Page 59 of Lycan Prey
“Um… thanks for… you know,” he murmurs.
I raise an eyebrow at him. He tugs at the collar of his shirt, clearing his throat.
“Yeah, no problem,” I tell him, twisting my hands in front of me nervously.
“I should go do some work while evading my mother.”
“And I should go find Max.”
He nods once then quickly leaves.
Chapter 24
• King Soren •
The door closes behind me with a soft click, leaving me relieved and embarrassed in equal measure. My emotions swirl inside me like a tornado, making focusing difficult.
Bree has taken over my mind for the past few days more than I want to admit. It frightens me. This sham I created stupidly for my parents is starting to feel too real. And after the shower incident moments ago, now I can’t get the image of Bree naked and wet out of my head.
The vulnerable yet defiant look in her eyes as they met mine. The way her chest rose and fell with each breath she took was intoxicating, matching the rhythm of my pounding heart. Feeling the heat of her body press so close to me, so inviting, so pure. The flush of her cheeks when she, too, noticed my closeness. Her curves I tried to ignore, her scent that steamed the room. I was glad when my mother finally left, only to watch her step out of the steaming shower, her skin flushed and hair clinging to her face by the water droplets.
It was a hauntingly beautiful sight. It’s not just her physical form that haunts me—it’s that look in her eyes, that spark of untamed joy laced with a streak of defiant wildness. It’s as if she’s daring me to come closer, to claim what was just within reach yet so far away, knowing I can’t take that from her. She doesn’t want me. I know that. The lines still blur horribly,making me wonder if that is part of the allure of her, knowing she isn’t mine.
Part of me tries to blame my attraction to her on the adrenaline of hiding from my mother, and that was there, however this girl has wormed her way into my subconscious ever since I met her. Now sharing a room with her, a bed, everything is becoming too real, too tempting to make it real.
Get Max, I tell myself.Get Max and get ready for dinner.Stop fantasizing about my fake fiancé.
I trot down the familiar hallways of our castle, the pictures that decorate the walls barely catching my attention. It’s strange how something so routine could suddenly feel so foreign. That awkward encounter in the shower has shaken me more than I thought.
I need to find Max. That thought circles in my mind like a stubborn bird refusing to migrate.
I glance at my wristwatch. It’s nearly dinnertime, and the boy has a knack for disappearing when it’s time to eat. He’s probably holed up in his room, lost in one of his video games, or sketching on his drawing pad.
As I approach his playroom, I hear faint music from some cartoon song playing, seeping through the door. It’s that strange song about gremlins and these strange paper people, a cartoon he watches in the morning. I knock softly before pushing the door open and sticking my head in.
Stepping into the room, I finally find him surrounded by action figures and Lego pieces strewn about the floor. He’s wearing a worn-out Superman T-shirt. My father has fallen asleep in the armchair, his glasses crooked on his face, his mouth gaping as he snores like a chainsaw. My son sits on the floor with his back leaned against the wall, engrossed in some colorful picture book. A small smile tugs at my lips as I approach him.
“Max,” I say softly. His head jerks up in surprise before a broad grin spreads across his face. He tosses the book aside and gets to his feet, barreling toward me.
“Dad!” he exclaims, throwing his arms around my legs.
His enthusiasm is infectious, and for a moment, I manage to forget about the uncomfortable situation just minutes ago. My father jerks awake, looking alert. I try not to snicker as I glance down at Max, who holds a finger to his lips. Max has colored my father’s lips purple with a marker and drawn whiskers on his cheeks.
“I must have dozed off,” he grumbles, stretching and yawning, his eyelids bright pink.
“Where’s your mother? You didn’t bring her, I hope,” he blurts, glancing around, his eyes stopping on the open window like he is about to shimmy down a drain pipe if it means escaping her.
“We have to get you ready for dinner, bud,” I say, ignoring my father,and staring at Max while fighting not to laugh at my father.
“It’s not Brussels sprouts, is it?” Max pulls a face. I shrug, unsure, and my father pulls himself out of his chair.
“Good, I’m starving.”
Max snickers to himself as we make our way to the dining room.
This part of parenthood—the routine, the patterns of raising a child, feels natural. It feels like coming home. No awkward shower encounters, doubts, or embarrassments. Just me, Max, and the everyday rhythm of life, except I’m suddenly craving adding to that routine—adding someone, which confuses me. As we reach the stairs, we run into Bree, and Max ditches me, running ahead. She barely catches him as he pounces on her, and she staggers back, clutching the railing.
“You trying to give me a heart attack?” she asks him, hugging him close as she starts down the steps.
