Page 25 of His Found Lycan Luna

“Get rid of it,” I snap, shutting the door.

Wandering through the room, I check the bathroom, but there’s no sign of her. Her scent is everywhere, stuffing from the mattressscattered all over the floor when I hear the remnants of a low muffled growl.

Turning, I face the closet. The door is closed, yet her scent smells most potent in this corner. Crouching down, I grip the door handle, opening the door to find two blue sapphire eyes illuminated in the darkness. Her canines protrude as she lifts her head from amongst the stuffing and shredded clothes. My clothes and the linens from the room cover the floor where she built her little den.

I feel strange, like a trespasser in her den, a threat to her area. I don’t think she recognizes me. Her feral instincts and guilt try to strangle me for what I’ve let become of her. She moves from beneath the linens, her hand falling on the carpet in front of me. Clawed nails slice through the carpet as she calculates her attack.

Ivy may not have shifted or been able to, but she-wolves are just as dangerous when they feel threatened.

Wild gleaming eyes peer back at me before a feral snarl is cut off as she sniffs the air. She honestly looks more animal than the Ivy I’m used to. I did this to her, made her this way. The guilt flooding through me eats at me.

I have destroyed her. Yet I push it aside, trying to remember why I came up here. I crawl a little into her space, and she growls, my body’s own reaction to settle her reacting without my say as I purr, calling her out of her den.

Briefly, I wonder if it will work because it’s clear to me she’s been left to fret about the bond I’ve denied her. But still, her whimper tells me the bond isn’t completely lost.

Eyes narrowing, Ivy launches forward before halting at my command before she can touch me. She falls forward onto the carpet, belly down, submissive. I look away; it’s essentially what the calling is for, making them submissive, yet it pains me seeing her this way, using it against her this way, so I let it drop.

Immediately, she lunges at me, a wild energy fueling her attack. I stumble backward, caught off guard, as she starts to tear at my clothes, seeking my scent, my skin. I let her maul me, a storm ofemotions raging within me, knowing I’m responsible for this savage she has become.

She rips at my shirt, her tongue lapping at my chest, her actions raw and primal. Yet, amid her frenzy, I notice she’s favoring one hand, keeping it close to her chest. She is rabid in her need for my scent. While she mauls me, I pry her hand away from her chest. There are no obvious wounds, but I realize her fingers aren’t aligned correctly — my Lycan had healed her, but improperly.

Guilt washes over me, knowing I need to re-break her fingers to heal them correctly. So I flood her with my calling, trying to sedate her enough to examine her hand better. Despite the calling acting as a sedative, she squirms as I grasp her fingers. Even under the influence of my calling, she still feels pain, evident when she starts fighting against it, attempting to pull her hand away.

“I have to rebreak them, Ivy. I know it will hurt, but I can’t heal them when they’re misaligned,” I tell her, dropping the calling so she understands what I’m saying. I instantly regret dropping it. She responds with a savage bite, turning wild as she tries to force me to let her hand go.

I let the thrum of my calling resonate through my chest, trying to pacify her. “I have to do this. You won’t like it, but I have no choice.” I contemplate calling Gannon to pin her down. But as my thrumming spills out, she presses her ear to my chest, purring in response. My hand finds its way into her hair, massaging her scalp gently.

I hold her head tight to my chest, flooding her as best I can to lessen the pain. It’s one thing sedating her for minor injuries she wouldn’t notice but breaking her fingers… she’ll definitely notice that. I break the first finger. She squirms, but I maintain a firm grip on her head, forcing her to remain submissive under my calling. I feel the pain in my own hand, resonating with hers, and quickly reposition the second and third fingers before sucking on them, my teeth slicing her skin, forcing my saliva into her wounds.

When I finish, I release her, sliding out from underher, only for her claws to sink into my leg. Her breath hitches, and her other hand reaches for me again, desperate for contact and seeking the bond.

She growls, the sound ticking in her throat as she hooks her claws deeper. I growl, blood seeping down my leg. Yanking her hand away I order her, smashing her with the calling and my command. “Stop,” she whimpers.

My heart jolts, witnessing her total submission to the bond, enslaved to its will in any form she can have it. I kneel in front of her as her breath catches, and her other hand snakes out, desperate to grip my knee. I try to ignore the sensation of her hand on my leg, her nails carving through fabric and skin. I avert my gaze; she’s completely naked, her skin marred by claw marks she inflicted upon herself.

“I need to leave,” I utter emotionlessly, though inside, I’m torn, yearning to envelop her in my arms and soothe her. I pull off my shirt and drape it over her, trying to offer some comfort.

“You need to eat; you can’t stay hidden here. I think you require some time outside. I’ll return in two days,” I inform her matter-of-factly before leaving.

Chapter Eighteen

As the days slip by, his scent lingers a little less. Each day passes, my senses sharpen, my mind clears, and I slowly rediscover remnants of who I am. After so much solitude, I have gradually returned and found my identity, no longer ruled by unfamiliar instincts.

Agony is the only word to describe it. One thing becomes clear: I cannot shift. It saddens me, and I wonder if it’s because of the bond like Gannon mentioned all those days ago, or if I’m just a failure in yet another aspect of life.

I have vague memories of the king coming into the room. I remember him healing my hand, but that was the last time I saw him. The king said he’d be gone for two days; however, it’s been much longer. I don’t know how long it’s been since I left this room, left my den, but I feel a considerable amount of time has passed.

As the days drag on, they become more manageable, a little less painful. Once Kyson’s scent is gone, and only my scent remains in the room, I realize my den no longer fulfills its original purpose, and the bond is now only a distant memory, or so I hope.

Eventually, I can see my surroundings again. Clarity returns, and the fog lifts. It’s like someone flips a switch, and everything either goes numb or dies off. I’m not sure which one, but I don’t care. I can finally breathe, finally feel more like myself than I have in days.

As one of the servants slides a tray across the floor just inside the door, I’m drawn to the sound of the door creaking open. I get up and move toward her, and she shrieks, the noise startling me and making me jump back and away from her. She quickly slams the door shut behind her. The smell of eggs wafts to my nose, and my stomach rumbles hungrily. How long has it been since I’ve eaten?

Peering down, I realize I have no clothes on, making my eyes widen in shock. How long have I been naked? Shaking my head, I rush to the cupboard to find some clothes. Everything is shredded.

I look at the torn sheets and curl my lip in disgust as I scoop them up and sniff them. My scent is potent on them, and I definitely need to find something clean to wear.

Claw marks have shredded through every scrap of cloth in this room, which makes me look at my fingertips. How did I do that? When I can’t even shift? It puzzles me - like I had been in some sort of trance and someone else had taken over.

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