Page 41 of Lycan King's Claim
Sienna glances around nervously once we are at the restaurant. Jake, my usual waiter, escorts us to our table, and I feel Sienna step closer, her grip tightening in my hand, making me glance around at what has her so spooked. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. This place is always packed, and reservations are near impossible for ordinary people. Pulling her chair out, she glances at me. “Can we go somewhere else? Everyone is staring,” she whispers.
“People always stare, Sienna. It's something you'll have to get used to eventually,” I tell her.
Glancing around, I can hear their whispered judgments, but I push them aside, focusing solely on her.
“Sit,” I say softly, pulling out a chair for her. She hesitates, then lowers herself into the seat, her fingers twisting the fabric of her dress. I hand her the menu, but she refuses to look at it, her attention consumed by the murmurs at nearby tables.
“Sienna, please,” I urge, my patience wearing thin. “Just try something.”
Her eyes finally met mine, cold and unyielding. “I would rather not be here, especially if everyone is just going to stare,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. I clench my jaw, frustration building, but I force myself to remain calm for her sake.
“Because it's not about them,” I reply, my voice low and steady. “It's about us.” With that, I order for her, choosing a dish I know she will enjoy since she won't even take a peek at the menu. When the food arrives, however, she merely pushes it around her plate, refusing to take a bite.
“Sienna, I'm trying here,” I say sternly, my hand tightening around my fork. “You can at least do the same.”
Sienna glances at me, then back over at the table of women that seem to be celebrating something. “I don't belong in your world.” My heart aches as Sienna whispers those words, her voice barely audible above the ding of china in the bustling restaurant.
I turn my attention to the table nearest us, the one she keeps glancing at with unease. A group of women sits there, their eyes flitting between us and their wine glasses. My ears strained, capturing the whisper of one woman to her friend. “I heard the only reason he took her as his mate is because Carina left him.”
“Imagine being forced to marry the woman whose mother is responsible for killing a loved one,” another adds. The venom in her words is clear even through the hushed tone, and I know Sienna can hear them easily from where she sits.
My jaw clenches, rage simmering beneath the surface. The shattered look on her face replays in my mind, shards piercing my heart as I watch her pick at her dress, trying to escape the reality surrounding her. I want to shield her from their cruel words so badly, but I know it isn't that simple. It is my past actions that have placed her in this position.
“Sienna,” I say softly, reaching across the table to take her hand. Her fingers tremble within my grasp, like the fragile wings of a butterfly caught in a storm.
“Ignore them. They don't matter.”
Her eyes meet mine, a storm of emotions swirling within their depths. “How can I?” she asks, her voice thick with unshed tears. “Everywhere we go, people will always talk. They'll always judge me for who I am, for what my family has done. And for being second to Carina,” she whispers the last part, but I manage to catch her words.
I squeeze her hand gently. “Then let them talk. Let them judge. As long as you're by my side, they can't hurt you.”
“You are my mate, Sienna, and nothing will ever change that.”
For a moment, the walls she'd built around herself seem to crumble, revealing the vulnerability hidden within. For someone who hates me, she definitely does care what people say about mine and her relationship. She nods, her fingers curling around mine as if anchoring herself to me when she pulls her hand away abruptly, as if she were acting on instinct and not her own free will. She grabs her fork, and I see her raging uncertainty as she casts a quick peek at me.
Still, the women talk, and Sienna remains tense as she eats her entrée. After a few minutes, I am on the verge of losing it; the clattering of silverware and glasses seems to fade into the background as I wave the waiter over. My vision tunneling in on those women who dare to mock Sienna. “Remove them, and anyone else that so much as whispers a word about my mate,” I growl, my aura slipping out menacingly. Jake, the waiter, sensing the anger in my voice, rushes off to do as he is told.
The girls become outraged as they are told to leave, causing a scene that attracts the attention of the entire restaurant. Security has to step in and escort them out, their protests echoing through the room. I glance at Sienna, her mortified expression sending a jolt of regret through my chest. Her face turned red, embarrassment clear on her face.
“Sienna, don't be embarrassed. If you had an issue, you just had to say. You should have told me when you first heard them whispering. Now, will you please eat?” I ask her, the softness in my voice surprising even me. I feel irrational anger simmering beneath the surface when she hesitates, not touching her food. She wants to leave, to go hide in her damn room. With a snarl, I stand up, my chair scraping loudly against the floor.
“Anyone so much looks in my mate's direction, breathes, or murmurs one word, I won't be as patient as I was with those ladies,” I warn, my voice low and threatening. A hush falls over the entire restaurant, the tension in the air palpable.
Even when the waiter, Jake, returns, he fumbles blindly with our plates, his hands trembling with fear.
“I wasn't talking about the staff, Jake,” I state, trying to ease the poor man's unease. He lets out a shaky breath, setting Sienna's plate down in front of her. As he does, he winks at her, earning a warning growl from me. “I saw that,” I mutter, though a small smile tugs at the corners of my lips, knowing Jake is harmless and one of my favorite waiters here.
I survey the room, taking in the nervous glances cast our way, the whispered conversations that cease as they meet my gaze. I can't protect Sienna from every cruel word, but I can make damn sure no one dares to speak ill of her within earshot.
I watch as Jake turns on his heel and leaves us, the clatter of dishes and murmurs of conversation filling the void he left behind. Sienna hesitates for a moment longer before her shaking fingers finally close around her fork, bringing it to her lips.
As if sensing my gaze, Sienna glances up at me, her eyes filled with a mixture of curiosity and wariness. “What?” she asks, her voice soft but laced with caution. I shake my head, offering her a small smile. “Nothing,” I murmur, reaching for my utensils. It wasn't a lie—it was nothing more than the simple pleasure of seeing her eating.
Once our entrées are finished, the door to the kitchen swings open once more, Jake returning with our main meals and wine. He approaches our table with an air of apprehension, a bottle of wine cradled carefully in his arm, and he holds two plates. He sets the plates down. As he moves to pour Sienna a glass, I catch a glimpse of her wide, panicked eyes darting between him and the bottle.
“No, thank you,” she waves him away, but I shake my head, reaching forward and plucking the bottle from Jake and pouring her glass.
“Xandros!” she hisses, her hand shooting out to cover the top of the glass as the liquid threatens to spill over the rim. “That's enough,” she squeaks, her cheeks flushing a deep shade of red that matches the wine in her glass. “I don't drink.”
