Page 22 of His Fierce Lycan Luna

When I don’t, he presses his lips to mine, softly and my lips part invitingly. Gannon groans pulling me closer, his hand going to the back of my head as he tipped my head back, running his tongue across my bottom lip first before his tongue delved between my lips, brushing mine gently. I kiss him back, wanting to let him have this small victory because right now, that is all I could offer him.

Chapter

Fifteen

ABBIE

The world crumbles around us, but in his arms, I feel untouchable. His hands, calloused from battles unknown to me, move with a tenderness that belies his warrior facade, tracing circles on the back of my neck. The intensity of his kiss speaks of promises and whispers secrets, sending a shiver down my spine as he gently tugs at my bottom lip, a playful nibble that coaxes laughter from deep within me.Safe,I think, the word resonating through every fiber of my being. It is an inexplicable trust, akin to the bond shared with Azalea, my confidant, my rock. Gannon’s energy is a raging fire, yet around him, I feel nothing but warmth.

He pulls away ever so slightly, a smile playing on his lips, eyes reflecting a quiet storm behind the steel-gray irises. As our laughter subsides, he wraps me in a hug, pulling me into the solid comfort of his chest. I breathe him in; the scent is uniquely his—pine mixed with a hint of spice; an essence of strength and security. His arms are a vice around my petite frame—not constricting but protective; a silent vow of guardianship.

“I will be back in a few hours and-” His voice trails off as the rhythm of our moment together is interrupted by an insistentknock. My gaze lifts to meet his. I find his eyes now clouded with a distant fog rolling over the sharp glint I know so well. “Azalea is at the door,” he murmurs, and a surge of euphoria overtakes me. I hadn’t realized how much I needed this—needed her—until the possibility of her presence was just inches away.

The knock reverberates once more impatiently and my reaction is instinctual. With an energy that mirrors Gannon’s own fiery spirit, I dart to the door; my hands barely cooperate as they fumble with the latch. The door swings open with a hasty creak, and before I can process the moment, I am enveloped in Azalea’s embrace.

Her arms wrap around me and a sigh escapes her lips, carrying words that are a salve to my fraying nerves, “More than my life,” she murmurs, her voice a soothing balm that seeps into the very marrow of my bones.

“More than my life,” I whisper back, the echo of our sacred oath lingering in the charged silence that followed. My voice, a mere thread of sound, is as potent as any shout could ever be.

Hearing those words, to me, were the most soul soothing thing. Most don’t understand our language, not like we do. Half the time we don’t need to speak, just the subtle facial movements, the way we move, it speaks a language only we understand. We read each other’s body language as if it were a spoken language. So the crack in her voice tells me she needed the hug just as much as I did.

As I reluctantly disentangle from Azalea, a shadow catches my eye. I glance up to find the King’s imposing figure stationed against the wall, his presence filling the space. The air seems to grow denser around him, his watchful eyes not on me but fixed intently on Azalea.

“Ready?” His deep voice cuts through the silence, the question directed at Gannon.

But his gaze remains locked on Azalea. There is an intensity in his stare that sets my nerves on edge.

I watch Azalea’s jaw tense, her lips press into a thin line before she attempts to soften the expression, the muscles around her mouth quivering ever so slightly. She draws in a breath through her nose, her chest rising and falling with controlled anger. And the way she sucks in her pursed lip as she tries to stop the action made me realize she is livid about something.

The moment stretches taut, the unsaid words hanging heavy between them. Azalea’s eyes, usually so warm and open, now mirror the storm clouds gathering in her mind. It is clear that she’s holding back what she wants to say.

Gannon’s voice, a low rumble of assurance, cut through the tension coiling in the air. “Yeah, just need to grab my wallet,” he says, his words pulling me from the electric stand-off between Azalea and the King.

Azalea leans her shoulder against me as she leads me away. Before she even gets two meters past Kyson, the harsh intake of breath she lets out tells me she is trying to keep her emotions in check.

“Azalea!” The King’s voice is a whip-crack, laced with authority and frustration. His command snakes around us, demanding obedience, demanding acknowledgment.

But Azalea, with a will forged in defiance, gives him no attention. She moves past Kyson as if the very air around him holds no sway over her direction. “Where are you going now?” he demands.

Azalea’s behavior is uncharacteristic; we had grown up in an environment where obedience to orders was central. Yet, there she is, defying expectations, perhaps even searching for the edges of the boundaries that bind her to him. It isn’t just any command she is disregarding—it is the King’s, her mate, his presence demanding attention and she refuses to give it, shelooks like she is deliberately trying to push his buttons for some reason.

“Where are you working today? I will come work with you,” she offers casually, her tone light as if the air isn’t thick with tension from the growls that rumble behind us.

I glance over my shoulder, catching sight of the King, his brow furrowed and jaw set tight. It is clear he is not used to such blatant disregard.

The coolness of the stone stairs seep through the soles of my shoes as I descend alongside Azalea, our footsteps in sync. The air was thick with the scent of savory spices drifting from the kitchens below.

“You haven’t answered Abbie, where are we working today?” Azalea asks.

“I’m not sure yet,” I admit, matching her stride for stride, the uncertainty of my day oddly grounding in the face of her stormy defiance.

“Azalea, answer me!” The King’s command booms from above us, echoing off the high walls and vaulted ceilings.

On the staircase landing, Dustin and Liam await us, their expressions a study in contrasts. Liam’s smile is gentle, a subtle acknowledgment of the tension without adding to the unfolding drama. Beside him, Dustin’s raised eyebrow speaks volumes—a silent observer cataloging every detail, perhaps even finding amusement in Azalea’s rebellion.

Her steps never falter, her chin tilted ever so slightly upward in a silent display of her unshakeable will. Kyson’s heavy footfalls grow louder as he descends behind us.

“For fuck’ sake Azalea, answer me!” he bellows again, the undercurrents of power in his voice unable to sway her resolve. His frustration, a palpable force, surges forth before he reaches out and clasps Azalea’s shoulder with a possessive grip. She halts abruptly, her body tensing beneath his touch.

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