Semua Bab The Lycan King’s Rogue Queen: Bab 1 - Bab 8

If someone had told me last year that I’d be dragged into the middle of the Lycans’ royal court, I would have laughed, flipped them the bird, and gone back to binge-watching crime documentaries while eating nachos in my crappy apartment. But here I was, on my knees on polished marble, hands tied, in front of the so-called King of the Lycans. For the record, my name is Riley Ashford. Rogue werewolf. Professional trouble magnet. Twenty-six years old with a talent for making bad choices look intentional. I wasn’t always a rogue. Once upon a time, I had a pack. A family. A future. My father was Beta of the Ashwood Pack. Loyal second-in-command. His word was law right after the Alpha’s, and he loved reminding me of it. “Discipline builds respect, Riley,” he’d say while drilling me through endless training sessions. Except “discipline” often meant “obedience at all costs.” And I—sarcastic, stubborn, allergic to authority—was a terrible student. My mother was the opposite. A healer, gen

By the third day of my royal imprisonment, I’d learned three things: 1. The food here was way too good for a “dungeon.” I was starting to suspect they were fattening me up for some ritual sacrifice. 2. Lycans had terrible taste in wall art. Who hangs portraits of themselves snarling? I mean, relax, we get it—you’re scary. 3. The King of Lycans was the single most frustrating male in existence. And I’d dated a warlock who cursed my underwear drawer, so that was saying something. Kael hadn’t visited me since our little “You’ll need your strength for surviving me” chat, but his presence lingered like smoke in the air. And judging by the whispers I overheard from servants who scurried in and out of my chamber, the man was practically legend. Kael wasn’t just king. He was the King. The one who’d inherited the throne after ripping it from his own father’s hands in combat when he was only twenty-five. Now, at thirty-two, he was a ruler no one dared to question. A warrior whose claws had

The guards shoved me inside and the door slammed behind me with a final thunk. I stood there, silk skirts twisting around my legs, heart hammering, fury boiling so hot it made my skin itch. My wolf paced inside me, snarling, claws scraping. We don’t serve. We don’t bow. Not to him. Not to anyone. I tore at the gown’s hem just to breathe, pacing across the rug like a caged beast. “Breathe, Riley,” I muttered. “Don’t murder the king. Not yet.” The door opened. And there he was. Kael filled the frame like a stormcloud, broad, golden-eyed, calm as death. He didn’t knock. Of course he didn’t. Kings don’t knock. They claim. “Get out,” I snapped instantly, my voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Unless you’re here to apologize. In which case, get out anyway, but maybe I’ll stab you with a slightly smaller knife next time.” His mouth curved. Not a smile—Kael didn’t smile. A smirk, dark and cruel. “You played your part well.” “My part?” I barked a laugh, stalking toward him. “Oh, you mean

The courtyard smelled like sweat, steel, and arrogance. Lycans—dozens of them—watched me with open disdain. Warriors, broad-shouldered and scarred, their golden eyes gleaming with the kind of superiority only immortality and raw power could give. To them, I was nothing. A wolf. A rogue. A pup who had stumbled into the wrong playground. “Bring the mutt to the circle,” one sneered as I stepped forward, still aching from the fight with Kael the day before. My ribs burned, my skin pulled tight over bruises, but I wasn’t about to limp in front of this crowd. “Mutt?” I echoed sweetly, plastering on a smile. “That’s adorable. You must’ve practiced that insult for hours. Want me to clap?” Snickers broke out among the younger Lycans, quickly silenced by their seniors’ glares. The sneering one bared his teeth. “Watch your tongue, wolf. You won’t have it when we’re done with you.” “Aw, foreplay already?” I tilted my head. “At least buy me dinner first.” More laughter, quickly stifled. I l