Page 36 of Lycan Prey (Little Secrets Duet #1)

· King Soren ·

The door closes behind me with a soft click, leaving me relieved and embarrassed in equal measure. My emotions swirl inside me like a tornado, making focusing difficult.

Bree has taken over my mind for the past few days more than I want to admit. It frightens me. This sham I created stupidly for my parents is starting to feel too real. And after the shower incident moments ago, now I can’t get the image of Bree naked and wet out of my head.

The vulnerable yet defiant look in her eyes as they met mine.

The way her chest rose and fell with each breath she took was intoxicating, matching the rhythm of my pounding heart.

Feeling the heat of her body press so close to me, so inviting, so pure.

The flush of her cheeks when she, too, noticed my closeness.

Her curves I tried to ignore, her scent that steamed the room.

I was glad when my mother finally left, only to watch her step out of the steaming shower, her skin flushed and hair clinging to her face by the water droplets.

It was a hauntingly beautiful sight. It’s not just her physical form that haunts me—it’s that look in her eyes, that spark of untamed joy laced with a streak of defiant wildness.

It’s as if she’s daring me to come closer, to claim what was just within reach yet so far away, knowing I can’t take that from her.

She doesn’t want me. I know that. The lines still blur horribly, making me wonder if that is part of the allure of her, knowing she isn’t mine.

Part of me tries to blame my attraction to her on the adrenaline of hiding from my mother, and that was there, however this girl has wormed her way into my subconscious ever since I met her. Now sharing a room with her, a bed, everything is becoming too real, too tempting to make it real.

Get Max , I tell myself. Get Max and get ready for dinner. Stop fantasizing about my fake fiancé.

I trot down the familiar hallways of our castle, the pictures that decorate the walls barely catching my attention. It’s strange how something so routine could suddenly feel so foreign. That awkward encounter in the shower has shaken me more than I thought.

I need to find Max. That thought circles in my mind like a stubborn bird refusing to migrate.

I glance at my wristwatch. It’s nearly dinnertime, and the boy has a knack for disappearing when it’s time to eat. He’s probably holed up in his room, lost in one of his video games, or sketching on his drawing pad.

As I approach his playroom, I hear faint music from some cartoon song playing, seeping through the door. It’s that strange song about gremlins and these strange paper people, a cartoon he watches in the morning. I knock softly before pushing the door open and sticking my head in.

Stepping into the room, I finally find him surrounded by action figures and Lego pieces strewn about the floor.

He’s wearing a worn-out Superman T-shirt.

My father has fallen asleep in the armchair, his glasses crooked on his face, his mouth gaping as he snores like a chainsaw.

My son sits on the floor with his back leaned against the wall, engrossed in some colorful picture book.

A small smile tugs at my lips as I approach him.

“Max,” I say softly. His head jerks up in surprise before a broad grin spreads across his face. He tosses the book aside and gets to his feet, barreling toward me.

“Dad!” he exclaims, throwing his arms around my legs.

His enthusiasm is infectious, and for a moment, I manage to forget about the uncomfortable situation just minutes ago.

My father jerks awake, looking alert. I try not to snicker as I glance down at Max, who holds a finger to his lips.

Max has colored my father’s lips purple with a marker and drawn whiskers on his cheeks.

“I must have dozed off,” he grumbles, stretching and yawning, his eyelids bright pink.

“Where’s your mother? You didn’t bring her, I hope,” he blurts, glancing around, his eyes stopping on the open window like he is about to shimmy down a drain pipe if it means escaping her.

“We have to get you ready for dinner, bud,” I say, ignoring my father,and staring at Max while fighting not to laugh at my father.

“It’s not Brussels sprouts, is it?” Max pulls a face. I shrug, unsure, and my father pulls himself out of his chair.

“Good, I’m starving.”

Max snickers to himself as we make our way to the dining room.

This part of parenthood—the routine, the patterns of raising a child, feels natural.

It feels like coming home. No awkward shower encounters, doubts, or embarrassments.

Just me, Max, and the everyday rhythm of life, except I’m suddenly craving adding to that routine—adding someone, which confuses me.

As we reach the stairs, we run into Bree, and Max ditches me, running ahead.

She barely catches him as he pounces on her, and she staggers back, clutching the railing.

“You trying to give me a heart attack?” she asks him, hugging him close as she starts down the steps.

“We are going down for dinner,” he tells her.

“That’s where I’m headed,” she tells him, glancing at me before her eyes go past me to my father. She takes a second look at him and blinks like she is wondering if she is imagining my father’s makeover. She presses her lips in a line, trying to stifle the laugh.

“I see we are all dressed up for dinner. You look amazing, King Alaric,” she tells him.

“I snuck in a nap; don’t tell Maribel, though. I promised to take her into town but ran off with Max instead, saying I was babysitting for Soren.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” she tells him, and Max chuckles, covering his mouth with his hand.

We make our way to the kitchen. The scent of roasted chicken wafts through the dining room as I pull out a chair for Bree. The dinner table is covered in steaming dishes, and my father moves to the head of the table and waits. Max sits beside Bree as she sets him down.

“Thank you, Soren,” Bree says softly, her smile not quite reaching her eyes as I tuck her chair in just as my mother walks in with another dish. “I decided to help,” she announces. She probably just annoyed the staff as she tried to take over everything. The woman never stops; she is always busy.

“Everything looks delicious, Maribel,” Bree compliments, bringing my mother to life with a pleased flush on her cheeks.

“Call me Ma, dear. You’re about to be my daughter, after all,” my mother insists, passing the mashed potatoes to Bree. “And you must join me tomorrow. There’s a quaint little row of shops in the mall we simply must explore. I also want to find some more lace for the table arrangements.”

I watch as Bree nods, a grateful glint in her eye for the distraction.

“I would love that. Thank you.” Her voice is genuine, and it eases a tension in my chest I hadn’t realized was there.

“Of course,” Mom continues, her ever-present excitement taking center stage. “A little mother-daughter time could be just what you need.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken implications.

I spear a carrot and focus on the patterns in the grain of the wood table, trying to ignore the way my father raises an eyebrow at me from across the table.

They like Bree, maybe too much, and I know it will kill my mother when she learns we aren’t really engaged.

“Sounds fun,” I manage to say, offering a small, encouraging smile to Bree.

She returns it, though hers is tinged with an uncertainty that makes me want to reach out and steady her world.

I don’t. Instead, I pass the bowl of green beans to my father, who also points to the gravy.

Max leans over, handing him the bowl, which my mother catches as he nearly topples on the table.

She passes it on to my father, finally taking in his face.

“I thought you were watching Max?” my mother inquires, and my father freezes, about to pour his gravy.

“I was. We were in the playroom,” he says, drowning his dinner in the thick gravy.

“And you watched him by yourself?” she asks.

“Yes, Soren was… on… on a very important phone call, love.” I raise an eyebrow at him. “You know how busy he is.”

“I told you to bring Max; at least someone would have watched him if you had come,” my mother snaps.

“I told you I was watching the boy. Ask him. We were in the playroom.”

“Well, you couldn’t have been watching him too well!” my mother quips, turning her attention to Max. “Max, darling, what was dear Grandpa doing while you played by yourself?” my mother asks.

“Catching flies!” Max says, then imitates my father sleeping with his mouth open and snoring.

“Is that right?” my mother asks.

My father cuts him a glare. “You little traitor, you gave me away.”

“No, Alaric. You gave yourself away by not checking a mirror before coming down here,” she tells him.

He looks at her confused, and Bree averts her gaze, trying not to laugh.

My father snatches up the gravy boat, using the stainless-steel surface as a mirror, and gasps.

He looks at all of us in disbelief that we never told him.

“And for your lies, you are not getting any of my caramel custard tart I made.” She huffs, and my father folds his arms across his chest, pouting like a child. She taps his plate with her fork before cutting off a piece of chicken.

“Eat up, dear,” she tells him, taking a bite of her chicken. We eat in near silence, barely keeping up casual talk, before my brother finally enters.

“Finally, you join us for dinner, son,” my mother says. Damian grabs a plate and serves himself.

“What’s with the war paint, Pa?” he asks, glancing at my father.

“Never mind him. He is sulking about dessert,” my mother tells him.

“What is for dessert?” Damian asks.

“Caramel custard tart, and he gets none.” my mother explains, and Damian snickers, knowing it’s my father’s favorite.