Bride Of The Cruel Lycan

Should try again, husband?

JULIETTE

Living in the royal palace is strange, to say the least.

It has been weeks since I arrived, and yet everything still feels unfamiliar, like I’m a guest who overstayed her welcome. The halls are too wide, the ceilings too high, the silence too loud. Even the air feels different here— different somehow, regal.

I wake up each morning in a couch that’s way too cramped and uncomfortable while my so called husband sleeps on a bed that’s far too big for one person, surrounded by silk sheets and velvet curtains.

The servants bow when they see me, calling me Your Highness, but their eyes slide past me, polite and empty. They do their jobs well, efficiently, without warmth. I don’t blame them. I’m not really anything to them. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

The person who seems happiest to have me here is Queen Madeline.

And sometimes, I can’t help but think the only reason she’s happy is because there’s finally someone else here to worry about the prince.

I don’t know a lot about her, not really. She’s the Queen Regent, powerful and respected, yet she never makes me feel small. She listens when people talk. I mean, truly listens, not the way most nobles do, already thinking of what they’ll say next. When I speak, she looks at me like my words matter. It’s disarming. Comforting. Maternal even.

She checks on me often, asks how I’m feeling, whether I’m sleeping well, whether the palace food suits me. Sometimes she sits with me in the afternoons, sipping tea, talking about nothing important at all. The weather. A book she’s reading. The garden roses. Those moments are the closest thing to peace I’ve found here.

But they don’t erase the truth.

The bottom line is, I don’t have anybody here.

And the loneliness hurts in a way I didn’t know was possible. It settles into my chest and stays there, a dull, constant ache. I can’t talk to my family. I can’t leave the palace freely. And I can’t even talk to my new husband.

Kaelan.

My husband.

The word still feels unreal.

He is… infuriating. He’s cold and arrogant and controlling, every word sharp enough to cut. He looks at me like I’m something unpleasant he was forced to deal with, a problem instead of a person. And somehow, despite the chair, despite his injury, despite everything, he still manages to dominate every room he’s in.

He has made it very clear where I stand.

Lower than the dirt under his shoes.

I let out a slow breath as I make my way downstairs for breakfast, my hand trailing along the banister. The palace is quieter than usual this morning. Sunlight streams through the tall windows, painting everything in soft gold. Normally, I eat alone or with Madeline if she’s free. I’ve learned not to expect Kaelan. He never comes.

So when I step into the dining room and see the long table already filled, my steps falter.

Everyone is here.

Nobles. Advisors. Madeline at the head of the table.

And Kaelan.

My heart stumbles in my chest, but I school my face quickly. It’s the weekend. Ordinarily, he should be free of meetings, but even then, he never joins breakfast. Not since I arrived. Seeing him is odd, and j wonder what the occasion is.

I straighten my spine and walk in, forcing myself not to hesitate.

“Good morning,” I say softly.

Madeline’s face brightens immediately when she sees me. “Juliette, dear. Come, sit.”

I do, smoothing my dress as I take my seat. Servants move around the table, placing dishes, pouring tea. I begin to serve myself, focusing on my plate, determined not to look at Kaelan.

He barely acknowledges me. No greeting. No glance. Nothing.

I tell myself I shouldn’t care. I tell myself this is better.

Then a maid steps up beside Kaelan, lifting a bowl carefully, spoon in hand. She leans toward him, clearly about to feed him.

Before the spoon can reach his mouth, Kaelan lifts a hand.

“Stop.”

The maid freezes instantly, panic flashing across her face. “Y-Your Highness?”

He turns his head slowly, his gaze drifting—finally—toward me. And then he smiles.

It’s not a real smile. It’s sweet in the way poison is sweet, pretty on the surface and deadly underneath. It looks wrong on his face, like something borrowed.

“I see no reason,” he says smoothly, “why a maid should still be responsible for feeding me, when I have a wife now.”

The room goes quiet.

I freeze mid-motion, my fingers tightening around my fork. For a moment, I’m sure I misheard him.

What is he doing?

Madeline lets out a soft laugh, clearly amused. She turns toward me, eyes warm. “Kaelan would take any opportunity to be close to his new bride. How cute.”

Cute.

The word makes something sharp twist in my stomach.

I can feel heat rising up my neck, anger and humiliation burning together. I know this is a game. I know he’s doing this to corner me, to assert control, to remind me—again—that I have no choice here.

But I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

I lift my gaze and force a smile onto my lips, even though it feels stiff and fake. “Of course,” I say sweetly. “My duties involve taking care of my husband. I’d be only too glad to.”

For the briefest second, his smile falters.

It’s barely noticeable, just a flicker, but I see it. And it sends a strange thrill through me. He doesn’t know what’s going through my mind, and it’s infuriating to him.

I stand and take the bowl from the maid, who looks relieved to escape. My steps are calm as I move closer, my pulse steadying with each one. I settle beside him, close enough to smell his cologne, clean and sharp. I pick up the spoon, my hand steady.

The first spoonful goes fine.

I lift it to his lips, careful, gentle, playing the part perfectly. He opens his mouth and takes it, his eyes never leaving my face. I even dab at the corner of his mouth with a napkin, soft and proper. Around us, conversation slowly resumes. The act is working.

The second spoonful is still steaming.

As it reaches his lips, I tilt my wrist just slightly.

The liquid spills.

It runs down his chin, hot and sudden, dripping onto his neck and soaking into his shirt. A sharp intake of breath escapes him before he can stop it. He stiffens, but he can’t react too strongly. Not here. Not without breaking character.

“Oh no,” I gasp, my voice high and apologetic. “I’m so clumsy!”

I immediately lean in, dabbing at him with the napkin, pressing harder than necessary, right against the sensitive skin beneath. I feel him tense, his jaw tightening, but he says nothing.

I lean closer, my lips near his ear, my voice dropping so only he can hear.

“Oops,” I whisper. “Should I try again, husband?”