Damien gave every Omega on the staff a paid leave.
Then he walked beside me, openly, through every meal, every garden in the moonlight, every empty corridor of the mansion.
And every night was a slow, endless devouring.
On the third night, he drove me out to the sacred lake at the edge of pack territory.
We sat by the fire and ate venison fresh off the spit.
I drank too much mead.
By the time we left, I couldn't walk straight.
The Lycan King Damien carried me home on his back.
His fingertips, where they curved around the back of my knee, brushed the old scar on my calf.
He asked, casually, "How did you hurt your leg so badly?"
I slumped against the broad warmth of his back. I closed my eyes. The words slurred out of me.
"When I was little. There was this awful little brat."
"A
