CHAPTER 14

LAYLA

I flopped onto my bed, feeling like a limp rag doll. My nightgown's soft satin caressed my skin, still damp from my evening bath. The delicate fabric clung to me like a second skin, perfectly contouring my curves. As I snuggled deeper, the cool material teased my warm skin, sending a delicious shiver down my spine.

It had been three days since I last crossed paths with the Lycan king and I was starting to think maybe he'd forgotten about me. Not that I was complaining – the reprieve was a welcome change. But the whole situation was just plain weird.

The handful of servants attending to me within the palace walls were ridiculously friendly, like they were competing in some kind of "Who Can Be the Nicest" contest. They catered to my every whim, refilling my wine glass before it was even half-empty and serving up gourmet meals that would put a century old palace chef to shame.

But despite all the luxuries, I couldn't shake off the feeling that something wasn't quite right. What was going on in that thick skull of his? Why was he treating me like royalty when I was basically his prisoner?

When I'm basically his slave.

I groaned, frustrated by the fact I was actually getting comfortable. They weren't giving me any reason to hate it here – and that was the most unsettling thing of all.

A knock on my door broke the silence, followed by Elara's familiar voice. "Miss?" she called softly.

I sat upright, turning my attention to my closed door. "Is something the matter?" I asked, trying to hide my growing unease.

Elara rarely, if ever, visited me this late at night.

The door creaked open, and Elara's face appeared, illuminated by the warm glow of the candlestick in her hand. Her eyes darted around the room before settling on mine. "His Majesty wishes to see you in his chambers," she announced, her voice trembling slightly.

A frown creased my forehead. Just when I was starting to get comfortable, reality came crashing back.

I ran my hands through my damp hair, unable to shake off the feeling that this late-night summons wasn't going to be good. Try as I might, I couldn't guess what the Lycan king wanted from me at this hour – or maybe I just didn't want to acknowledge the possibilities that were barging at the back of my mind.

With a resigned sigh, I swung my legs over the side of the bed. "Please inform His Majesty that I'll be there as soon as I'm ready."

"What preparations could you possibly need to make?"

It was a question that was definitely not coming from Elara. The voice was husky and intense, a stark contrast to Elera's high-pitched tone. I'd recognize that voice anywhere, in any lifetime - it was unmistakably the Lycan king's.

My heart skipped a beat as I turned to see him striding towards me, looking every inch the powerful ruler he was. His chiseled features seemed more angular in the dim light, and those piercing eyes gleamed with amusement, like he knew a secret I didn't.

I hastily covered my exposed cleavage with my shawl, clutching it together over my nightgown like a shield. The soft candlelight danced across his face, accentuating his strong jawline and sharp cheekbones.

"There's no need for decorum or proper dressing at this hour of night," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm and a hint of seduction. He stepped closer, his eyes locked onto mine, and I felt my pulse spike. "Don't you agree, my bride?"

A chill coursed through my veins.

I tried to speak, but my voice caught in my throat.

"Cat got your tongue?" he asked, his voice low and teasing. I looked away, my heart racing as I clutched my shawl tighter.

"I'll meet you in your chamber as soon as I'm dressed," I stammered, pretending I hadn't just heard him call me his bride seconds ago.

He chuckled softly, relaxing onto my bed. "As I said, there's no need for decorum, at least not between mates." His eyes crinkled at the corners, and I felt a shiver down my spine.

This further confirmed it. "He knows".

The realization hit me like a cold wave.

I turned to face him, gulping down air as my lungs burned with tension. Our eyes met, and his piercing gaze made my skin prickle. I quickly looked away.

He stood up, his movements fluid and graceful, and walked towards me until he was standing inches behind me. I exhale sharply as his intoxicating scent enveloped me. His warm breath whispered against my skin, sending shivers down my spine.

He brushed his hands through my hair, the gentle touch sending sparks through my veins. "I don't like dishonest toys," he whispered, his voice laced with a dangerous calm that made my heart pound.

He cupped my chin, pulling it upward until I met his gaze. His eyes burned with a intensity that made me feel trapped.

His hands slowly trailed down to my throat, applying a gentle pressure against my quickened pulse.

"I've never been dishonest to you?" I finally spoke, my voice barely above a whisper.

He smiled, his lips curling upward. "I received a letter that my bride had gotten herself caught by slave traders while trying to escape being my mate," Amusement danced in his eyes as he spoke. "That's not very nice."

I tried to look away, but he bent my head back with a little more force. His grip was firm, yet gentle.

"Is it considered dishonesty even when you never asked?" I asked, my voice trembling.

There was a tense pause, then his smile slowly turned into a soft chuckle. The sound sent a wave of relief washing over me, but it was short-lived.

"Yes," he said in-between chuckles. "A toy that keeps secrets from its owner is a dishonest one. Wouldn't you agree?"