His Father’s Luna : The Betrayed Warrior’s Return

Chapter 5

Lyra’s POV

Metallic noise rang in the room as the heavy oak doors of the Warlord’s chambers slammed behind me. I stopped mid-stride and listened.

The Warlord was alone in his chambers.

This realization struck me more than anything. In the dungeon, Fenrir’s aura had been overpowering enough. Being surrounded by his presence, in his bedroom, alone with the Lycan King, made my heart hammer in my chest, even after everything I’d been through that day.

I was twenty-three years old and had faced down rogues, blizzards, and blades in the name of border patrol. I had even faced my own death. Yet, none of that prepared me for standing alone with the thirty-nine-year-old King.

Fenrir’s chambers exuded power from the ceiling to the floorboards. The chamber walls were built with dark stones that looked almost like obsidian and were lined with shelves of old books and weapons.

Crimson banners told of the history of the Crimson Moon clan. Weapons – broad swords, wicked curved daggers, iron maces – decorated the walls, arranged in order and glittering in the dim firelight. There was also a huge fireplace, roaring with a burning fire on one side and four-poster beds on the other. Imported rugs, rich in color and design, covered the floor.

Fenrir remained silent for a few seconds. Slowly, he walked out from behind me, every step reverberating with authority and control. This king moved with the power and lethal precision of a creature who knew he was in control of everything.

“Sit,” the Warlord ordered.

There was no request in this command; there never is when talking to an Alpha Prime.

I obeyed the King immediately, my exhausted legs moving to take me to the large, soft cushioned chair by the roaring fire. Sitting with my legs squeezed tightly, head slightly bent, and tangled red hair covering my face, I tried to act like a submissive broken exile but couldn’t help feeling as if my tactical mind was buzzing, preparing to find any opening in the situation.

I was ready to face questions and demands. I anticipated either the typical interrogation about Selena and Anton or a much more intimate interaction driven by the magnetic force that existed between our primal beasts ever since the dungeon.

Yet, the King did none of that.

Leaving me sitting in the middle of the room, Fenrir approached the heavy wooden washstand and started to undress himself. With each step, the armor’s metal rings made a sound that made my nerves twitch uncontrollably.

The King carefully and unhurriedly unbuckled bracers of steel and placed them down in a dull metallic clang. Next, he removed the leather armor and put it aside, revealing the fitted, dark tunic covering his massive body.

He filled the basin with water heated in the iron kettle and added some sharp alcohol. After that, picking up the clean white bandages, he turned to me.

“Drop the cloak,” the Warlord ordered in a threatening tone, slowly advancing to where I sat. “And get your bloodstained tunic off of you. You’re staining my rugs with your blood.”

I couldn’t deny the King as much as I wanted to. With shaking hands, I slowly unfastened the clasps on my chest and dropped the Warlord’s cloak to the back of the chair. Then, I unfastened the laces of my leather tunic, pulled the collar down, and showed him my shoulder, still leaking blood in slow drops.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong with it?” Fenrir asked calmly and crouched in front of me, putting himself at eye level. Now, I could clearly see amber flecks in his golden eyes, ruggedness of his chin line, and the curly locks of his hair.

He dipped a soft cloth in the basin and immersed it in hot water and alcohol.

“Brace yourself,” he whispered in my ear and pushed the cloth to the bleeding wound.

With a sharp gasp, I arched backward, my hands gripping the King’s thick forearms to prevent him from continuing. But he did not stop for long; rather, he grabbed my wrists to hold me firmly as I dug my nails into his skin.

Despite his brute power, the King was very gentle while cleaning my wounds. I could feel every touch and every motion his hands made with extreme clarity – such tenderness was strange in a warrior whose hands used to crush skulls and wield broadswords.

“You didn’t flinch in the Great Hall when Anton demanded your head,” the Warlord observed, his voice reverberating deep in his throat with the intensity of his feral nature. His eyes never left my shoulder. “But you shake in my rooms now. Why?”

“Because of Lord Anton’s words,” I answered quietly. “Even though I sensed that he was motivated by political fears, the King still hurt me. That is why I’m afraid… because I’m alone in your chambers and don’t know what you want to do with me.”

The silence filled the room, thickening like a fog.

“If I wanted to hurt you, Lyra of the Vanguard,” Fenrir continued in a dark, gravelly tone, sending a wave of feral lust flooding my veins, “you would still be rotting in the dungeons.”

Dropping the bloody rag back into the basin, he picked up the clean linen and proceeded to wrap the injury. Leaning closer to me, he almost touched my uninjured arm while wrapping linen bandages around my shoulder and tying a knot.

“There,” the Warlord grunted quietly and released me. But he didn’t step away from me, remaining crouched before me with both his hands resting on the chair’s armrests. Effectively, he trapped me in this position.

“Now,” the King stated, returning to the tone of the interrogator, “explain what happened in the petrified woods.”

“I told you already, my King,” I responded in a trembling voice. “I was in the forest, fleeing from somewhere. They found me and attacked me.”

“Three men?” the Warlord interrupted me sharply. “Three armed, fully-grown male Lycans hunted you in the snow. You were exhausted, freezing, and armed only with your small dagger, but here you are in my chambers, alive, while three Lycans are dead. Explain.”

“Luck?” I guessed, avoiding Fenrir’s penetrating stare and looking at my lap. “Luck and fighting.”

“Fenrir doesn’t believe in luck, Lyra,” the Warlord growled threateningly and leaned in again, invading my personal space with the power of his body. “Explain to me how did the Lycans move?”

“They… they were very fast,” I started in confusion. “One of them approached me. I dodged, then struck him under his armor.”

“And the two other?”

“They… they came at me together,” I admitted with hesitation.

“A surprise attack of this sort is possible, but not natural to rogues,” the King argued smoothly, tearing apart the lies I created with his feral mind. “Were the three of them rushing at you randomly? Were they using trees as cover?”

With the adrenaline still pumping through my veins, I struggled to keep calm in front of this interrogator and remain a scared border guard.

“They weren’t rushing at me blind,” I clarified, tightening my grip on the arms of the chair. “They split and one went for the left flank to block the iced stream while the other took the right flank.”

“Fenrir always said you had good instincts in combat,” the Warlord mused, his golden eyes narrowing suspiciously. “To coordinate such a complex attack pattern requires discipline and skills. Did the other two Lycans also have such skills?”

“I… they were not rogues!” I cried in frustration, my feral nature reacting violently to such disrespect to my fellow warriors. “They were not rushing at me blindly, but adjusting their footing on the go!”

The room froze, my words leaving a cold impression behind.

Fenrir’s eyes glinted with dark satisfaction. He leaned closer, invading my personal space again and again.

“You are correct,” he admitted smoothly, watching my reaction attentively. “The first one rushed at you, but when you struck him down, the other two instantly adjusted their positions and tried a staggering pincer approach to pin you down against the tree. Yet, the lead Lycan overestimated his steps and fell through the ice, making his knee vulnerable.”

All my muscles tensed as I understood what had happened.

The terms used in this analysis were too familiar to a border guard. Only a Vanguard commander could give such details about the attack – and only a feral creature would think about the pincer attack and a vulnerability of knees.

My words intrigued Fenrir further. For a while, he looked into my green eyes, analyzing every emotion and expression.

Without saying anything, Fenrir slowly stepped closer, making me lean backwards and arch my back.

“Do not try to hide from me, Lyra,” he threatened softly, his eyes burning with satisfaction. “You were very persuasive today, playing a wonderful trick in the Great Hall. You successfully fooled Anton and made me feel sorry for you. But I won’t forgive your deception, Lyra.”

My panic rose sharply, threatening to choke me at any moment. Tightening my grip on the armrests, I was ready to jump and run.

“Of course, you aren’t afraid anymore,” Fenrir chuckled softly and rested a hand on the back of the chair. His face was now very close to mine, causing the same tingling excitement inside me. “You are not a fragile woman. You’re a weapon. A deadly weapon that my son carelessly sent into the snow.”

“Warlord—” I started in panic, but he didn’t allow me to continue.

“Don’t interrupt me,” the King rumbled darkly. “You lied beautifully in the Great Hall. Your performance of a border guard begging for mercy was magnificent…”

My heart raced and fear flooded my mind.

“The performance is over now,” Fenrir breathed slowly, his eyes briefly shifting from my green gaze to my lips and back again, breaking the spell. “You aren’t a simple girl anymore. I’m fascinated with you now.”

I couldn’t answer as he slowly leaned over me.

“So don’t disappoint me, Lyra,” he growled seductively. “It’s rare for anything interesting to happen in this castle. I’m very interested in seeing how well will you play this time.”

Straightening up, Fenrir turned away, leaving me gasping in the silence.