The Trash Husband is a Lycan God

The Ambush

"We did it!" Seraphina couldn't stop shaking. She held the signed contract against her chest as they walked toward the hotel parking lot. "I can't believe it. Lady Anya actually loved it!"

She stopped and turned to Killian. The "useless" husband was unbuttoning his tuxedo jacket, looking ready for a nap.

"Killian," she said, her voice serious. "That sketch. How did you do that?"

Killian blinked. "I told you. I saw it in a magazine once. I just... traced the wine stain."

"A magazine?" Seraphina narrowed her eyes. "That design hasn't been released yet. It was... it was genius."

Killian shrugged. "Ragnar says I have a talent for doodling. Maybe I should be an artist. Does it pay well?"

Seraphina sighed. Of course. Just dumb luck. Again.

"Let's just go home," she said. "I need to call the Board and rub this in Lucas's face."

They reached her car, a silver Mercedes. The parking lot was dark and empty. Most guests were still inside at the after-party.

"Wait," Killian said. His voice was different. Sharp.

"What?"

"Don't open the door."

Before Seraphina could ask why, three shadows detached themselves from the darkness behind a van.

Men. Big men. They wore ski masks and held baseball bats.

"Well, well," one of them rasped. "Mr. Vane sends his regards."

Seraphina’s blood ran cold. "Take my purse," she said, holding it out. "Take the car. Just let us go."

The leader laughed. "We don't want the car, sweet cheeks. We want you. And we want the human's kneecaps."

He swung the bat.

"Run, Killian!" Seraphina screamed.

She didn't run. She threw her heavy purse at the leader's face. It hit him with a satisfying _thwack_, but it only made him angry.

He lunged at her, his bat raised high, a grin of malicious anticipation splitting his lips.

"Oops!"

Killian suddenly "tripped" over his own feet. It was a masterpiece of physical comedy. His left foot hooked behind his right ankle, sending him pitching forward. His shoulder slammed into the leader's gut with the force of a runaway freight train.

_OOF._

The leader gasped, the air forcibly ejected from his lungs. He flew backward, airborne for a solid second, before crashing into a concrete pillar with a bone-jarring _c***k_. He slid down the concrete, unconscious before he hit the ground.

"My shoelace!" Killian complained, rolling on the ground and clutching his perfectly tied shoe. "I always trip on this stupid shoelace! Who invented laces? Why can't we all just wear velcro?"

The second thug roared, his eyes wide with confusion and rage. "Get him!" he screamed, swinging his bat in a vicious arc aimed at Killian's head.

Killian scrambled back like a crab, his movements erratic and panicked. "Don't hit me! I'm allergic to pain! And I bruise like a peach!"

As he scrambled, his foot lashed out—seemingly a flail of terror. In reality, it was a precise Cobra Strike. His heel connected with the point of the thug's chin.

_Snap._

The thug’s head snapped back. His eyes rolled into the back of his skull, and he crumpled daintily, like a sack of wet potatoes.

"Whoa," Killian said, sitting up and blinking. He stared at his foot as if it were an alien appendage. "Did you see that? I think I know karate. Is it the shoes? Maybe it's the shoes."

The third thug hesitated. His grip on the knife tightened until his knuckles were white. Two of his friends—vicious experienced enforcers—were down in five seconds. defeat by a man who looked like he was fighting a losing battle against gravity.

"You... you freak!" The third thug hissed, shifting his weight. "Stop playing games!"

The third thug hesitated. Two of his friends were down in five seconds. This "helpless" husband was a disaster zone.

"You... you freak!" The third thug pulled a knife.

"Killian, watch out!" Seraphina cried.

The thug charged.

Killian stood up, his posture shifting subtly. The "bumbling fool" mask slipped for a fraction of a second, revealing the cold predator underneath. He didn't look scared anymore. He looked... bored. Disappointed, even.

He stepped to the side, letting the thug s***h at empty air. The move was so casual it looked like he was avoiding a puddle. Then, with a motion too fast for Seraphina to track—a blur of kinetic energy—he chopped the back of the thug's neck.

_Thwump._

The sound was solid, final. The thug dropped instantly.

Silence returned to the parking lot, heavy and thick. The only sound was Seraphina's ragged breathing and the distant hum of city traffic.

Seraphina stared at the three unconscious bodies detailed across the pavement. Then she stared at Killian.

He was dusting off his pants, frowning at a grease stain. "Man," he sighed, sounding genuinely aggrieved. "This suit is a render. Do we get a refund if it's damaged? I think there's a hole in the knee."

"You..." Seraphina walked over to him, her legs trembling. She grabbed his lapels, needing to feel he was real, that this wasn't a hallucination. "You took out three armed men. By 'tripping'? By 'accidents'?"

Killian looked down at her. His dark eyes were wide, innocent, the picture of confusion. "I get lucky when I panic? My mom always said I had a guardian angel. Or maybe a guardian devil."

"Stop lying to me!" She shook him, frustration warring with relief. "Who are you, Killian? Really? A normal man doesn't accidentally hospitalize three enforcers!"

Killian looked at her lips. The adrenaline was making her scent spike—a mix of fear, arousal, and raw power. It was driving his inner wolf crazy. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to claim her right here on the asphalt, to mark her so every predator in the city knew she belonged to the King.

"I'm just your husband, Sera," he whispered, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating against her chest. "Just the guy who carries your bags."

_Click._

Killian’s ear twitched. A sound from the roof of the adjacent building. 200 yards away.

The safety of a high-caliber sniper rifle being disengaged.

His instincts screamed. _Sniper. 12 o'clock. Wind speed 5 knots. Elevation 40 degrees._

He couldn't dodge. If he dodged, the bullet would hit Sera.

He couldn't catch it. That would reveal he was a Lycan God, and the masquerade would be over.

He had to take it.

"Get down!"

Killian shoved Seraphina into the car door, covering her body with his own. He braced himself, focusing his density on the impact point.

_BANG._

A shot rang out, echoing like thunder.

Killian jerked. A bloom of red exploded on his white shirt, right above his heart. The impact felt like a sledgehammer, but he didn't falter.

"Killian!" Seraphina screamed, her voice tearing.

He slumped against her, heavy and warm.

"I'm... okay," he grunted, sliding down the car door, leaving a streak of crimson on the silver paint. "Just... a scratch. Think he... missed the important bits."

It wasn't a scratch. Ideally, it would have been a kill shot. But Killian had shifted his internal organs microseconds before impact. The bullet had passed through muscle, missing his heart by an inch. It was currently lodged in his spine, which was already pushing it out.

He looked up at the roof. The sniper was gone. _Amateur,_ he thought. _Didn't confirm the kill._

"Killian! Oh my god, you're bleeding!" Seraphina was crying now, pressing her hands against the wound. The hot blood seeped through her fingers.

"Hey," he smiled weakly, reaching up to wipe a tear from her cheek. His hand was steady. "Did we win the contract?"

"Yes! Yes, we won! Don't talk! Just stay with me!"

"Good," Killian whispered as he let his eyes close, feigning unconsciousness. "Then I get a raise."

As Seraphina dialed 911, screaming for help, Killian concentrated.

_Heal,_ he commanded his body.

Beneath the blood-soaked shirt, the bullet hole was already knitting itself back together. Steam rose faintly from the wound as his cells accelerated, consuming the damage. By the time the ambulance arrived, it would look like a graze.

_Just another lucky break,_ he thought.