Page 21 of Lycan Prey
“What about Blair? She would have been worried about you. What if someone took you?”
“She’s old and can’t run fast,” he complains. “And I didn’t want to go training with Mr. Kitcher, either.” He turns to look at Brielle, his eyes lighting up.
“Blair may be old, but she loves you just as much as I do,” I add. Max looks down guiltily once again. I can tell he understands the severity of his actions.
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” he mumbles. Then his head lifts abruptly when he speaks again.
“Can’t Brielle teach me? She can run fast, and she kicked your guards’ asses. Kicked one right in his family jewels; she did! Dropped him like a bag of potatoes.”
I chuckle despite myself, though I quickly scold him. “Language, Max.”
I give him a small smile and squeeze his hand before turning my attention back to Brielle who is still chatting with the customers. She catches my eye and gives me a small nod before excusing herself from the group and walking over to our table.
“Is everything okay?” she asks softly, her gaze lingering on Max.
“Yes, thank you for asking,” I reply gratefully. “I just had a very important call that was interrupted by Max’s little adventure.”
Brielle nods understandingly. “I know it must be tough being a single parent,” she says sympathetically.
My heart clenches at her words, somehow Brielle seems to have sensed it or maybe she asked around, it is technically public knowledge, but most rogues stay out of political stuff.
“It definitely has its challenges,” I admit with a sigh. Her lips curl upward, forming a gentle smile as she looks fondly at Max. As she sets the plate down on the table, Brielle’s hand lightly brushes against Max’s hair, tousling it playfully. I take her in. Her skin is soft and smooth, she is petite, full lips, yet delicate features. She is gorgeous.
Brielle’s hair is a vibrant array of colors, and it falls in long curling waves almost to her hips. Her lips are a soft shade of pink, curved into a genuine smile that reaches her bright-green eyes. She wears a simple white T-shirt and jeans, with her apron over the top, but somehow manages to look graceful, even covered in spilled coffee and food crumbs.
“Then who would make everyone’s coffee?” she laughs nervously when Max suggests something to her that I missed when I was busy watching her. “You could be my nanny. I would go to Mr. Kitcher’s class if Brielle could come with me.”
I huff, leaning back in my chair.
“Brielle has a job, and my son won’t blackmail me,” I scold him.
Max pouts, but I notice the way Brielle’s presence seems to lift his spirits as she wanders off.
Chapter 10
• Aubrey •
The clock above the café door ticks away, a relentless reminder of the time slipping through my fingers. Each passing minute ratchets up the tension coiling in my stomach, an uneasy dance between nervousness and anticipation. I steal glances at King Soren and his son, Max, as I deliver steaming cups of coffee to other patrons.
“Everything alright, Brielle?” Marianne asks, her face etched with concern. I force a smile, my hand trembling ever so slightly as I set down a plate.
“Yeah, just… ready for the day to be over,” I admit, my gaze flickering back to the regal figures occupying a corner booth. The sight of King Soren, so powerful yet tender with his child, is an intoxicating blend of fear and attraction I’m not sure what to do with.
The café’s usual hum of chatter fades to a dull roar as my pulse quickens. I can sense King Soren’s eyes on me, heavy with an intensity that belies the casual setting. With every passing second, my skin prickles with awareness, and I find myself fumbling slightly with the coffee cups, my nervousness mirrored in the clatter of porcelain.
When my shift is a few minutes from over, my fingers fumble slightly as I untie the apron, the fabric suddenly feeling like chains that bind me to this place. Hanging it up with apracticed swing, I turn to Marianne, who’s busy tallying the day’s receipts. “Hey, I’m on for the morning shift tomorrow, right?” My voice is steady, but inside, I’m a storm of nerves knowing the King hasn’t left yet.
“Yep, bright and early,” Marianne replies without looking up, her face scrunched in concentration.
I nod, trying to focus on the mundane conversation, though my gaze involuntarily drifts across the café. It lingers on King Soren—his regal posture, the way his hand gently steadies Max at his side. The sight sends an unfamiliar flutter through my chest, an attraction mingled with apprehension. With each tick of the clock, I become more desperate to escape to the safety of home, to check on Grandma and shake off the weight of his presence.
“Alright, see you then,” I murmur, already sidestepping toward the door when a tiny pressure against my leg halts me mid-stride. Looking down, my heart squeezes at the sight of Max, his large eyes shimmering pools of hope.
“Hello, Max,” I say, the tension in my tone melting into a warm smile for the small boy whose innocence seems untouched by the harshness of pack politics. Despite my own turmoil, I’m drawn into his little world, a momentary respite from betrayal and heartache.
“Max!” comes King Soren’s voice. I glance up at him, feeling the vast expanse of air shrink between us. His height casts a shadow that feels like an eclipse over my own petite form. He looms large, not just in stature but in presence—a King in every sense, his authority radiating off him like heat from the midday sun.
His gaze shifts to Max and something inside me twists. There, in the depths of his stormy eyes, I glimpse of a father’s love so fierce it could move mountains or tear down walls.
