Page 19 of The Lycan King's Captive

“No,” he said quietly. “It’s a bit shorter for werewolves, maybe because of your human blood.”

“How long do I have?”

“Around three hundred years. Females tend to live longer because they don’t fight for dominance. Werewolves have always lived in packs like wolves do in the wild. That kind of power structure means everyone is constantly jockeying for a better position in the hierarchy. Challenges are fought to the death, but females don’t participate. I’m not sure they’d want to, but even if they did it’s not allowed.”

“Why not?”

“It’s exceptionally rare for a human woman to survive a bite. Female werewolves are prized. Protected.”

I blinked. “I’m sorry, were we in the same basement?” Memories flooded back, along with anger so intense I couldn’t stay kneeling. I stood and pulled the blanket more tightly around me, my fists clenched in the thin fabric.

Cyrus stood, too, his body taking up most of the space in the tiny room. At five-foot-seven, I was taller than average for a woman, but he loomed over me. “I know you’re confused—”

“Can you stop telling me how I feel?” I snapped. “I know how I feel and, yeah, confusion is part of it.” My voice rose, but I didn’t care. “First I was mauled and turned into a monster. Then I was assaulted and forced to run for my life. Now you claim I’m this rare prize. None of that makes sense, and if you expect me to understand any of it you’re going to have to do better than we have always been at war with Eastasia!” I ended on a shout, my voice echoing around the cabin.

His nostrils flared, and a hint of yellow showed in his silver eyes.

And it occurred to me I was alone in the middle of nowhere with a male twice my size. A male who just informed me he was a king. I’d never met a town mayor, let alone a king, but something told me they didn’t like being yelled at.

My cheeks heated, and I mumbled, “That’s a quote from—”

“Orwell. I’m familiar with human literature.”

Right. Of course. God, he’d probably read 1984 when it came out. Maybe he even met George Orwell. Or Abraham Lincoln. I shoved the thought from my head. If I let myself venture down that path I might actually go crazy.

Silence stretched, the only sounds the hum of the ancient fridge and the rain pattering the roof.

“You’re right,” he said finally. “I owe you an explanation, but the quote is more apt than you realize. Lycans and werewolves have always fought each other, and both sides have gotten very good at killing. Our history is built on bone and stained with blood.”

The hair on my nape lifted. I’d seen what Roman did to him. That kind of cruelty didn’t happen “just because.” If I had any hope of accepting my new reality, I needed more information about the world I found myself in.

“All wars start from somewhere,” I said.

He gave me a long look. Then he returned to the window, the blanket flaring around him. He stood in profile, his watchful gaze reminding me we weren’t out of danger. Roman and his men were still out there.

“You spoke of fairy tales,” Cyrus said, his gaze on the rain-soaked forest. “Our lore tells us there was once a human king. His kingdom and name are lost to history, but he had a mighty army led by brave knights. One of these was braver, fairer, and more beloved than all the others. He was also a lycan.”

I held my breath, awareness prickling my skin.

“It was folly to mingle with humans. However, the knight had lived a lifetime already, and he was bored. The human king’s court was a merry place full of dancing and distractions.” Cyrus glanced at me over his shoulder. “And a beautiful queen.”

The awareness thickened, and not even the rain-dappled sunlight slanting through the window could dispel the sense of doom building in my chest.

“The knight resisted the queen’s advances,” he said, “since he was forbidden to touch a human. But the queen was persistent, and the knight fell in love with her. They saw each other in secret, decades passing with no one discovering their affair. Then the queen fell ill. The knight could smell Death hovering just outside the door. So he broke the laws of his people and bit her, hoping to make her lifespan match his. He knew she was unlikely to survive.”

“But she did,” I said.

“She did.” Cyrus faced me. “And she was restored to the bloom of her youth. The king was suspicious…and jealous. The most beloved knight in his kingdom was still handsome and strong, whereas the king was old and growing frail. And now the queen, who had been on her deathbed, was as lovely as the day they wed. The king accused her of witchcraft so he could torture secrets from her. When she confessed the knight’s true nature, the king wanted the gift for himself. So he forced her to bite him. When he turned, he killed her.”

I flinched. The story might be “lore” as he called it, but most fairy tales were rooted in truth. Which meant that somewhere, at some time, a vindictive king had probably tortured his wife because she looked better than he did.

Cyrus continued. “The knight fled the kingdom, but the damage was done. The king took a blood oath swearing revenge. Legend says he bit the rest of his knights, creating an army of shifters who inherited his thirst for vengeance. It’s a more colorful explanation than the truth, which is that werewolves hate lycans because we’re stronger and—” He cut himself off.

I frowned. “Stronger and what?”

“Abby…” His gaze moved over me, his expression inscrutable. When he spoke, his voice was tight. “My people believe werewolves are an abomination. A pale imitation of the real thing. Turned humans are slower and weaker. They also struggle to control their beasts, probably because the human brain can’t process animal instincts.”

My heart pounded, the word “abomination” running through my head. “What are you saying? That I’ll be like Roman?”

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