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

Chapter 6

Lyra’s POV

The massive four-poster bed sat in the center of the Warlord’s chambers, softer than anything I’d ever slept on in my life. I woke slowly, my limbs tangled in thick, imported velvet blankets that carried the scents of pine, winter snow, and the intoxicating, dominant musk of the Lycan King.

For a terrifying, disorienting moment, my heart pounded as memories of petrified woods and assassins’ blades rushed back. But the warmth of the hearth and the impenetrable quiet of the room calmed me, grounding me firmly in the present.

I pushed myself up from the pillows, wincing faintly as my injured shoulder protested the movement.

Fenrir hadn’t slept in the bed.

True to his iron will, the Warlord of the Crimson Moon had slept through the night in the heavy armchair by the roaring fireplace. He was already awake, dressed in dark leather trousers and a fresh linen tunic that fitted tightly against his broad chest and shoulders. He meticulously sharpened a wicked, curving hunting dagger using a whetstone. The soft shhhhk of steel on stone filled the quiet room.

He didn’t look up at once, but as soon as my breathing shifted to wakefulness, his golden eyes flicked towards the bed.

“You slept for ten hours,” Fenrir stated, his deep voice sending a shiver down my spine. He placed his hunting dagger on the small table by the chair and rose to his feet. “Your body needed it.”

The man’s size was truly impressive even in the morning light. With lethal, predatory grace, he crossed the room, picking up a heavy silver tray off the mahogany side table, and approached the edge of the mattress.

“I didn’t intend to sleep for so long,” I whispered, pulling the heavy velvet blankets up to my chin. Even though I suspected I no longer needed to play the victim, the fragility was still there in my voice.

“Your body decided otherwise,” Fenrir replied smoothly, setting the tray in my lap. “There is roasted meat, fresh bread, and tea on the tray. Your body lost a significant amount of blood in the snow yesterday.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, reaching for the steaming goblet.

Before my fingers could curl around the edge of the goblet, Fenrir’s hand closed over mine, stopping me. His golden eyes darkened slightly, and he bent over the bed, getting dangerously close to my face.

“Let me check your bands,” he requested quietly. There was an insistent need in his voice, something primal, and his grip tightened on my hand.

There was nothing more intimate than this, no pretense of chivalry. I let go of the blanket and allowed him to part my torn tunic collar.

Fenrir’s massive fingers touched the white linen bandages I wore. The tenderness of his touch was a shocking contrast to his lethally dominant aura. The heat of his skin against mine made my heart skip a beat.

“No fresh bleeding,” Fenrir noted, his jaw tensing as his thumb brushed against my unharmed skin. “Is the injury aching?”

“Only when I’m moving fast,” I admitted, drawn deeply into the fierce, protective intensity of his eyes.

“Then move slowly,” he advised with commanding authority. His voice was deep and rough, sending a thrilling shiver down my spine. He pulled back from me and reached to the foot of the bed, where a carefully folded pile of clothes lay.

He picked up an enormous shirt, woven from white linen, and tossed it onto the mattress beside me. “Your leathers are stained and full of blood. Change into my shirt. My servants will bring you proper garments by midday.”

I accepted the shirt. It was enormous and would fit a man twice my size, but there was no mistaking whose scent it had on. Warm satisfaction bloomed in my chest. The fact that I wore the Warlord’s shirt wasn’t just practical. It was a political message, a clear, absolute claim of protection.

I slipped the heavy linen garment over my head. It was so large that the hem touched my knees.

Before Fenrir said anything, another sound shattered the silence. A violent commotion erupted somewhere beyond the oak doors of his chambers. The royal wing of the fortress provided absolute privacy. His chambers overlooked a grand staircase, leading down into a private foyer.

“Torin! Step aside!” a panicked voice echoed through the solid wood of the doors, down the stairs into the royal wing. “I’m the heir to the Crimson Moon! You don’t block me like this!”

It was Anton.

My inner wolf snarled, remembering the treasonous heir’s betrayal.

“The Warlord’s orders were absolute, my Lord Anton,” the Commander’s voice replied with gruff determination. “Nobody enters the royal chambers, not until the Warlord gives the order.”

“She’s not his ward! She’s a traitorous b***h!” Anton screamed, his voice breaking. Armor clashed as he attempted to shove past the Vanguard commander and two elites guarding the entrance to his private chambers. “I must speak to my father! You don’t understand!”

Fenrir sighed. The gentle, nurturing protector had vanished, revealing the ruthless Warlord beneath.

“It seems that my heir has issues with basic comprehension,” Fenrir growled, moving towards the doors. “Let’s go see if his lies withstand my questioning.”

With a heavy sigh, the Warlord moved to open the doors.

“Stay behind me,” he instructed quietly, motioning me towards the door with a single gesture.

I stepped out of the bedroom into the cold stone of the landing, barefoot. Fenrir approached the balustrade and gazed down the grand staircase into the private foyer below. I followed his example, standing just behind his right shoulder, enveloped by his massive shirt.

Downstairs, Anton’s cheeks flushed furiously as his fine royal velvet tunic became rumpled from his desperate attempt to push his way past the Vanguard commander and the other two elites.

“If you don’t drop your weapons right now, I’ll strip you of your ranks!” Anton screamed, spittle flying everywhere. “Do you hear me, you fools?!”

“You’ll be doing absolutely nothing of the kind, boy,” Fenrir growled, silencing him. The Warlord’s sheer weight seemed to crush the air from the foyer.

The two Vanguard elites dropped to their knees in a submissive gesture.

Anton hesitated. His cheeks drained of color, and his face went ashen.

But then he looked to his right.

He saw me standing at the top of the stairs, the woman he’d banished, the woman he’d tasked with assassination, wearing his father’s private linen shirt.

All the political implications crashed down on him like a hammer blow.

“Father!” he stammered, jaw dropping in shock. “Why is she standing there? Where is she supposed to be locked?! You’re letting her stay in your private wing?!”

“I gave specific orders to the entire court yesterday morning,” Fenrir replied calmly. His massive hands were resting on the balustrade, and he gazed down at his heir reproachfully, almost dismissively. “Lyra is under my personal protection. She is a crucial element in royal security. Did the snow damage your comprehension, Anton?”

“She is a traitor!” Anton shrieked, panic making him reckless. He stepped towards the stairs and pointed an accusing finger up at me. “She blinds you! She betrayed us! She stole the royal ledgers and tried to frame somebody! And now she seduces her way into your private chambers? Do you really trust that manipulative w***e with the safety of our pack?!”

The atmosphere of the foyer grew hostile.

But the Warlord neither shouted nor drew his weapons. Instead, he simply allowed his beast to growl in his golden eyes.

“Commander Torin,” Fenrir addressed him calmly. The quiet command sent shivers down the spine of the Vanguard soldiers kneeling before their king.

“Yes, my Lord?” Torin answered respectfully, bowing his head.

“If the heir to the Crimson Moon dares to speak to the woman protected by the Warlord of the Crimson Moon with such disrespect,” Fenrir instructed, eyes locked on Anton’s horrified face, “he has my permission to break his jaw.”

The heir of the Crimson Moon stumbled back, terror and anger warring across his pale face. “Father! What are you saying!?! You can’t possibly think of such a thing!!”

“The evidence against her was a pitifully clumsy farce,” the Warlord dismissed Anton’s wild accusations calmly. “A seasoned soldier and tactician wouldn’t hide liquid wolfsbane inside the mattress where she sleeps. She wouldn’t make her enemies steal royal ledgers and hide them inside the rooms that get inspected regularly. She wouldn’t set herself up for a frame job.”

“But what about those assassins in the woods?” Anton gasped, panic replacing logic. He moved closer, pointing an accusing finger at me. “Did you really think that was me?! It’s a trick, Father! She must have cut her shoulder!”

Silently, I let him dig his own grave with his own arguments.

“She was attacked by three fully armed men,” Fenrir clarified. The disdain in his eyes was plain. “I found their bodies at dawn. Their leather boots and oiled weapons came directly from our armory, and they used a sophisticated pincer strategy to flank her. These were trained killers. Nobody random could do this.”

The Warlord descended from the staircase, his dominating, protective aura vanishing completely, replaced by the ruthlessness of the Alpha Prime.

“Somebody within the fortress has bypassed my authority,” Fenrir growled, golden eyes pinning Anton in place. “They’ve ordered a murder in an attempt to cover up their treachery. And your attempt to intimidate her before the investigation is completed says everything I need to know.”

“But I’m trying to protect my crown! Selena is terrified of her!” Anton argued desperately, his voice rising to a hysterical pitch. “She feels unsafe!”

“The princess has a problem with patience,” Fenrir snapped angrily. “And you, sir, are nothing but a shame to the uniform you wear. You banished your soldiers without a trial to please your girlfriend. You’ve played politics with their blood, and it will cost you dearly.”

The prince wilted under the gazes of the fortress guards. His furious eyes narrowed at me, as if trying to burn me with sheer rage. I rewarded him with an imperceptible smirk. It enraged him further.

“You’ll pay for this, Father!” he threatened angrily, clenching his fist at his side. “Once the elders hear you’ve taken a common traitor to bed in your chambers, they’ll demand her head. There’s nothing you can do about it!”

“Let them come,” the Warlord challenged, spreading a cruel, terrifying smile across his scarred face. “Come to me and tell me how you like my protection.”

Fenrir shifted slightly, placing his hand on the balustrade and turning his massive palm towards my back, pulling me into his side with a ferocious claim of domination.

“Lady Lyra now belongs to the Warlord,” he declared in a powerful roar that filled the stone with his deep voice. “She eats at my table. She sleeps in my bed. Anyone who stands against her stands against me, and if I find out who ordered those assassins into my woods…”

The promise hung ominously in the air.

“Commander Torin,” Fenrir addressed his commander harshly. “Take Lord Anton to his quarters.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“He will remain in the eastern wing until my investigation is over. Should he step out of line, throw him in the dungeons.”

“I am your heir! How dare you confine me like a criminal?!” Anton shrieked, fighting against the Vanguard soldiers holding him.

“You are the main suspect,” Fenrir corrected coldly.

Without a further word, the Warlord turned his back and walked away, pulling me along with him by the wrist. His huge hand remained on my waist as he guided me back into his chambers.

As the door slammed behind the heir’s hysterical shouting, the Warlord stopped in front of me, turning his golden gaze on me at last.

The cold fury disappeared as he stared at me, leaving a strange mixture of tenderness and hunger.

“Now,” the Lycan King murmured softly, brushing my red hair off my forehead with his thumb. “Let’s finish your breakfast.”