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.

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but eavesdrop, the words tugging at me like the

for your safety.” His tone is a tender command, one that speaks of unseen dangers

losing air. It wrenches something inside me, that look of defeat in a child’s

responsible one for once, not the girl who gets lost in a fantasy where kings look at her with softness in their eyes. Where little princes see her as a playmate rather than a stranger.

hushed voice slices through the buzz of conversation, as thin as the sunlight filtering through the windows. “I know,” he whispers, his tiny form dwarfed by the chair he’s perched on. “I just…wanted to

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

pulse racing in tandem with the ticking clock. Every second stretched thin, tugging at the threads of composure I desperately cling

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background chatter of the cafe like a delicate lament. His big puppy dog eyes, brimming with a child’s earnest

she is, Max–she’s a stranger,” King Soren responds, his tone threading the needle between calm and frustration. The words are measured, but they carry

looks down at his son, his kingly posture unbending yet his eyes betraying a father’s internal conflict. “She’s not! She’s my friend!” Max protests,

heart hammering against my ribcage, as King Soren’s mouth sets into a stern line. The air thickens with tension, and I find myself holding my breath, unwilling to