Page 20 of His Fierce Lycan Luna

As Gannon’s gaze finally finds me, I feel the weight of his stare, heavy and searching, and brace myself for the conversation that would inevitably follow.

The fabric of the servant’s uniform rustles softly as I adjust its fit, the black skivvy beneath it peeking through the gap at my neckline—a feeble attempt to conceal the jagged scars marring my shoulder and my old mate mark. My fingers linger for a moment, pressing down the material in a fruitless effort to make it cover the scars.

Gannon’s voice cuts through the quiet like a blade, rough and edged with concern. “What are you doing?”

I glance at him, the intensity of his gaze making me straighten up.

“I can’t sit in this room all day, Gannon. I want to work,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. To waste hours is to let anxiety consume me, and that is the last thing I want to do. My mind can be a dangerous place when left to ponder too long.

His approach is swift, a silent predator closing in. Before I can react, his hands are on me, fingers fumbling with the buttons of the dress I had carefully fastened. My heart races, a mix of alarm and irritation surging within me.

Instinctively, I slap his hands away, the sound is sharp in the air between us. His touch recedes but the tension remains, Gannon’s brow furrows, his lips pulling back in a snarl that didn’t completely reach the concern etched deep in his eyes. “You want to work? Fine, but not in this uniform. You aren’t a servant,” he growls, the words rumbling from him like distant thunder.

I square my shoulders, feeling the weight of the skivvy under the dress which makes my skin itch. “What does it matter if I am a servant or not? Clarice is a servant! Do you think so little of her too?” The challenge in my voice is as tangible as the tension that crackles in the air between us.

His reaction is immediate, a flash of surprise lighting up his features. Gannon’s stance softens ever so slightly, the rigidity in his posture melting away as he grapples with the meaning ofmy words. Clearly, I had struck a chord, unearthed a sliver of guilt or an unconsidered bias he hadn’t been aware of. When he suddenly becomes angry.

Gannon’s fingers are quick and deft as they reach for the row of buttons on my dress, his movements driven by a blend of frustration and an impulse to protect. The fabric gives way under his touch, slipping free one button at a time as he works with a determination that is both infuriating and confusing for me.

“Gannon stop it! I am wearing it. Now leave me be!” My voice cuts through the mounting tension. The demand in my tone leaves no room for argument, even from someone as stubborn as Gannon.

For a moment, he pauses, his hands stilling mid-motion. His gaze locks onto mine, searching, perhaps for a sign of surrender that he won’t find. Finally, his expression shifts into something like resignation, his lips pressing into a thin line of unhappiness. Slowly, his hands rise in a gesture of surrender, hovering uncertainly in the air between us before falling to his sides.

The room seems to exhale around us, the atmosphere relaxing ever so slightly. The chill of morning had not yet lifted when I turn from the mirror, abandoning my reflection dressed in the stiff fabric of the servant’s uniform. Gannon’s brooding presence fills the room like a brewing storm, his disapproval almost palpable as he watches me with an intensity that makes me want to apologize for snapping at him.

“You don’t have to wear that,” he says finally, his voice low and laced with an undercurrent of something I can’t quite decipher—concern or command, perhaps both.

“I know I don’t have to wear it,” I tell him. My fingers brush against the crisp material of the dress, the texture foreign yet familiar as it grazes against my skin. “I know,” I say, meeting his gaze head-on. I need him to understand that this is about morethan clothing—it is about asserting some semblance of normalcy in a life that has become anything but.

Gannon holds my stare for a moment longer, his jaw set and lips in a hard line that speaks volumes of his internal struggle not to rip the dress from my body.

“Do you? You don’t have to be a servant, you don’t even have to work if you don’t want to,” he says, his voice threaded with a barely suppressed frustration.

My heart flutters against my ribs, yet I meet his gaze with steady resolve.

“Why are you so against this?” The question slips out, not accusatory but laced with genuine curiosity.

“Because I don’t want you to think you are nothing more than a servant. I don’t want you serving me like I am one of your chores,” he says.

“I’m not,” I respond, my voice a whisper of defiance. The defensive bite of my lip betrays my anxiety as his gaze sweeps over the room, taking in the room.

He turns abruptly, the muscles in his back rippling as he strides towards the bathroom. The door groans open under the force of his hand, and his growl vibrates through the air, mingling with the lingering scent of disinfectant I had left behind.

The sight of the pristine bathroom—scrubbed tiles glistening, the mirror free of water spots, and dirty laundry removed from sight—seem to ignite something within him.

Gannon’s nostrils flare as he inhales deeply, the sharp tang of bleach cutting through the air. His eyes narrow as he turns to look at me.

“Really? Then why can I smell bleach?” he demands, his voice low and vibrating with an undercurrent of anger. The sound echoes off the bathroom tiles.

I try to maintain my composure, but his intense gaze is like a weight pressing down on me, demanding an answer.

“I want a mate, not a house cleaner,” he says, pinning me in place with that intense look—a look that strips away any words I might want to say and sees right to the core of me.

I cross my arms across my chest. “And mates do that sort of thing. They clean up after each other. Geez, Gannon, my dirty washing was in there too, and I sure as hell don’t want one of the other servants cleaning up after me.” The words tumble out in a rush.

Gannon’s brow furrows, the cogs in his mind visibly turning as he considers my argument. He had always been the type to think before he spoke, weighing each word with care like he was afraid of upsetting me, but not today. A deep breath fills his chest, and he runs a hand through his hair—a sign he is searching for a solution other than me being a maid.

“You could work in the library or the kitchens, or,” he starts, halting mid-sentence. His suggestion hangs incomplete in the air.

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