Page 42 of His Found Lycan Luna

“Don’t be silly,” Kade dismisses kindly. “It is dreadfully late, and I must hurry home to shower for work. You will manage just fine for one night. I will return around lunchtime tomorrow.”

“Please, let me come with you. You can sneak me into the pack house. No one will see me; it’s late night, no one will be up at this hour,” I tell him, not wanting to stay here by myself.

“Abbie, love. I need to go. I haven’t got time for theatrics. Behave, and I’ll be back tomorrow.”

With those words, he kisses my forehead before turning to leave me here. I survey my surroundings, settling onto the creaking mattress that digs into my backside. The chill in the air seeps into my bones, causing them to ache.

I glance around, sitting on the creaky old mattress, the springs digging into my backside. It’s freezing here, so cold my breath makes clouds in the air.

I will myself to get up and start the fire. After mere moments of sitting, the cold seeps deep into my bones, making them ache from the inside out. Too cold to even start a fire, I reach for the sheets and blankets huddling beneath them and pull my phone from my bag. Switching on the screen, I sigh wearily, realizing it is far too late to call Gannon and disturb his slumber. Instead, I replay his messages, his voice filled with longing and telling me to call him.

As I lie there in the frigid cabin, I can’t help but wish for the comfort of Gannon’s presence and the warming fires of the castle. The weight of solitude settles upon me, amplified by the biting cold that lingers in the air.

Chapter Thirty-Two

My muscles throb with an ache as I force my heavy eyelids to flutter open, my gaze landing on the plain expanse of the ceiling. A dull throb pulses through my head, leaving me feeling groggy and disoriented as I shift on the bed. But as I attempt to rub my eyes, a shock of icy metal snags my wrist, freezing me in place.

With a tilt of my head, I discover one of my hands is shackled to the headboard, the cold handcuff biting into my flesh. A gasp escapes my lips as I jerk my trapped wrist, desperate to break free, only to find the restraint refuses to yield. Panic slithers its way through my veins as the memories of yesterday surge back with a vengeance, flooding every corner of my mind.

A tightness constricts my chest, making it difficult to draw a full breath as my free hand instinctively travels to my neck. The tingling sensation of his touch lingers on my skin, accompanied by a stinging reminder of how he marked me.

The haunting echoes of his threats to bind me to the bed reverberate in my thoughts as I scan the room for his presence, but he remains elusive, nowhere to be found. Judging by the soft glowfiltering through the window, it appears to be midday. My struggles against the restraints intensify, the unforgiving metal digging deeper into my wrist, leaving behind angry bruises as I desperately try to free myself.

Warm tears carve their path down my cheeks, proof of the inescapable truth that he has ensnared me, trapping me within the confines of this bed, leaving his mark upon me.

I sob at how easy it was for him to hurt me and chain me up like this. My head swivels, angling toward the entrance as his intoxicating scent wafts over to me. The king strides into the room, his gaze momentarily flickering over me in my futile attempt to break free.

“There would be no need for such measures, but I cannot trust you,” he asserts, making his way to the bar area. Clutching a book in one hand, he observes my struggle while pouring himself a drink, placing the book on the coffee table before settling into an armchair.

“You tried to flee,” he remarks casually, as though that alone justifies his harsh treatment. All I can think of are the countless times Mrs. Daley confined and imprisoned us, triggering my claustrophobia to soar to unbearable heights. Despite the room’s ample size, being trapped on this bed with a hand rendered useless makes the space feel small, as if its very walls conspire to suffocate me.

“You’re afraid,” he states matter-of-factly, taking a sip from his glass and studying me intently over its rim.

“Release me, Kyson,” I stammer, my voice trembling.

“Never, Ivy. What part of ‘you are mine’ did you fail to comprehend? Did you believe that being destined to a king would grant you the freedom to depart without consequences?” he challenges, eliciting a defiant glare from me. My sudden anger doesn’t stop the tears from sliding down my face or the feeling of unease at being trapped. His presence only makes me more nervous. I turn my gaze to the closet before lying back down on my side.

The sound of his glass gently clinking against the coffee tableand his footsteps growing nearer indicate his approach. “You cannot simply walk away; the bond forbids it, at least for me,” he declares, his voice drawing closer as he edges toward the edge of the bed.

“Then reject me and be done with it,” I tell him.

“Lycan’s cannot sever their connection to their mates. Even if I desired it, I would be incapable of doing so, and truth be told, I have no desire to sever that bond,” he confesses, though his words seem more like an attempt to convince himself rather than me. It doesn’t offer me any hope.

“I will release you from these handcuffs once I sense I can trust you again. As long as the anger coursing through our bond persists, you shall remain restrained. Do you understand?” The words catch in my throat when I feel his fingertips firmly grip my chin, tilting my face upward to meet his gaze.

The faint scarring from my claw marks on his face have healed, leaving behind a subtle trace of our encounter. Strangely, these marks only seem to enhance his god-like good looks, adding character rather than detracting from them. His features remain as striking as ever, despite the evidence of our conflict.

With a cool detachment in his voice, he speaks, his thumb brushing lightly against my lips. “All you had to do was submit,” he said. I instinctively jerk my head away from his touch, a small act of defiance that seems to disappoint him. A sigh escapes his lips as he continues, “But since you didn’t, I can’t guarantee you won’t try to run again.”

His words hang heavy in the air, a reminder of my captivity and the powerlessness that comes with it. As he turns away, retreating to his whiskey, I find myself lost in a sea of memories. The silence of the room amplifies the haunting echoes of my past, particularly those from the orphanage where I was bound and restrained, trapped both physically and mentally.

In these moments of silence, my mind becomes another prison, leading me down paths I desperately wish to forget. I yearn for the presence of Abbie, whose whispers had once kept me groundedduring such torment, usually because she would be locked in that cramped space with me. But now, all I have is the suffocating silence enforced by the king, a silence that threatens to consume me.

My muscles ache from the lack of movement, reminding me of the stagnant existence I am now leading. Somehow, this feels worse than the orphanage. Suddenly, the urgency to relieve myself washes over me. As if reading my thoughts, he appears by my side, undoing the handcuffs with an air of impatience. “Go,” he commands, nodding toward the bathroom.

“You forget I can feel you, Ivy. Now hurry up.”

“Then, if that were true, you wouldn’t have me handcuffed to the damn bed.”

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