Page 6 of Prey of the Lycan Queen (Unwanted #2)

Chapter Six

“Was that necessary, Malachi?” Uncle James scolds while my father peels his body from the dented wall.

“Made me feel better.” Malachi shrugs, holding out his hand. James shakes his head, grabs his hand, and pulls him to his feet with a click of his tongue.

“You jealous little mongrel. After everything I have done for you! I took you in! I didn’t have to!” my father starts again. He hates being at the losing end of an argument, even when he is wrong.

“You took me in so that you could rub your fucking throne in my face, so don’t pretend you did anything out of kindness,” Malachi snarls back.

“Oh, that’s bullshit, Mal, and you know it. Father wanted you dead. Had I not taken you as my beta, he would have killed you, along with your mother. I fucking raised you, you little mutt,” my father sneers.

“I’m sure out of the goodness of your black fucking heart, you swine!”

James sighs and rolls his eyes while wandering over to us. “This is why I am the black sheep. Who would want to put up with this shit daily?” James says as he stops next to us and lets them carry on.

“No, you’re the black sheep because you are half bloodsucker. Gotta keep up appearances. What would the people think if they knew you were another brother of the king?”

“I wouldn’t laugh. Malachi is right. You probably have brothers and sisters you don’t know about, secretly hunting your throne.” James chuckles.

“Don’t you start picking sides, James!” my father spits at him.

“Of course not, Theo. I don’t pick sides, not until the end so I can ensure I pick the winning one. Now carry on as you were. Maybe Malachi can beat some sense into you,” James retorts. Malachi seems to take that as permission because he lunges at my father.

By the time they are done, the room is all but demolished, but I saved two bottles from the bar, and I am keeping them safe.

“My bet was on you, and you never threw a single punch,” I grumble when I see my father has had enough, and Malachi is winning.

“Play smarter, not harder, son,” James says, patting my knee and hopping up.

“Huh?” Lyon slurs drunkenly. I wish I could get as drunk as easily as him.

Their fight has gone on for hours, and now the morning sun filters in through the heavy, torn drapes. I yawn as James wanders over casually to them. He’s obviously sick of playing referee as they throw half-assed swings at each other. It’s like watching geriatrics fight in slow motion.

My eyes move to the clock above the entrance. Well, I suppose they’ve been punching each other for about three hours now. Even so, I thought the old man would have lasted longer. Disappointing.

Malachi throws a punch, and both are so exhausted they don’t even block or dodge. James catches his fist midair, and my father huffs like he won until James grabs his ear like he is a disobedient child.

“James!” my father screeches as he is dragged to the corner of the room.

“You stay,” he growls, pointing at Malachi across the room.

Malachi glares daggers but is too exhausted to fight anymore. My father, however, sways and still tries to move past James. “Ungrateful little brat you are, aren’t you?” James snaps, pushing him back against the wall. “I gave you my blood, and you waste it on getting your ass beat!”

My father’s face grows pallid with embarrassment. “Keep your voice down. Some things we do not talk about.”

James scoffs. “You weren’t so ashamed when you were lapping at my damn neck like a cat does milk!” He shoves my father into the busted armchair.

“You know I am a king. You have no right?—”

“King of the kids. Grow up, Theron. You never take responsibility for anything. Malachi is right. Twice you have taken from him.”

“Electra was my mate!” he argues.

“Maybe so, but Shelley was not,” James tells him, and my father grumbles, folding his arms across his chest. “Now the question remains, how do we fix this?” He glances between them, and I sit up to see if Uncle James has an idea.

“We can’t. I am as good as dead. She isn’t going to choose them. I am living on borrowed time,” my father answers, and my brows pinch.

Lyon snores softly beside me, and when I nudge him, he jolts awake. “Damn it, who won?” he asks immediately, looking around with heavy eyes.

“James did. You owe me a year of wheat and wine,” I say. Lyon huffs, and sinks back into his seat.

“We don’t know that she won’t choose them. You just need to convince her, and these two—” James looks at us. “Where is Regan?” he questions suddenly, only just realizing Regan isn’t here.

“With Zirah,” I answer bitterly.

“Well, it seems one of you is smart. While you two are drowning your sorrows, he is burying his inside of her.” James snickers, and I growl at him.

“Convince her to do what?” Lyon asks.

“To accept you both.”

Lyon scoffs, and so do I. “Yeah, right, we are as good as dead,” I tell him, downing the remnants of my bottle.

“Keep drinking that shit and you will be.” He snatches the bottle from me and tosses it into the fireplace. The glass explodes on impact, and the flames shoot higher.

“She might as well kill me right now and get it over with if my life is in their incapable hands,” my father growls, shooting a glare at us.

“What nonsense are you spouting about now, old man?” I question.

“The curse, Zeke. Why do you think I needed to name an heir? Find a way to break the curse,” my father snarls. “I’m fucking dying. You three were cursed, but so was I!”

“What do you mean?” Lyon asks.

“I was cursed to die if the curse wasn’t broken. Litha allowed me 21 years to break it, or I die,” my father explains, and I look at Lyon, who is suddenly fully alert.

“Wait, this is why you made us take part in the maze trials?” I ask.

“Yes, my time is running out.”

“How much time do you have left?” I ask.

“From what I have gathered from hunting witches over the years, I have until the next full moon, when Zirah first shifts. If you three haven’t marked her, I die.”

“So you have two weeks?” Lyon asks, and my father sighs and nods.

“Yep, you are definitely dead then. We can go casket shopping tomorrow if you like. We’ll pick you out a real cushy one,” I tell him, and he growls.

“Maybe we can paint a sloth on it?” Lyon suggests. I snicker at his words and my father’s horrified face.

“Do you really care so little for me?” he asks.

“You made your bed—” I start, but Lyon jumps in to correct me.

“Casket! He made his casket.” Lyon wags a finger in the air drunkenly.

“Right. You made your casket, so now you lie in it,” I tell him with a shrug just as Hunter walks into the room. We all turn our attention to the door, and moments later, Zirah walks in, stopping in her tracks.