Page 32 of His Fierce Lycan Luna

Trey holds my gaze, unflinching, as if his very soul lays bare upon my scrutiny.

“Wrong!” Trey’s voice slices through my doubt, sharp and certain. “Same as if I have children, they are automatically sired to the Landeena’s as well,” he continues, his arms unfolding as he leans into the explanation, a hint of desperation lacing his words.

I study him, trying to piece together this puzzle that doesn’t fit into any frame I’ve known. The notion of blood ties extending beyond direct siring is uncharted territory beside pact oaths which are marginally different, yet the conviction in Trey’s eyes is unmistakable.

“That bear ripped me to pieces, I was carrying her, she was also bleeding.” His voice grows more fervent. “I only needed a drop of her blood to awaken the sire bond completely, though I could feel my sire awakening already.”

“The stronger she gets, it does and eventually it will awaken any gifts she may have inherited from her parents.” He presses on, urgency threading through his tone. “That is why I have been pestering for shifts as her guard.”

I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking under my shifting weight. My mind races, grappling with the intricacies of Landeena lineage that now seem to expand before me like a complex puzzle. I can’t shake off the feeling that there’s more to Trey’s story than mere loyalty.

“You wanted to awaken an old sire bond?” The question escapes my lips, and almost sounds accusing yet what I am accusing him of I am no longer sure.

Trey meets my gaze squarely, the weight of years etched into the lines of his face.

His chest rises and falls with a tremor that belies his usual calm. “It’s more than that,” he begins. His eyes are distant, lost in a sea of memory. “The sire doesn’t just make us loyal, it... it makes us feel pained when we’re not near our sired. Years, I felt my sire pulling. I never believed she was dead, not until years later when I could no longer feel the tugging of my sire blood thrumming in my veins.” He pauses, the silence heavy with the weight of his confession.

“Then,” he continues, voice barely above a whisper, “when her blood touched me while I was carrying her, it must have gotin my system because I could feel my sire like an extra limb, an attachment. The stronger she gets, the stronger my sire bond gets.”

I open my mouth to question the implications, but the click of the door announces new presences. Damian strides in first, his posture rigid with purpose, followed by Dustin’s frame shadowed by Gannon’s large silhouette.

“Kyson,” Gannon nods and extends a folder worn at the edges with use. I take it. My fingers flip through the contents, images and texts blurring together until one name leaps out, snaring my attention.

“What’s your link with Marissa Talbot?” The question is sharp, cutting through the air with the precision of a blade.

Trey’s jaw tightens, the muscles working as he grapples with the question. The room holds its breath, the silence stretching taut between us.

“She was Azalea’s nanny,” he states. “I tried to warn the Queen about her.”

Gannon’s laugh is short and devoid of humor; it reverberates against the stone walls, a precursor to the storm brewing in his narrowed eyes. With a swift motion, he flings an aged diary onto my desk. It lands with a thud, which disrupts the balanced silence of the room.

“Bullshit,” he bellows, his eyes full of anger.

Trey reacts instantly, snatching the diary up with hands that betray no tremor. His fingers skim over the worn pages, eyes darting back and forth as he searches for something, anything that could substantiate his claim.

Pages riffle under Trey’s fingers, but I can see the tension coiling in his shoulders.

“It’s a diary,” he asserts, a note of defiance creeping into his voice as he looks up from Queen Tatiana’s scrawled words.

Gannon leans forward, his presence like a boulder in the cramped space of my office. “Queen Tatiana’s diary,” he snarls with a sneer that could curdle blood, “not once does it mention you.”

“Of course it doesn’t.” Trey’s retort is a snarl to match Gannon’s, and he flicks through the pages with a force that threatens to tear the delicate paper. “You think she would leave information about Azalea’s guards for anyone to get their hands on?”

The question hangs between us, pointed and heavy. It’s a valid argument; any Queen worth her crown would guard her secrets fiercely, especially when it came to the safety of her child. But I also understand her need to document everything in a diary, it makes me wonder if she kept notes for Azalea one day, yet she also left out crucial information that could have been used to help find her had I known.

Trey’s finger stabs at a passage, his nail circling an entry. “See, a guard reported Marissa and that guard was me,” he declares, thrusting the book towards me.

I reach out and take the diary. My eyes dart over the handwritten words, tracing the lines of ink that weave through the page.

“She didn’t believe you?” I probe, incredulity lacing my tone as I look up from the text. The thought that someone could dismiss a guard’s caution, particularly regarding a threat to her child shocks me.

Trey’s gaze shifts to the cold stone floor, the muscles in his jaw clenching tight. “No, she did, it was Garret that refused to listen,” he murmurs, almost too low for me to catch. The words hang between us, a confession that Queen Tatiana had, in fact, heeded his warning, yet an undercurrent of something unsaid flows beneath them.

I lean forward. “And why would he do that?”

Trey swallows hard, a man battling with memories that are clearly etched into his soul. His eyes, when they finally meet mine, are hardened and angry.

“Maybe because she was King Garret’s mistress,” Trey admits.

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