Page 21 of His Fierce Lycan Luna

I watch him closely, reading the conflict that dances across his features. He wants to support me, to see me happy, but the thought of me adopting the role of a servant seems to twist his insides. Yet, in his eyes, I glimpse a glimmer of understanding, acknowledgment that perhaps the lines we draw around each other are more confining than protective.

The thought of working in the library or the kitchens feels wrong—like trying to fit a square into a circle.

“The stables?” he offers, and I scoff, more to myself than to him.

My eyes dart across the room, skimming over the neatly made bed. “Gannon, I want to work as a servant. I know what I am doing.” “Kitchens are full,” I continue, each word punctuatedby the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, “and the library? What use would I be when I can’t read?”

Gannon’s gaze softens, losing some of its earlier intensity. “Well, you can come with me,” he finally says, his voice low and even.

“I am not following you around like a lost puppy. I need to have my own things to do. I don’t see what the big deal is,” I tell him, walking over and grabbing my flats and socks. I sit on the edge of the bed, bending down to pull my socks on when Gannon snatches them from my hand, kneeling in front of me.

“Let me,” he says, not a command, but not quite a request either. His tone is gentle, but I sigh, allowing it.

He lifts my foot, resting it on his thigh. The sock slips over my heel, encasing my foot with a snugness that only his touch could bring. I expelled a heavy breath, a mix of exasperation and something far softer, watching him perform this simple act of care.

I bristle at the gesture, yet the warmth of his fingers as they graze my ankle is undeniably soothing. I let out an involuntary chuckle, the sound tinged with both warmth and a hint of irony as I watch him.

“You know I don’t want a servant either, right?” I chuckle, the corners of my mouth lifting into a smile despite the fluttering nerves in my stomach.

“Huh?” Gannon pauses, his eyes meet mine with a curious glint as he processes the playful accusation in my tone.

“Is that why you think I do those things?” he chuckles, a low rumble that vibrates through the space between us. His head gives a slight shake, dismissing the idea even as his fingers resume their task, slipping the shoe onto my foot with ease.

“Here I thought chivalry wasn’t dead. Apparently it is just non-existent,” Gannon laughs, lifting my other foot to put the sock on. He kisses my foot.

I shrug.

“Abbie,” Gannon begins, his voice taking on a softer note as he ties the laces. “I do those things because I like doing them for you,” he says.

“And same with me setting your clothes out and cleaning the room, and making our bed. It’s our room, I should be able to clean it,” I insist.

A chuckle rumbles from his chest, the sound rich and warm. “Our bed and our room, huh?” His voice holds a playful note, my cheeks flush, the heat spreading across my skin as acutely as if he had traced the path with his fingertips. How easily the words had come, claiming his space as mine, intertwining our lives with the simplicity of a sentence.

His eyebrows arch in amused inquiry, his hands resuming their journey upwards until they encircled the curve of my hips. With a gentle tug, he drew me closer, the boundary between us blurring as our breaths mingled.

“If this is our bed, I should be able to sleep in it then, right?” The words hang between us, a grin tugging at his lips.

I find myself caught in the moment, my worries temporarily shelved. My teeth captured my lower lip, unsure of what to say.

“Maybe you could sleep in the bed?” My voice is barely a whisper.

“I’m playing, Abbie,” he says, his voice softer now, closing the distance between us. A quick peck lands on my lips, a fleeting touch that sends an electric jolt through me, igniting my face with a warmth that surely matches the color of a tomato.

Gannon reaches for his shirt, pulling it over his head, muscles shifting beneath it. He replaces it with the crisp one I’d laid out.

Finished, he cuts through the stillness of the room with a playful twirl of his finger in the air, signaling for privacy. I avert my gaze.

The metallic rasp of Gannon’s zipper breaks the hush that has settled in the room. I catch a glimpse of annoyance etching his brow as he fumbles with the fastening of his belt, a low groan escaping him—a sound laced with frustration that is uncharacteristic for the usually composed man.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, curiosity piquing at his display of irritation.

“The King wants to leave early. He and Azalea had an argument,” he says, each word heavy with a sigh.

He comes over and presses his lips to my forehead before gripping my chin, forcing me to look up at him.

“There is no rush to do anything. And if you want to clean the room, fine. I just don’t want you thinking you have to, OK?”

I nod and he smiles, dipping his face closer to see if I would pull away.

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