The Lycan King's Second Chance Mate: Rise of the Traitor's Daughter-Chapter 187: Help Me

Zane~

I should’ve stopped her.

That’s what my father probably thought as he stared at Natalie—my Natalie—standing like a tempest in the middle of the King’s ballroom, glowing like the wrath of the gods, and calling judgment down on a man who deserved it.

But I didn’t move.

Not at first.

Because a petty part of me—one that was bitter and wounded and still furious with my father—wanted to watch him squirm.

I warned him. I begged him to cancel this damn ball. Told him it was a bad idea. That sending men after Natalie would never end well. That Natalie wouldn’t take his cowardice lying down.

But no.

He wouldn’t listen.

He was the King. And in his arrogance, he thought he could control everything, including the storm walking into this palace barefooted and furious.

So I stood still.

Watching Natalie step forward, one foot in front of the other like she was born to command the floor. Her hair was wild, her eyes brighter than any moon I’d ever seen, and power rolled off her in waves, sharp and holy and unrelenting.

I could feel Red pacing inside me, restless and alert. Even he didn’t know whether to bow or brace for impact.

"She’s not going to hurt him," I told Red quietly, even as the walls groaned and the air thickened with her power. "She just wants him to feel it. The weight of what he’s done."

But gods... she was scaring the shit out of everyone else.

"Answer me," she thundered, and the room flinched like her words carried whips.

I felt it in my bones—the pressure of her fury, the divine justice of a goddess who had been denied, abused, and tossed aside. The woman who once shied from shadows now made them retreat.

The nobles around me cowered. Generals stiffened. Someone actually whimpered.

And then she did it.

She lifted him.

My father.

The King.

Up off the ground.

He rose like a marionette tugged by strings of divine wrath. His hands clutched his throat, his boots kicked helplessly, his crown slid from his head and clattered against the marble floor.

I didn’t move.

I should’ve. I know.

But I just... watched.

For Alex and partly for my anger. He had hurt my son.

I just watched.

Until the desperate, shaking voice of my father filled my head through the mind link.

"Zane—Zane, do something. Please."

I didn’t respond at first. Just stared at him—his face going red, his legs flailing in air he couldn’t command, his court watching him with widening eyes.

"Zane," he pleaded again, more broken this time. "Please, speak to her. Stop her. She’ll kill me."

"You should’ve thought of that before crossing her," I snapped.

"She’s your mate—you can talk to her!"

I turned my head slowly toward him, a sarcastic smile curling on my lips. "Oh, now you accept that she’s my mate?"

"Please, Zane. I’m your father," he pleaded through the mind-link, his voice trembling.

"And as my father, you should’ve believed me. Listened. Protected what matters," I said, my tone razor-sharp. "You planted this, and now you’re choking on your own harvest. Apologize, and she’ll let you go."

Silence echoed like a scream in the hall.

Then came his whisper: "If I apologize now... in front of all of them... I’ll lose everything. Their respect."

I laughed—dry, bitter, unamused. Heads turned. The court was half-focused on me, half on the man flailing midair, held by Natalie’s invisible grip.

"Respect?" I said, my voice low but deadly. "You lost that the second you hurt your own grandchild."

"I didn’t know—!"

"You didn’t ask. That’s always been your fatal flaw. You assume. You judge. You control. But you never, ever listen."

Inside me, I felt Red stir. Not toward Natalie, but toward the man who had brought so much pain.

Then his voice came again, panicked and breaking.

"Zane... she’s... choking me. I can’t—can’t breathe. Please. Please, son."

And that’s when it happened.

The atmosphere shifted. Thickened. The very air shimmered around Natalie like it had been set ablaze. Her hand trembled—not with fear.

But with fury.

With grief.

Her voice cracked through the silence of the room—not in the link, but aloud. A voice that made the walls shudder.

"Your men stabbed my child," she growled. "And you think I’ll just let you walk away?"

Gasps rippled through the court. The king clawed at his throat, eyes wide and rolling. His body convulsed. His energy—his soul—was beginning to flicker like a dying candle.

And still, she held him there.

That was when I moved.

No rush. No raised voice. No dramatic display.

I just walked.

Calm. Measured. Every step an anchor in the storm.

I reached inward, finding the mind-link that existed between only us. A space that had always felt like home.

"Natalie," I whispered.

She didn’t move.

But I saw it—the slight twitch in her fingers, the parting of her lips. She heard me.

"Sweetheart," I whispered again, my voice soft and steady, like the first breeze after a storm. "I need you to come back to me."

Her eyes flicked toward me—silver flame melting into something human. Raw. Ache-filled.

"He hurt our baby, Zane," her voice cracked in the link. "He sent them to take me. And they... they stabbed Alexander."

The words hit me like a punch to the chest.

I breathed in slowly. "Fox told me," I said gently. "Told me how you saved him. How you fought through blood and fire for our son."

I stepped forward until I stood right in front of her—close enough to feel the electric hum of her rage, the burning grief clinging to her skin like smoke.

Then I did what no one expected.

I wrapped my arms around her.

Held her.

Right there, in front of everyone.

Gasps echoed like thunderclaps.

But I didn’t care. Let them stare. Let them talk. The king still dangled in the air behind me, barely clinging to consciousness, and yet she didn’t move. She just stood there in my arms—tense, trembling, but alive.

"Thank you," I murmured, voice thick. "For loving my son so fiercely... that you’d fight for him as if he were your own."

Natalie’s lips curled into a soft, aching smile. "Zane... he is my son."

Gods.

I tightened my grip, grounding her. Grounding us.

But then she pulled back, eyes fierce again, chin lifted with that beautiful fire I’d fallen in love with.

"I’ll release him," she said clearly, her voice strong now, "but only if he apologizes. Out loud. To me. And to Alexander."

The court stilled.

Then—bam!

A pulse of power struck the air like a gong.

Five figures appeared in the very center of the ballroom, almost like they’d been dropped there by fate itself.

Jacob. Tiger. Bubble. Eagle. And Fox.

Everyone gasped. Even the remaining guards stepped back in shock.

Each of them stood tall, scarred, and deadly, their presence crackling like lightning before a storm.