Page 27 of The Lycan King's Captive

Garrick nodded slowly. “It is. The council can’t touch the king’s children. In fact, you have almost unhindered authority when it comes to domestic matters. You can claim any female you wish, you can take a—” He sucked in a breath.

I frowned. “What is it?”

“You can take a concubine.”

I stared at him. “You don’t mean—”

“Take Abby as your concubine. It’s the only surefire way to protect her from Foster and the others.”

Everything in me recoiled. Garrick was right about the law. Historically and legally, lycan kings were permitted to claim any female they wanted, the idea being that siring an heir for the race was more important than any given female’s wishes on the matter. Our kind reproduced so sparingly, and childbirth was difficult for lycan females. More than one king had furthered his line through a concubine. Several of my ancestors had taken multiple women into their beds. Highborn or low, wed or single, it didn’t make a difference. If the king wanted her, he simply took her.

But it was an antiquated practice and had been since my grandfather’s time.

“I can’t do that, Garrick.” And yet, the thought of taking Abby—of marking her and claiming her for my own—unleashed something dark and primal inside me. I didn’t want to examine it too closely. But my dick tightened, and my blood heated at the mere idea of having her at my beck and call. Of knowing any male who looked at her would immediately know she was mine.

Because taking her as a concubine meant marking her. Putting my brand on her. Property of Cyrus. That was what the world would see. And they would know I owned every inch of her.

And that was why claiming her as a concubine would save her from the council’s vote. Because the king’s property was untouchable. It didn’t matter if she was a lycan or a werewolf. The law was silent on that issue.

Garrick’s brown eyes were steady. Non-judgmental. That was his job: to give me the best advice possible without judgment. He wasn’t backing down, and he wasn’t offering any other solutions.

Because, dammit, his idea might actually work, and he knew it.

“She’ll never forgive me,” I told him.

“Maybe not, but she’ll stay alive.”

13

ABBY

I really, really wanted some clothes. Preferably my own clothes. I didn’t own anything extravagant, but I would have killed for a pair of my worn out jeans and a soft hoodie.

Instead, I was swaddled in a robe in the corner of the sofa in my suite. It was beautiful, but none of it belonged to me. Not the plush furniture. Not the crystal chandelier. Not the comfortable bed where I’d slept for half the day. Not the glass shower where I’d washed the last traces of the basement and the cabin from my body.

I didn’t even have my own underwear—or any underwear. And while the robe covered everything I wanted covered, it left me feeling…vulnerable. One yank on the belt and I’d be naked. Cyrus had said nudity wasn’t a problem for shifters, but it was still a problem for me. If I ever got out of this mess, I was splurging on a new wardrobe.

If. Wasn’t that the operative word for my life now? If I got out. If I survived. If Cyrus ever bothered to speak to me again.

Because it had been hours and so far he was MIA. Maybe he had a lengthy list of king-related tasks to attend to, but I couldn’t help feeling like I should have ranked a little closer to the top. I’d helped him escape, after all. We’d forged a bond in that basement.

At least I thought we had.

But at the first opportunity, he’d dumped me on his steward and tucked me in a bedroom.

My stomach growled.

Great. Now I was naked and hungry.

A soft knock interrupted my internal whining. I was so desperate for human contact, I rushed to the door and threw it open without thinking. And I’d expected Cyrus, so I was shocked to see the beautiful blond woman from earlier standing on the threshold.

If possible, she was even more gorgeous than she’d been this morning. She was dressed in slim-fitting jeans and a tight blue sweater that matched her sapphire eyes. Her black stilettos looked sharp enough to double as weapons, and her makeup was flawless. She was a perfect doll.

And I was a bedraggled veterinarian in a borrowed bathrobe.

“Hi,” she said, offering a shy smile. And if she was acting, she was awfully good at it. Pink entered her cheeks, and she looked down as she spoke in demure tones. “I’m Celeste…Cyrus’s consort.”

My world collapsed under me. For a moment, I gaped at her, unable to string words together. When they finally came, they emerged from a throat gone painfully tight. “Cyrus is married?”

---