Lycan King's Forbidden Obsession

The carry

Serena's POV

We stood there in the snow for what felt like hours, though it was probably only minutes, with his hand outstretched and my back against the tree and the frozen wind howling between us like a living thing that wanted to tear us apart.

I did not take his hand, and I did not run either. He did not move, and the snow fell on both of us, soft and silent and endless.

Then he stepped forward.

I flinched, pressing myself harder against the tree trunk, but he did not reach for me. He did not grab my arm or wrap his fingers around my throat or do any of the things I expected him to do. He just bent down and scooped me up into his arms like I weighed nothing at all, like I was a child who had fallen asleep during a long journey and needed to be carried the rest of the way.

I fought him.

I kicked and thrashed and pushed against his chest with hands that were too cold to feel, with arms that were too tired to matter, and with a body that had given everything it had to the run and had nothing left for the fight. I screamed at him to put me down, to leave me alone, to let me die in the snow where I belonged, but he did not react. He did not speak, and he did not even look at me.

His arms were like iron around my back and beneath my knees, and his chest was warm against my frozen body, warmer than anything I had felt in weeks, and I hated how much I wanted to lean into that warmth, how much I wanted to stop fighting and just let him carry me back to the cage I had tried so hard to escape.

The rest of the walk back to the castle was silent.

The snow crunched beneath his boots, and the wind howled in my ears, and my heart pounded in my chest, but Alejandro did not speak. He just walked, with his golden eyes fixed on the dark shape of the castle ahead, with his face unreadable, and with his arms never loosening their grip on me no matter how much I struggled.

By the time we reached the courtyard, I had stopped fighting. My body had given up, and my mind had given up, and all I could do was lie there in his arms and stare up at the grey sky and watch the snow fall onto my face and wonder why I was still alive.

He carried me through the halls, past the guards who stared but did not speak, and past the shadows where the nobles hid and whispered.

The torches on the walls flickered as we passed, casting shadows that danced like living things. I saw servants press themselves against the walls, their eyes wide and their mouths open. They had never seen the king carry anyone before, and they had never seen him touch anyone at all, and now here he was, carrying a human through the halls like I was something precious.

I saw the way their gazes followed us, sharp and cutting through the silence like knives, as if trying to say: just look at the king and his pet. Disgusting. He should have let the human freeze. I wanted to tell them to just say their minds out loud and say it to my face, but I was too tired, too cold, and too broken to do anything but lie there in Alejandro's arms and stare back at them, knowing fully well they could never speak recklessly of me in his presence.

Alejandro carried me past the door that led to my room and into the warmth of the fire that had been relit while I was gone. He placed me on the bed, gently, so gently, like I was something fragile that might break if he handled me too roughly.

The mattress was soft beneath me, softer than I remembered, and the blankets smelled like smoke and something else, something that reminded me of the forest where I had almost escaped.

The fire had burned high while I was gone, and the heat of it washed over me in waves, making my frozen skin prickle and ache. I had been so cold for so long that the warmth felt like pain, like coming back to life after being dead for years.

Alejandro's hands lingered on my shoulders for a moment longer than they needed to, and I felt the heat of his palms even through the fabric of my shirt. Then he pulled away, and the cold rushed in to fill the space where his hands had been.

He stepped back and stood in the doorway.

His golden eyes met mine, and for a moment I saw something in them that I had not seen before. It was not anger or cruelty. It was something softer and sadder, something that looked almost like regret.

"If you run again," he said, and his voice was low and quiet, "Felipe will have permission to hunt you. And he will not be gentle."

Then he turned and walked away.

His boots echoed on the stone floor, and the door closed behind him, and the lock clicked, and I was alone again.

I lay there on the bed for a long time, staring at the ceiling, feeling the warmth of the fire seep into my frozen skin, and feeling the tears building behind my eyes like a storm that I had been holding back for years. I had not cried since my mother died. I had not let myself cry, because crying was weakness, and weakness was punished, and I had promised myself that I would never give them the satisfaction of seeing me break.

But I was alone now, and no one was watching, and the tears came whether I wanted them to or not.

They started as a single drop sliding down my cheek and into my ear, and then another and another, until my whole face was wet and my chest was heaving and the sobs were tearing out of my throat like sounds I did not recognize, like sounds that belonged to someone else, someone who had not spent years learning how to feel nothing at all.

I cried for my mother, who had died alone in a cottage that smelled of herbs and blood. I cried for the girl I had been, who had believed in things like hope and healing and happy endings. I cried for the woman I had become, who had been beaten and chained and sold to monsters. I cried for the freedom I had almost tasted, the freedom that had been snatched away from me by a pair of golden eyes and an outstretched hand.

And when the tears finally stopped, when there was nothing left in me but emptiness and exhaustion, I lay there in the darkness and listened to the fire crackle and the wind howl and my own heartbeat, slow and steady and still somehow alive.

I lay there in the silence, feeling empty and raw, like a wound that had been scraped clean. I had not known I was carrying so much inside me: the grief for my mother, the fear of my father, and the hopelessness of all those years spent surviving instead of living.

It had all come out in the dark, while no one was watching, while the king stood on the other side of a locked door and probably listened to every sound I made.

I wondered what he thought. Did he think I was weak? Did he think I was pathetic? Did he even think of me at all?

I wiped my face with the back of my hand and stared at the ceiling, and I promised myself that I would not cry again. Not for him, and not for anyone.

I did not sleep again.

I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the morning to come and bring with it whatever new pain the day would bring.

But when morning came, I found something I had not expected.

I crawled off the bed on legs that were still shaking and crossed to the door.

The stone floor was cold against my bare feet, colder than it had been before, and I wondered if the cold would ever stop feeling like an enemy.

I opened the door just wide enough to look out, and there they were. A pair of boots sitting in the middle of the hallway like they had been placed there carefully and deliberately, by someone who wanted me to find them.

I looked left and right, but the hallway was empty. Whoever had left them was gone.

I reached out and pulled the boots inside, closing the door behind me.

The boots were made of thick, dark, smooth leather and lined with soft fur. These were the kind of boots that would keep my feet warm even in the deepest snow. They were new, or almost new, and they looked expensive, and they had been left there sometime in the night by someone who had not wanted to be seen.

There was no note, no message, and no sign of who had left them.

But I knew.

I picked up the boots and held them in my hands, feeling the softness of the fur against my cold fingers, feeling the weight of them and the warmth of them. I turned them over, looking for a clue or a hint or anything that would tell me why someone would give me such a gift.

But there was nothing.

Just warm boots. Boots that would keep my feet from freezing the next time I tried to run.

I put them on, and they fit perfectly.