Page 38 of His Lost Lycan Luna

The door clicks shut softly and my breathing picks up. Despite the room's vast size, I suddenly feel claustrophobic and caged in like a mouse trapped in a lion's den.

Overwhelmed, I pray that I will pass out again. Terror fills me, and I am suddenly too frightened to move.

"I won't hurt you, Ivy. I didn't mean to lose control like that," he says, his voice calm and composed, as if nothing had happened. "You can speak freely. It's just us, not that Damian or Gannon would ever speak against you," he says.

I am already very aware of that fact. Because they just left me alone and trapped me in here with a man that looked more like a terrifying creature than a person mere moments ago. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, wanting to go back to the safety of my room.

"Lie back down now," he orders, and my body falls back on the bed under the command, unable to fight it as it washes over me like a tidal wave of pure Alpha dominance.

His blankets are soft under my hands, but my back shouts in protest and I can't help the whimper that escapes my lips. "You don't leave me!" he growls and tears prick my eyes.

"What's wrong? Answer me," he asks, leaning over me.

"My back... Please, I can't lay on it," I tell him, and his eyes widen and he pulls away.

"Sorry, I forgot. You may roll on your side," he says, turning me to face him. His skin is clear – no longer covered in fur – except for the shadowing of stubble on his face. His dark eyes watch me curiously. "I am a man, not a beast now. Don't be frightened," he says, grabbing my hand and placing it on his chest. He holds it there, and my eyes look at my hand, his skin warm beneath my palm.

All I can do is blink at the man that is becoming stranger by the second–and why does he keep touching me? Does he have a rogue fetish?

I have heard of such things mentioned by the adults at the orphanage. Abbie and I once overheard one of the gardeners speaking to Mrs. Daley about having a rogue fetish.

He said that he liked being a 'puppet master' and that he hoped we would be auctioned off when we came of age so he could buy one of us to use for his fantasies.

For some reason, that day is forever ingrained in my memory. I clench my eyes shut, trying to shove the memory away. Yet, no matter how hard I try to shake the thoughts off, they eventually consume me and force me back there to relive them. Our past is always lurking in the shadows of our minds, haunting us like ghosts.

On that terrible day, the gardener had leaned against his shovel, having just dug up the vegetable patch as he talked to the butcher who had just dropped off the meat rations. He was a middle-aged man with a thick build and sun-weathered skin. He had a gruff, stern demeanor, and his dark eyes hinted at something sinister. He had a thick beard, and his clothes were dirty and tattered from his garden work.

Abbie and I picked up the last of the carrots he dug up and dropped them into our baskets.

"Mrs. Daley," the gardener had said as Mrs. Daley set some lemonade down on the steps

"Hmm?" she hummed.

"How much?" he had asked, making me glance over at him to find his dark eyes on us. I peered down at the carrots in the basket.

"I'd like to buy one of them. I'm sure they'd make a good servant or even a pet." He chuckled, and Mrs. Daley huffed.

"Servant, yes, that is about all they're good for!"

"Well, I can think of a few other ways," the butcher laughed. Mrs. Daley purses her lips, and I watch her through the veil of my hair as I continue to rummage for carrots in the upturned soil.

"Are they obedient?" the gardener questioned. Mrs. Daley whistled, and we both looked up.

"Get up!" she snapped. Abbie and I both immediately stand, wiping our hands on our aprons.

The gardener laughed. "Perfect, nothing I love more than playing puppet master." Abbie and I looked at each other.

"Are the rogue girls at the brothel not doing it for you no more?" the butcher inquired.

"Don't pretend you don't have a rogue fetish, Martin. I have seen how you order them around." The butcher laughed.

"I never denied it, but they aren't as obedient as these two,” the gardener stated, nodding toward us.

"Back to work!" Mrs. Daley snapped at us, and we dropped back to the ground, gathering the carrots.

"Hands off the redhead. I've got that one well-trained. You can have the other," the butcher replied.

"That is if the Alpha lets them live!" Mrs. Daley huffed, causing the gardener to groan.

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