The Lycan King's Exiled True Mate

Thor

slipped in my sweaty palm, and I fumbled, barely catching it before it hit the floor. My min

wave of fury. He stopped in front of me, his shadow falling over me like a shroud.

lence. The rage was there, but it was banked now, burning deep and low. "You dare touch

t to destroy the evidence, to throw the leaves into the fire, but looking at my hand, at the da

ug. His gaze flickered to the pitcher and glass, and the last piece of his flawed

ing to use any trick, any deceit, to secure a place in his bed. The th

is grip was like iron, bruising and inescapable. His face was inches from mine, his expression a

my throat was tight with fear, and no sound would come out. It was a curse from my childhood, a lef

e table. He grabbed the heavy copper pitcher – the intention clear: to pour t

not thinking clearly. He glanced down at the pouch still in my hand

his voice dripping with mockery. "Pathetic. Wa

eside it, and poured himself a drink. He raised it to his lips, his silver ey

a fine dusting of the crushed leaves had spilled from the opening, falling directly into the mouth of

self from my loc

oolish move. He was a Lycan King, and I was nothing. He saw my lunge not as a warning, bu

lass, a questioning look on his face as he star

w clenched. A strange, unnatural heat began to rise from his skin, visible even from where

rified face. Understanding dawned, swift and terrible – he saw the terro

glass against the stone fireplace. It sh

onizing, threatening to crush the bone. He lifted me effortlessly, shaking me like a rag doll. His eyes, once si

oice a guttural rasp that was more wo

t... I wasn't..." The words were useless, lost in the stor

thin him as his iron will fought against the chemical firestorm in his veins. But it was a l

nd my scent, the one thing that had calmed it before, was now the most potent fuel on the fire. It