Page 21 of The Lycan King's Captive

“Come on,” I muttered, pressing the power button. The screen lit up, a green icon in the corner showing five percent battery. I dropped the blanket and was out the door in seconds. Sunlight hit my shoulders. The sky was cloudless and clear.

And a moment later, my steward’s familiar growl filled my ear. “Who the fuck is this and how did you get this number?”

Relief so intense pounded through me, my knees loosened. Actually loosened, like I might faint right there in the grass.

I gripped the sat phone in a hand that wanted to shake. “Garrick, it’s me.”

He sucked in a breath, and his voice held a tremble that let me know he was shaking, too. “My lord?” There was a creaking sound, like he sat heavily in a chair. “Jesus fuck, we thought you were dead.”

Despite my circumstances, a smile tugged at my mouth. “I’ve missed your rather colorful vocabulary.”

“Where the hell are you? There’s a delay on the line.”

“Satellite phone.” I scanned the trees, my ears pricked for any hint of sound. “As for where I am, my best guess is dead center of the North Maine Woods.”

There was a long pause. Then Garrick said, “You tried to negotiate a cease fire with Roman.” Almost to himself, he muttered, “The nobles aren’t going to like this.”

I didn’t much care what they liked, but tradition said I was stuck with them. “Yeah, well, they’ll be happy to know I failed in spectacular fashion.” Before he could say anything else, I spoke in a rush. “I don’t have a lot of time to explain. I need you to listen now and ask questions later. Got it?”

“Of course,” he said, his tone mildly offended. His family’s motto was “listen and protect.” For as long as a Rothkilde king had sat on the lycan throne, a Magnusson steward had been at his side. Garrick took his role seriously. I’d ruffled his feathers, but I’d have to make it up to him later. Right now I had to get the hell out of Roman’s territory.

“Roman ambushed me,” I said. “I’ve been a guest in his basement. I’m going to transmit my coordinates so you can dispatch the Guard.” I grimaced. “Send a small team. This is already going to be a scandal, and the less Foster knows about it, the better.” The head of the Council of Nobles was as much a warmonger as my father had been. If Foster Carrington had his way, I would have never become king. Once he heard about my experiment in diplomacy, he’d use it against me however he could. His efforts probably wouldn’t get anywhere, but they would make life annoying as shit for a while.

There was a sound of muffled typing over the line, then Garrick said, “I can have a team there in two hours, give or take ten minutes depending on your location.”

“I’ll send the coordinates.” I swept my gaze around the tree line again before moving toward the cabin. “There’s something else.”

“Yes, my lord?”

A window on the cabin’s front porch gave me a direct view of the bathroom door, which was still shut. A strip of yellow light showed at the bottom, and the sound of the shower drifted onto the porch.

“There’s a female with me,” I told Garrick. “Roman turned her against her will. Tell the Guard her safety is a priority.”

“You want…” He lowered his voice, as if he hesitated to say the next part out loud. “A werewolf, Cyrus?”

The phone beeped. Battery’s running out. “She’s under my protection. If anyone so much as touches—” I inhaled sharply as a surge of protectiveness flooded me. My gums ached, my fangs threatening to descend. I took a few deep breaths and pushed my beast down. Even so, my voice was like gravel. “Abby is not to be harmed.”

“Yes, of course. No one will hurt…Abby.”

The phone gave another warning beep. “Thank you,” I said, grateful for his ability to pivot seamlessly from me rising from the dead to me announcing I was bringing a werewolf home. “You’re the best of stewards, Garrick. Stand by for coordinates.” I ended the call and punched through the phone’s menu until I found the option to share my latitude and longitude. I entered Garrick’s private line and hit send just as the phone emitted a final beep and powered off. For a moment, I stood there, my gaze on the darkened screen as relief coursed through me.

The unmistakable sound of a woman’s sob brought my head up. In a blink, I was off the porch and knocking at the bathroom door.

“Abby?” I tried the knob. Still locked. “What’s going on? Are you sick?”

Her watery reply lifted above the hiss of the shower. “I-I’m f-fine.”

She wasn’t fine. She was crying. I walked away. Shoved a hand through my hair. Tossed the sat phone on the sofa. Stared at the bathroom door.

A muffled whimper drifted out.

I was back at the door in two steps. “Abby! I’m coming in.” I snapped the lock and entered, releasing a cloud of steam. She stood in an avocado green shower behind tempered glass, her eyes red-rimmed and her arms folded across her breasts.

I froze with my hand on the ruined knob, feeling like a brute. “I’m sorry. I’ll—”

“I can’t untangle it,” she said, her voice thick. She touched her hair, which lay over her shoulder in a clump. “There’s no conditioner a-and I don’t h-have a c-comb.”

I had the shower door open before she finished her sentence, and then I was inside and turning her around, urging her more fully under the spray. “Let me see what I can do.” I knew next to nothing about women’s hair, but it couldn’t be much different than untangling rope or a horse’s mane.

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