Page 34 of Lycan Prey (Little Secrets Duet #1)

· King Soren ·

The library is a war zone, stacks of glossy paper and satin ribbons strewn about as if a florist’s shop exploded.

My mother brandishes a catalog like a sword, slicing through options with a practiced eye.

Her excitement is palpable, infectious, but I can only muster a tired smile in return.

She’s talking of peonies and place cards when her stomach growls louder than any words she’s saying.

“What about lunch, dear? We haven’t even eaten?” Her eyes sparkle with more enthusiasm for organza than one should legally possess. With a clap of her hands, she rises. “I’ll go find out what time afternoon tea is. We let our lunch get cold.” And off she goes with her unbridled wedding ambition.

It’s at this moment Bree, my reluctant fake bride-to-be, spots her chance. Her eyes flick to me, then to the door.

“Ah, what are you doing?” I ask, though it’s clear as crystal—she’s bailing on me.

Bree’s voice is quick, clipped with the same urgency she’d use if the room were on fire—which, metaphorically, it might as well be. “I think I’ll go take a shower. Your turn to plan. I am sick of planning our sham,” she blurts out.

“Don’t you dare!” I tell her.

“Double dare me?” she laughs.

“Wait!” The word bursts from me, loud and desperate. “You can’t leave me with her!”

Bree’s back is to me, her shoulders set in determination, but she pauses just long enough to toss a glance over her shoulder. “She’s your mother, not mine.” The words are swift, like the swipe of a claw, severing any hope I had of her staying. “Tell your mother I’ll be back soon.”

My hands clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms as I watch her retreat.

Her eagerness to escape the wedding insanity my mother has started is palpable, even funny in a way that makes my chest ache with a wild mix of amusement and panic.

Yet the joke’s on me as she leaves me to fend for myself.

My mother’s imminent return hangs over me like a storm cloud ready to burst with endless chatter of cake toppers and calligraphy fonts. A groan escapes me, as I peer around at the wedding paraphernalia that threatens to swallow me whole.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, raking a hand through my hair.

Max, my ever-reliable scapegoat, has been conveniently whisked away by my father, so I can’t even use him to escape her.

An excuse to leave would be golden right now—anything to escape the impending doom of another round of decisions over which I hold no sway.

With a swift glance around the eerily quiet library, I push myself off the bookcase.

My gaze darts to the library door, wondering what my chances are of her not seeing me.

My footsteps are light, almost silent, as I peer out the door.

I don’t see her, but I can sense her, the floral perfume that always announces my mother’s presence mingling with the scent of old books in the library.

Her voice, light and carefree as she debates the merits of flowers for the umpteenth time, nudges me into action. No more catalog purgatory for me.

“Peonies have such a lush fullness to them, don’t you think?” she muses aloud to some poor maid just as I seize the moment. I make a mad dash for my office.

But as fate or family betrayal would have it, there’s Damian, leaning smugly in his doorway, the very picture of knowing mischief. “Running from Mom?” he chuckles, his eyes gleaming as he catches me trying to escape.

“Damian,” I growl under my breath.

“Can’t handle a little wedding planning?” His smirk widens, the barb hitting closer to home than he realizes.

I want to snap at him and unleash the frustration boiling beneath my skin. I hold back. Instead, I shoot him a glare meant to silence any other snide comments and press on toward my office. Only he steps into my path.

“Own up to your lie, and she’ll leave you alone,” Damian’s voice slices through my thoughts. My hands clench at my sides, nails digging into my palms.

“But then, you’d be breaking her heart.” His smirk grows, and I can almost see the fangs he hides behind that too-perfect smile.

I’m barely a step past Damian when I whirl on him, rage simmering just below the surface. “This is your doing. I know it was you who called her and told her to come help plan this!” My finger jabs in his direction, accusing, my voice a harsh whisper to keep the confrontation between us.

Damian snickers and returns to leaning against the frame of his door, an eyebrow arched, his stance infuriatingly casual. “I thought you would own up to your lie and get rid of the rogue stranger who puts us all at risk. Instead, you decided to keep up this facade and move her into your bed!”

I corner Damian in the shadowy hallway, my pulse throbbing with betrayal. “So, it was you!” My voice is a blade of ice, sharp enough to draw blood. He simply shrugs, and the casual dismissal of his gesture ignites a firestorm within me.

“I may have said something,” he admits nonchalantly, and my hands clench involuntarily, itching for the satisfying crack of knuckles against his jaw.

Before I beat my brother, my mother’s voice grows closer, laced with authority and the saccharine sweetness reserved for wedding talk.

“Has anyone seen Soren?” she asks one of the passing staff.

She dives into a conversation with them about the wedding, her words clawing at the air, reaching out for me.

“Goddess knows who she’s enlisted now,” I mutter under my breath.

“Have fun,” Damian’s laughter needles at my back. The desire to turn around and wipe that smug look off his face is overwhelming. I know better. I dart away, leaving him behind.

I race toward the staircase, each step taking me further from the dreaded wedding plans. My mother’s voice swells, tugging at the edges of my sanity. “...and the linens, they simply must match the drapery!”

Panic, sharp and acrid, fills my throat.

She’s getting closer, probably armed with fabric samples and more scratch and sniff floral catalogs, where she got those overnight is beyond me.

I bolt for the stairs, skipping two at a time, praying for a few moments of peace.

The cool relief of escape washes over me briefly—until Damian’s traitorous timbre reaches my ears once more.

“I just saw him head upstairs, Mother. He told me to tell you he was getting some more catalogs, he has an idea for the reception.”

I’m going to strangle the life from him and hang him by his tail when I see him next!

Noticing a door ahead, I lunge for the handle, yanking it open only to find shelves lined with sheets and towels—a linen closet. No time to curse my luck; another door, just a few desperate strides away, opens to reveal mops and buckets, the tang of bleach, and a cleaner’s cupboard. Useless.

Her steps echo on the stairwell, a steady march toward me. I can’t let her find me, not now when every fiber of my being screams to keep running. There’s only one place left which is also the most obvious, the last place in this game of hide and seek, my room.

I slip through the door, heart hammering against my rib cage, and press my back to its solid comfort. Safe, for the moment.

“Please, just keep walking,” I whisper to the empty air, to the walls, to any deity who might be listening.

They aren’t fucking listening.

The click-clack of my mother’s heels is like a countdown to my doom, each step another tick on the clock of my waning sanity.

I’m one scratch and sniff away from losing my sense of smell.

With panic nipping at my heels, I rush into the closet, hands frantically searching the hanging clothes for a hideout, where is an invisibility cloak when I need one, anything.

Crap! I hear the shower running, Mom won’t walk in on her showering, though I will to escape her! I rush and burst through the door of the bathroom.The shower tiles are slick beneath my feet as I nearly slide into Bree, who’s just a silhouette behind the fogged-up frosted glass.

“Hide me!” I blurt like an idiot.

“Soren!” she shrieks, her voice climbing an octave before my hand lands over her mouth, silencing her mid-scream. I shut the shower door, ignoring the way the water lashes at my clothes, plastering them to my skin.

“Shh,” I hiss, barely audible above the drumming of water on the tile. “It’s just me.”

Water cascades down, masking our frantic breaths as the droplets pelt my already drenched shirt. The tension coils in my chest, a spring wound too tight, ready to snap. “If she asks, I’m not here!” I hiss at Bree, my voice barely above the rush of water.

Her gaze locks onto mine, confusion and a hint of irritation flickering across her features. “If who asks?” Her question pierces the steamy haze of the bathroom, and suddenly, I’m acutely aware of the heat—not from the shower but from her, so close and startlingly bare.

Instinctively, my eyes drop, tracing the rivulets that run over her skin, mapping a path along her curves.

It’s a moment suspended in time, the primal part of me awakened by her vulnerability, my Lycan side stirring by her proximity.

Bree’s fingers are ice and fire against my jaw, forcing my gaze back to hers.

“Soren!” she snaps, frustration etched in every line of her face. “Who?”

“My mother!”

“You’re hiding from your mother in my damn shower!” she shrieks and I try to hush her, holding a finger to my lips. “You can’t hide in here!” I slap a hand over her mouth, hearing the bedroom open.

“Soren?” The call of my name in that familiar, lilting tone sends a spike of ice through my veins and her eyes widen as she tries to shove me out of the shower. I scramble, gripping the wall and shoving her against the cold tiles.

“Please, I’ll do anything!”

“Anything?” she hisses and I nod holding a finger to my lips.

“Soren, dear, are you in here?” Her voice cuts through the steam and the sound of cascading water like a cold draft as we both look in the direction of the door but can’t see through the frosted glass.

Bree’s body tenses against mine; muscles coil, ready for a fight she can’t have.

A low growl vibrates from her throat, a primal sound that stirs the beast within me.

“She’s at the door!” she hisses and I press closer, my hand clamping over her mouth, feeling the slick heat of her skin.

Our hearts race in unison, pounding a frantic rhythm as I crush her against the wall.

“She won’t come in here,” I whisper, more to reassure myself than Bree.

The intimacy of our proximity is forgotten in the face of my mother muttering about needing to open windows and let air inside my room.

But my mother’s intuition is second only to her tenacity; she’s a force of nature not easily deterred. Especially by a bathroom door.