Page 60 of Prey of the Lycan Queen
Would have been. As in his daughter didn’t survive.
That’s when it hits me.
The baby Electra held when she stormed into the ballroom and accused Regan of being a killer . . . The baby Zeke thought was me.
“We were going to call her Melody,” he whispers.
“That is why you tried to stop Zeke. That’s why you intervened.”
He nods. “I wanted you to run. I didn’t want the curse broken, but then you marked Regan.” He shakes his head. “Why?”
“To free the lycans of the curse, to free the witches, to break it!” I cry.
“They don’t deserve it to be broken!” he screams. I flinch at his anger.
“What happened to your daughter is a tragedy, but?—”
“My daughter I could forgive as an accident, but my wife? King Theron’s selfishness led to every woman alive mated or not being hunted down, raped, and pillaged. His selfishness destroyed our race, made them beasts of man,” he murmurs, staring off vacantly. “I tried to hide Myra in the castle, but she was not safe, King Theron only cared for Electra. So I made sure he felt the same pain I did when I lost my mate. When he ordered everyone out of the castle except for the essential guard, he left my mate defenseless when the men turned crazed!” he snarls. My brows furrow in confusion.
“I was on duty when I felt her fear. The kingdom was in lockdown, and she died. I could do nothing to get to her, nothing!” he screams. “So when Electra snuck out that night with Regan to hunt for the missing oracle, I returned the favor.”
My blood runs cold.
“You sold out Electra?” I gasp, and he laughs.
“They were supposed to kill that bastard with her, but instead, they made him watch. I guess that turned out to be a better option because I have watched his mind deteriorate ever since.” He laughs as he places a key in the lock.
“You sick son of a?—”
“And now I get to watch them die for their crimes.” He opens the cell door, and I take a step back. “As I said, I have nothing against you. I am sorry about this, but you’re a means to an end, one I have spent the past twenty years waiting for.”
The next second, he clamps something over my face. I struggle, trying to fight him off. When I inhale deeply, a sharp smell makes me instantly dizzy, and my eyes roll to the back of my head.
When I awake, a surreal view unveils before my weary eyes. Kelly is on her knees sobbing with King Slavic standing in front of her. He’s dressed in black clothes and has one hand wrapped around her neck.
I feel the cold, damp floor beneath my knees. As I try to rise, someone kicks me in the ribs, and the pain shoots a wave of nausea through my body. The Vampiric King’s hand on Kelly’s neck is firm and unrelenting, squeezing it, his fingers digging into her artery and jugular.
My mind struggles to make sense of the ghastly scene unfolding before me. Gathering my strength, I rise to my hands and knees on the cold floor, my gaze instinctively spotting Malachi.
The sight before me is a horrifying vision of pain and suffering. There in the center, chained to the cold, unforgiving stone ceiling, is Malachi. He hangs limply, a figure of torture and agony. His once handsome face, now marred with burn marks and fresh bruises, is a symbol of the suffering he has borne since his capture. He looks upon me with a haunted gaze.
His once muscular body is now a grotesque map of lacerations and burns. A chill sweeps over me at the sight, filling me with dread about what’s to come. Seated around him in a circle are members of my coven, drained and pale, eyes wide with panic, rigidly held captive by the vampire guards.
“I know about the vile sorcery you worked on Zirah, bringing her back from beyond the gates of death!” Slavic’s words lash through the quiet like a knife.
Kelly rears back with unbridled rage, her voice a mix of fury and defiance. “Zirah was cursed, not dead! All we did was break free the shackles that bound and hid her. What you’re asking for is depravity and darkness beyond our abilities!”
But Slavic refuses to be swayed. He fires back venomously, “You are mistaken. Elias saw with his own eyes the abomination you created when you brought someone back from the dead!” His voice reverberates off the walls, and I force myself to look toward the ground. Lying there is Slavic’s son—his face engraved into my memory from the night he and his friends tried to rape me.
My stomach lurches at the repulsive sight. Slavic’s desperation for his son’s resurrection is unsettling and pitiful all at once.
Instantly, my mind floods with memories of his son’s taunting voice and demanding, cold hands. Sickness churns in my stomach as I try not to look at the decaying body. Instead, I scan the harrowing scene, taking note of every face staring up at King Slavic from their knees, but we are missing someone. Where is Leila?
“King Slavic, there is no way we can perform this resurrection while still under this curse!” A coven sister pleads desperately, but her words fall on deaf ears as he stands motionless, his eyes burning with hatred.
Ignoring her plea, his serpent-like eyes find me. As he advances, the corners of his mouth twist into a grotesque smirk, an intimidating predator closing in on its prey.
Slavic’s venomous gaze drills into me, his sneer making my blood boil. “My son is dead. You will bring him back!” His command leaves no room for discussion.
