Lycan's Prey by Jessica Hall

Chapter 24

His big eyes shimmer with a hope that I recognize all too well -the same kind that used to swell in my own chest on the rare occasions my father would promise a visit to the park.

“Please, please, please,” he continues.

King Soren takes a deep breath, and I watch as the rigid lines of his shoulders ease ever so slightly. His eyes flicker toward me, dark orbs swirling with a storm of frustration and affection that makes my pulse quicken. There’s a softness in the hard set of his jaw when he looks at Max, a tenderness that pierce through the armor of royalty.

The cafe’s warm atmosphere does nothing to soothe the chill of anxiety that has wrapped itself around my spine. I need to get home, to the safety of familiarity where kings and their captivating sons can’t reach me.

“Max, sweetheart,” I murmur, stealing one last glance at the boy who’s managed to sneak his way into my affections. “I really have to go.”

The door to the outside world beckons, a portal back to my reality—a reality that doesn’t include royal dilemmas or the piercing blue of King Soren’s eyes. A reality where the heartache of pack betrayal and the sting of abandonment are as familiar as breathing.

“Max, we’ve just talked about this,” King Soren says, his voice resolute but softened around the edges with a patience that only parents possess.

Chapter 24

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eavesdrop, the words tugging at me like the moon’s pull

His tone is a tender command, one that speaks of unseen dangers and unspoken fears–a language I know all too well from

his gaze to the ground, his small frame deflating like a balloon losing air. It wrenches something inside me, that look

be the responsible one for once, not the girl who gets lost in a fantasy where kings look at her with softness in their

“I know,” he whispers, his tiny form dwarfed by the chair

lingers on King Soren, and I can’t help but notice the fatigue carved into his features, the way his broad shoulders sag ever so slightly. His hand rises, a brief gesture that belies a father’s worry, thumb and forefinger pressing against the bridge

tandem with the ticking clock. Every second stretched thin, tugging at the threads of composure I desperately cling to. A longing to escape wars with the magnetic pull I feel

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Max pleads, his voice threading through the background chatter of the cafe like a delicate lament. His big puppy dog eyes, brimming with a child’s earnest hope, seem to magnify in their

carry an undercurrent of

at his son, his kingly posture unbending yet his eyes betraying a father’s internal conflict. “She’s not!

sets into a stern line. The air thickens with tension, and I find myself holding my breath,