Page 18 of The Lycan King's Captive

She asked the question I’d known she would, her voice a thread of sound. “If you’re at war, why did Roman want me to have your child?”

I kept my eyes on the forest as I answered. “I’m not entirely sure. Humiliation maybe. Or revenge. It’s a crime among my people to mate with a werewolf. Those who break the law usually run. If they’re caught, they’re executed.”

She gasped. “Roman didn’t give either of us a choice.”

“Our laws are strict. There are no exceptions.” I should know. They were inked on my arms.

“So you’ll run?”

I shook my head.

“But they’ll kill you!”

“No, they won’t.”

“But you just said—”

“They won’t execute me.” I closed my eyes on a long blink as the burn in my mouth dissipated and my tongue finished regenerating. Then I faced her and spoke aloud for the first time since I made the mistake of trusting Roman.

“The lycans won’t kill me, Abby. I’m their king.”

9

ABBY

In veterinary school, we did a unit on recognizing trauma in dogs. There were various ways to define trauma, but my professor preferred the simplest: too much, too soon, too fast.

As I knelt on the cabin’s dusty floor with Cyrus’s declaration ringing in my ears, I knew I was hurtling toward a textbook case.

He must have seen it in my face, because he left the window and crouched in front of me, the blanket spreading around him like a mantle.

How appropriate.

“Abby.” His silver eyes were full of concern. “I know you’re scared. This is a lot to take in. But you’re safe with me. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

He spoke with quiet confidence, his rich rumble deeper now that it was outside my head. Seeing him like this, it was hard to believe he was the same bloodstained, emaciated man from the basement. All traces of the cage were gone, his skin smooth and muscled. Early morning sunlight streamed around him, giving him the look of a saint in a Renaissance painting. He was even more handsome now—a bronzed god with black hair and a strong jaw shadowed with dark stubble.

As my gaze lingered, a sudden thought popped into my head. “You should have a beard.”

“What?” Wariness filled his eyes, as if he worried I might finally be losing it.

“We were in those cells for days, but your hair is the same.” And not just his stubble. His hair was also untouched by prison, the dark waves arranged in the casual disarray male models strove for. Meanwhile, my scalp itched and my own hair streamed over my shoulders in damp, tangled clumps.

He rubbed a palm over his cheek, his expression almost self-conscious. “Uh, yeah, that’s part of being a lycan, actually. Once we reach adulthood, we sort of lock in place. We also stop aging, but we’re not immortal. The average lifespan is about five hundred years.”

Too much, too soon, too fast.

“How old are you?” I asked.

He hesitated. “A little past ninety.”

“What’s a little?”

Another long pause. “One hundred and ninety-four.”

I couldn’t stifle my gasp. He was two centuries old? I searched his face, looking for signs of age or an indication I was talking to someone born before telephones or the Civil War. But there was nothing. Not a single gray hair among the black. And if what he said was true, it would stay that way for a very long time, his body healing any injuries he might suffer along the way. He’d never deteriorate. Never lie in a hospital bed clinging to a few more precious minutes because the six or so decades he’d been given weren’t enough.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Will I live that long?”

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