Page 8 of Lycan Prey (Little Secrets Duet #1)

· Aubrey ·

Shifting during a full moon is not only dangerous for women, it is for everyone.

We are naturally more animalistic and unpredictable.

And for women, full moons always force a heat, so any male who stumbles across us is a risk.

However, since I am of Alpha blood, the male wolves don’t scare me.

More so, it’s the bloodbath I’d need to clean up afterward.

Our instincts go into overdrive—we want to hunt, to kill, and to mate.

So, humans have fallen victim to werewolves a few times.

She pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders, as if bracing herself against more than just the chill in the room.

A mix of guilt and defiance swirl within me. Guilt, because I can see the gears turning in Granny’s mind, calculating the risks and formulating a plan to protect me.

“Women are always hit hardest,” Granny continues, her eyes clouding over with memories. “The heat makes us targets. But you, child, with your Alpha blood…”

She leaves the unsaid words hanging between us.

I know what she means. I’m not afraid of the male wolves; their posturing and howls don’t intimidate me. What I fear is the carnage that might follow my transformation. The overwhelming desire to hunt, kill, and mate can turn even the most civilized werewolf into a monster.

Full moons have claimed too many victims, human and shifter alike, the truth of it sitting heavy on my heart. It’s a reality we live with, a grim reminder of our nature.

“We’ll definitely have to work that out. The Lycan King doesn’t like roaming werewolves.”

My breath catches, as if someone has just squeezed all the air from my chest. “Lycan King?” My voice is barely audible, a mere echo in the cozy living room filled with memories of safety and warmth—now overshadowed by fear.

“King Soren,” Granny clarifies, her eyes dark with worry. She glances over at the window, peering through the lace curtains as though expecting to see the King’s guards on our doorstep.

The news hits me like a physical blow. “Lycan King?” I echo, my voice barely a whisper.

I don’t remember the Lycan King in this area, but then again, I haven’t seen granny in years since Mom and she had that huge fight over Brielle passing.

We were in my grandmother’s care, after all; my mother never did forgive her for what happened, she blamed Granny.

It wasn’t granny’s fault, she couldn’t have predicted a drunk driver.

“His castle isn’t far from here. He’s very strict about rogues in the kingdom, so we’ll need to figure out how to register you, or maybe get you an exception.”

Panic courses within me. I press a hand against my chest, trying to calm the wild thumping of my heart.

“So, I’m not in Rhett’s territory anymore?

” The thought brings a twinge of relief but also a fresh tide of anxiety.

Rhett’s suffocating grip is familiar, a known threat.

This, however… this proximity to a king I’ve only met once fills me with dread.

“No, you’re in King Soren’s district now,” Granny says, turning back from the window. She gnaws on her bottom lip, deep in thought. “We’re just inside the kingdom grounds here, which is why you’ll need to register.”

“Maybe I can get you a temporary registration as my caregiver?” she suggests, gazing at me with a mix of hope and trepidation. Her hands are trembling slightly, betraying the concern etched into her wrinkles.

My breath catches as Granny’s words sink in.

Lycans—rulers of our kind. Lycans are a different breed—more powerful, more structured, more sinister.

They rule over werewolves, create our laws, and govern us.

Knowing one is close while Rhett is hunting me is not a good thing because if there is a bounty on me, that means he’ll notify authorities soon.

Just Granny lying about me being here could get her executed. And if the King’s Guard finds me, I’m dead meat.

The idea of being in King Soren’s territory, especially knowing Rhett has sold me to him, is terrifying.

My thoughts go to the king, how he seemed nice when I met him after saving his son.

The gratitude in Soren’s eyes had seemed genuine, so I’m struggling to associate the man everyone fears with the man I met.

Granny seeming to notice my hesitation and leans closer.

“Listen, the King’s Guards are not to be trifled with.

Beryl, my neighbor… her grandson was living with her for a while.

He tried to hide his new girlfriend here—she was wanted for a felony.

She failed to register and the King’s Guard took her, and nobody has seen either of them since. ”

Her words send shivers down my spine. I recall the kind man who thanked me profusely for saving Max.

“From what I know of him, he seemed…nice,” I say, trying to reconcile the image of the ruthless king with the grateful father who had once looked at me with warmth. But Granny’s humorless laugh cuts through my feeble attempt at optimism.

“Yes, as long as you don’t anger him, he is a good king. But trust me, you don’t want to be on his bad side, the man has a temper.”

Her words echo ominously around the room.

My fingers tremble and I sense Granny’s eyes on me, sharp and perceptive. She’s always been able to read me like an open book, even when I was a child sneaking cookies before dinner. Now, her gaze holds a different kind of intensity—urgent and protective.

“Granny,” I start, my voice barely above a whisper, “I…” The words lodge in my throat, fear wrapping around them like choking vines.

“Aubrey, talk to me.” She takes my cold clammy hands in her steady and warm ones.

The dam breaks, and tears well up, mirroring the storm inside me. They blur my vision as I choke out the painful truth.

“You need to leave, don’t you?” she asks, her voice sharp with concern.

I don’t want to leave her, but what choice do I have? I can’t stay here. I nod, the weight of my secret like a stone in my stomach. “I have to go, Granny. It’s not safe for me here.” The words tumble out in a rush.

Her brow furrows, deep lines etched by worry and age. “Why? Rhett has no jurisdiction here, child. Tell me, what’s got you so spooked?”

I fight through the sobs.

“Granny,” I gasp, the confession burning on my tongue, “Rhett… he sold me to the king. I was framed for stealing money that Rhett owed to King Soren.” The words taste bitter with the betrayal that has seeped and lingers within me.

Granny gasps, horror spreading across her features like quicksilver.

“Oh, my child, we… maybe we can,” she pauses, her thoughts visibly tangling into knots.

“You can’t just leave, you just got here.

Maybe, perhaps…” Her voice fades into silence as she grapples with her own thoughts, attempting to lift herself from the worn armchair.

I move instinctively, my feet finding their purpose before my mind catches up. My hands slide under her elbows, gentle yet firm, easing the weight off her brittle bones. She leans on me, her body light in weight making me worry even more.

“Thank you, dear,” she murmurs, pointing a finger across the room. I nod, helping her.

Together, we shuffle across the room, her steps tentative against the creaking wooden floor. Granny’s eyes are fixed on an old cupboard, its varnish cracked and peeling. She pulls open a drawer.

She searches fervently, her fingers dancing over forgotten trinkets and dusty keepsakes. Then, as if by chance, a photo slips free, a paper ghost caught in a draft. It dances its way to the floor, and I lunge for it, catching it before it can touch the ground.

Holding the photo, my breath catches—stutters—in my throat.

There we are, me and my sister, our smiles as wide as the summer sky above Granny’s house.

We sat astride our bikes, hers was bubblegum pink, mine cobalt blue, both gleaming beneath the sun.

That same bike became the instrument of unspeakable loss on the day she never came home.

A deep sorrow washes over me, so fierce it threatens to pull me under. The memory of that day is a wound that time refuses to heal, the edges raw and sharp in my mind. My fingers tremble as they trace the contours of our youthful faces, the innocence there now a chasm within me.

“Remember this day?” Granny’s voice, roughened by years, slices through my reverie.

I nod, unable to summon words to bridge the gap between past and present. The image before me is a stark reminder of all that was stolen, not just from me, from Granny, too. She didn’t just lose her granddaughter that day but her daughter, my mother blaming her.

She opens another drawer and pulls out papers.

“Ah, found it!” Granny’s voice cuts through the thick silence, pulling me back from the edge of my own turbulent thoughts. The determined gleam in her eyes guides me away from the abyss of memory that threatens to swallow me whole.

She turns to me, extending a trembling hand that holds a single, worn document. Instinctively, my fingers reach out, taking it from her.

It’s a birth certificate—my sister’s.

The official seal and faded ink declare an identity lost to time and tragedy. I stare at the name, at the date, at the reality of a life abbreviated. “What am I to do with this?” My voice sounds distant, even to my own ears, confusion lacing each word.

“We’ll register you as Brielle,” she declares, the words slicing through the fog of my shock, presenting a path I had not dared consider. “She was only a year younger than you.”

The air in the room grows thick, heavy with the weight of her suggestion. I swallow hard. To disguise myself as my own sister—it feels disrespectful, a betrayal to her memory. Yet, desperation claws at my insides, urging me to latch onto any lifeline thrown my way.

“Granny, they’ll find out,” I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper. My stomach churns, revolting against the idea. “What if they want to know why I don’t already have an ID?”

The lines etched deeply into Granny’s face seem to deepen, carved by a lifetime of hardship and loss, however, her gaze never wavers from mine. She understands the risks better than anyone—the dangers of deceit, the price of protection.

Her next statement is a balm to my frayed nerves, a reassurance that steadies the trembling of my hands.

Granny’s head moves in a firm shake as she catches my gaze, her eyes alight with something fierce and unwavering.

“No, they won’t,” she insists, the words cutting through the haze of my terror.

“You’re a rogue; it’s not uncommon for rogues to not have ID.

Most are sovereign, avoiding getting caught up in pack politics. ”

She’s right; rogues often skirt the fringes of society, unseen and undocumented. It’s how they’ve managed to survive—how I will have to survive. But as I stand here, with the weight of my sister’s birth certificate in my hand, survival takes on a new form.

The risks flash before my eyes like lightning in a stormy sky. The Lycan King’s rule over our kind is absolute, his laws shaping the world we live in and the risk to Granny would mean death for helping me.

I glance around Granny’s quaint living room, the walls adorned with faded wallpaper and memories that seem to mock my predicament.

“Rhett won’t stop,” I murmur, voicing the dread coiling in my gut.

“And just me being here, Granny… if you’re caught lying to protect me—”

“Then we won’t let them catch us,” Granny interjects, a steel edge to her tone that brooks no argument.

The birth certificate feels heavy in my hand, heavier than the flimsy paper has any right to be.

The plan is risky, dangerously so, but it offers a sliver of hope.

The Lycan King rules over werewolves, creates our laws, and governs us.

Knowing one is close while Rhett is hunting me is not a good thing because if there is a bounty on me, that means he’ll notify authorities soon.

And another thought nags me, the next full moon, my wolf may try to seek Rhett out; what will I do without suppressants? I may be rogue, but I’m also Alpha blood and Alpha blood is strong, and so is my wolf.

I glance down at the paper in my hand, it is my only hope until I figure something out.

Assuming my sister’s identity can shield me from Rhett and his dealings with King Soren—at least for a while.

It could work. The name I gave the king was Bree, which would fit for Aubrey or Brielle if I was unlucky enough to run into him again.