All Chapters of The Lycan King’s Rogue Queen: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Control has always been my crown. I wear it better than steel, steadier than ritual, harder than truth. Men obey because I do not waver. Wolves obey because I do not want. Desire is a lever for lesser rulers; I rule by bone and will. Tonight, I nearly kissed a rogue. Riley Ashford. Insolent, bleeding, bright with defiance. I should have snapped her neck the first time she laughed in my court. That would have been simple. Clean. Correct. I did not. Instead, I caught her jaw, dragged my thumb over her mouth, and leaned close enough to breathe the heat of her refusal. Close enough that for a heartbeat the world narrowed to the shape of her lips and the audacity in her eyes. I hate her for that moment. I hate myself more. The throne room felt too small for what shook inside me. I rose, obsidian creaking under my hands, and the sound irritated me because it sounded like weakness learning a language. My steps cracked along the marble. Guards turned to stone as I passed; even the torc

By the time the guards shoved me back into my chamber, I was leaking from at least three new holes and limping like a one-legged pirate. My ribs hummed like broken bells, and my left eye was swelling into the kind of bruise that could win contests. I collapsed onto the bed. It groaned. I groaned louder. “Well,” I muttered, staring at the cracked ceiling, “that was fun. Ten out of ten. Would not recommend.” My wolf stretched under my skin, smug and restless. We stood. We didn’t bow. They saw. “Yeah,” I said, pressing a hand to my bleeding side. “They also saw me nearly get turned into a chew toy. Small victories, huh?” Victory is survival. She wasn’t wrong. But survival hurt like hell. I dragged myself upright long enough to find the pathetic excuse for water they left me. The cup trembled in my hands, sloshing down my chin. My reflection in the surface showed a stranger: blood-streaked, hair matted, eyes bright with stubborn fire I didn’t remember lighting. I tipped the cup ba

Riley The guards hauled me back like a sack of rotten grain. I didn’t resist — not because I couldn’t, but because I refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing me flail. When they dumped me into my chamber, I hit the stone hard enough to rattle my teeth. “Gentlemen,” I coughed, dragging myself upright, “your bedside manner leaves something to be desired. Maybe try a mint next time.” They left. Lock clicked. I collapsed onto the bed, pressing both hands to my chest. My wolf thrashed inside me, furious. Never again. Never let them silence us again. “Agreed,” I rasped, my throat raw. “Not exactly my idea of a spa treatment.” Her growl softened, bristling pride bruised. You thought I was gone. I closed my eyes. “I did.” Saying it out loud made my gut twist. Those minutes of silence had been worse than claws or fire. I’d felt hollow, like the universe had yanked half of me out and left a shell behind. If he does it again, my wolf snarled, we kill him. I barked a brittle laugh

Kael point of view : I should not have gone to her room. Twice now. Kings do not linger in shadows, watching prisoners breathe. Kings do not stand at the edge of a rogue’s bed, torn between wrath and hunger. Kings do not bend. And yet, I nearly did. When I leaned down, when her breath tangled with mine, every part of me screamed to taste her mouth. My body betrayed me, surging with a hunger I had never known. Not once. Not with queens offered on silver. Not with noble daughters trained to kneel. Only her. Riley Ashford. The rogue who laughs in silence, who spits in the face of chains. The storm I cannot command. I pulled away. Because if I hadn’t, I do not know what I would have done — and that terrifies me more than any enemy blade. Now I sit in the war room, maps spread beneath my hands. Armies, borders, alliances — neat lines of control. The empire bends. Generals obey. Steel obeys. Numbers obey. But my thoughts do not. They circle her. Always her. I thought breaking he

Kings do not do folly.That is what my tutors told me. That is what my generals expect. That is the doctrine I have worn like armor all my life: decisions measured, cruelty dispensed in clean lines, mercy rationed like a drink you are allowed only when you have earned dying for it.Last night broke that cadence.I remember the scream as if it were a blade: raw, sudden, not pleading but claiming. It cut through maps and men and the careful noise of my court and lodged in me. It did not beg. It commanded. It called me to something I had forgotten how to answer.I shredded wolves because of that sound. Not because of my titles, not because of duty, but because something in my chest — an animal older than law — demanded her safety before any stratagem could be considered. I tore through those assassins like a winter downstream, and I still feel the smell of their blood in the air: metal, salt, the small, bitter perfume of failure averted.When I found her—Riley—she fought like a thing tha