TO TAME THE BRUTAL LYCAN BEAST-Chapter 30: IN THE KING’S BED

VALORIA WILDEROSE

I wake up again in another room completely foreign to me, changed out of my damaged clothes and into a pair of silk pajamas that fit my body perfectly.

I’m on yet another bed, this one insanely big. My body is completely patched up. The scent engulfing the room hints at its owner—powerful, yet intoxicatingly sweet and cool.

The moment I realize it, panic washes over me.

When I try to move, I realize painfully that I’ve been chained to the bed—obvious precautions in case I tried to leave on my own.

It takes a few more moments to get over the panic and simply sit still, letting the situation around me slowly sink in.

I’m in the bedroom of the Lycan King—ruler of all the packs that stretch across four continents, spanning the vast Eastern Ocean; Lord of all Lycan kind in existence and enemy of the Moon Goddess.

I expected his room to be littered with torture devices, taxidermied heads he’s ripped off with his bare hands, and other disgusting things.

But it’s just a room with a manly touch.

It seems less lived in for a man who’s seen the origin of my bloodline.

The furniture is typical, bland—except for one corner where classy pieces that don’t belong in this timeline sit, along with a painting above it of a white rabbit.

It’s clear no skilled painter created it, yet an odd sense of warmth oozes off of it. You can almost feel the painter’s emotions—wanting to capture warmth and spring in one image despite the lack of skill.

Then there’s the background sound of rushing water my mind hadn’t registered until now. It stops.

I hear shuffling feet behind the glass door I imagine to be the bathroom ahead of me.

The settled panic in my chest rises again, and I search for something to defend myself with, terrified, but find only a pillow by my side.

The door finally opens and I abandon all hope, tensing up and staring towards the bathroom at Azrael.

He’s completely naked except for the loosely hanging white towel around his waist, dripping wet while he attempts to dry his hair with another smaller towel.

Our eyes meet instantly.

I stare at him, shocked and speechless, mostly scared, yet he diverts his eyes away the next second—just as fast as they’d met—moving towards his closet.

His reaction is miles away from what I was expecting.

I watch silently, confused, as he dries his hair and tosses the damp towel aside once his deep black curls are only damp and sticking to his face and neck.

I’m unable to pry my eyes away, stuck in a trance as he stretches his back, unknowingly flexing the countless tiny healed cuts on his skin.

And then the towel drops.

I look away too fast, feeling heat on my cheeks burning. I try to distract myself from the sounds that follow next, forcing my mind not to fix images in place.

It’s fairly easy considering that I’ve never actually stared at a penis face-to-face before. But I’ve heard descriptions.

I focus on the shelf of books in his room, the artifacts hanging about—anything else but the naked man in front of me—for minutes until the room goes silent again.

Did he leave?

I face forward again, hoping to answer the nagging question in my mind. Instead, he’s standing right in front of me at the foot of his bed with a dull stare, now in shorts.

"What are you looking at?"

I half-scream, my heart and soul almost leaping out of my body in the process before I reel them back in and pat my chest to catch my breath.

"Y-you sc-scared me," I protest, barely finding my voice.

I meet his gaze again slowly, now close enough to notice the deeper scars on the front side of his chest.

Three ugly scars I’ve noticed before are now clearer—one running across his chest in the nastiest way possible, an ugly red color as if it was inflicted recently.

I freeze, staring blatantly. They didn’t look this bad before, almost as if they were healed until something opened them up again. It’s right in my face—how can I not look?

It almost makes him seem... vulnerable.

He ignores my staring, moving for the side desk and pulling out a first aid kit and a key. Settling right by my side on the bed, he unlocks the binding first.

I rub my wrist, staring at his chest again before prying my eyes away.

"W-why am I h-ere?"

He remains silent, sitting on the bed with the kit in hand. Raising the duvet to reveal my ugly wounded feet, he pulls them toward him and onto his lap. I flinch.

"Wh-what a-are you do-ing?"

I stare at him, confused and speechless for a few seconds, trying to figure him out.

He works silently, clicking the first aid kit open with the flick of a finger, wetting cotton with antiseptic, and pressing it against my wound until there’s a slight burn—surprisingly gentle.

I flinch, pulling my feet away from him, shifting to create enough distance between us.

"D-on’t," I whisper quietly, moving farther, suddenly too uncomfortable to meet his eyes.

Somehow this inexplicable gesture is annoying—tending to wounds his sick games caused.

"I-I do-n’t w-want any m-more ru-mors abo-about the b-oth of us. I b-barely surv-vived the af-afterm-math of t-he last one."

"I think we both know it’s already too late for that. From the moment I saved you and pulled you out of that wreckage, your fate was sealed." He responds so casually it’s infuriating.

I frown.

"I d-did-n’t a-ask y-ou to sa-ve me." I was doing fine accepting my fate.

"Would you have much rather died?"

"A-Any-thing’s b-better th-an pl-playing this s-sick tw-isted game of yours." I snap harsher than I intend to, and he smiles.

"Ahh... so it’s my fault? You blame me." His reaction is almost as if he’s expecting something from me. Whatever it is, I don’t care.

But then the truth is, no matter how tempted I am to pin this all on him, I can’t.

He’s not the reason my life was horrible, or the one who pushed me to make an impossible deal with the goddess where my life hangs on a thin line.

He is who he is, and I’m here because of every decision I’ve made.

"N-no, n-none of th-is is yo-your fault."

Something in his eyes shifts — he wasn’t expecting that answer. But then he chuckles, as if he finds it hard to believe.

"Wouldn’t it be easier to blame the big bad Lycan for making you the center of attention and a target for others? For torturing you and ruining your life?"

I frown again. He makes it so easy to be irritated with that smugness.

"D-Don’t fl-atter y-yourself. The wo-world doesn’t re-volve ar-ound you."