someone like me. It felt borrowed. Like something someone else would come to collect soon.

I walked to the dresser, ran my fingers over the polished wood, then looked at the window. The curtains were closed, but I could tell they’d lead to a view. Probably the garden, the forest, or something people like him considered relaxing. I didn’t belong here. This wasn’t mine. It wasn’t even close. I wasn’t a royal. I wasn’t a guest. I was a girl dragged from her maid dutiesl. And now they’d cleaned me up and dumped me here like some decoration.

I walked across the room, slowly, toward the bathroom door. I didn’t even know if it was the bathroom until I opened it and saw the tiles.

White. Clean. Cold under my feet.

The lights came on without me touching anything. Just flickered on when I stepped inside. I paused. Looked around. The mirror above the sink was spotless. The counter had strange little bottles lined up neatly. Everything smelled too good. Lavender. Citrus. Something sweet I couldn’t name.

The bathtub was wide and deep. The shower stood next to it, glass and silver and intimidating. The kind of thing I’d only ever seen from far away when I was cleaning someone else’s quarters back at the old packhouse. We never used things like this. We had buckets. And soaps that didn’t have fancy names. The maids didn’t get this.

I stepped in slowly. Let my fingers trail over the silver handle of the tap. I squinted at it, twisted it to the right. Nothing. Twisted it left. Water blasted out suddenly, spraying against the glass and splashing on my arm. I jumped back.

“Damn it…”

I tried again. Softer this time. Adjusted the handle. The water turned hot, then cold, scalding. I struggled to find the balance. My hand shook as I touched the glass to push the door open. The floor was slick, and my feet slipped once, but I caught myself. My breathing was uneven. My whole body was still tense, like I was about to be punished for being here.

I finally stepped under the stream.

It felt strange. I stood there, letting it soak through my hair, slide down my back, warm against my skin that had only known cold for days. My eyes closed. I tried not to cry again. But my head felt too full. I was scared.

Then I heard footsteps, Not outside. Inside my room.

My heart jumped.

I turned off the water fast, fumbled for the towel hanging nearby, the thick one they’d left on the hook. I wrapped it around myself, water dripping from my hair onto the tiles. My feet moved fast toward the door. Maybe one of the maids had come back. Maybe they heard the tap struggling and came to help.

I stepped out, towel clutched tight.

“Please I need help with the—?” I froze.

The Lycan King.

Him?

He stood near the window, back to the light, arms folded across his chest, his shirt dark, fitted, like it was made to sit over muscle and command. His eyes were already on me. Not startled. Not curious.

Hungry.

That look stopped my breath.

His gaze didn’t move. It stayed. Locked. Like he was memorising every drop of water on my skin. Every strand of hair stuck to my cheek. Like he was undressing me, even though I was barely wearing anything to begin with.

My hands gripped the towel tightly. I took a step back without meaning to.

“W-what… what are you—?”

I couldn’t finish the question.

He didn’t answer.

The silence between us stretched.

The water from my hair kept sliding down my back. The towel stuck to my skin, damp and heavy. I could feel my pulse at my throat, at my wrists, in the pit of my stomach.

My mouth was dry.

I wanted to speak again, to say something, anything, but nothing made it past my throat.

He still hadn’t said a word.

And somehow, that was worse.

Because in that silence, I could hear everything.

The thumping of my heart, the sound of something shifting inside me—something I didn’t understand, something I didn’t want.

His eyes finally flicked up from my body to my face, but the silence didn’t break. Rather, something inside me did.

And I just stood there.

Wrapped in nothing but a towel.

Staring into the eyes of the Lycan King.