Page 37
Story: Saved By The King’s Gamma (Lycan Luna: Abbie & Gannon #1)
T he weight of responsibility churns in my stomach like a storm as I watch Gannon stir from his makeshift bed.
With each groan or snore that escapes his lips, the reality of Cassandra’s precarious fate bears down on me.
His body sits up from the couch with a series of pops and cracks as he stretches.
I’d offered many times to trade places with him, to take the couch so he could sleep in comfort, but Gannon is as stubborn as he is protective.
He stretches, long limbs extending until his back issues a loud crack, the sound echoing off the walls and pricking at my conscience.
Guilt gnaws at me, adding to the queasiness that refuses to abate.
Despite the turmoil inside me, my hands move with purpose, setting out his clothes on the bed. Meanwhile, I pull on my uniform when I notice him watching me.
My fingers brush over the fabric, smoothing out invisible creases, while my other senses remain acutely aware of his presence in the room, studying me.
As Gannon’s gaze finally finds me, I feel the weight of his stare, heavy and searching, and brace myself for the conversation that would inevitably follow.
The fabric of the servant’s uniform rustles softly as I adjust its fit, the black skivvy beneath it peeking through the gap at my neckline—a feeble attempt to conceal the jagged scars marring my shoulder and my old mate mark.
My fingers linger for a moment, pressing down the material in a fruitless effort to make it cover the scars.
Gannon’s voice cuts through the quiet like a blade, rough and edged with concern. “What are you doing?”
I glance at him, the intensity of his gaze making me straighten up.
“I can’t sit in this room all day, Gannon. I want to work,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. To waste hours is to let anxiety consume me, and that is the last thing I want to do. My mind can be a dangerous place when left to ponder too long.
His approach is swift, a silent predator closing in. Before I can react, his hands are on me, fingers fumbling with the buttons of the dress I had carefully fastened. My heart races, a mix of alarm and irritation surging within me.
Instinctively, I slap his hands away, the sound is sharp in the air between us.
His touch recedes but the tension remains, Gannon’s brow furrows, his lips pulling back in a snarl that didn’t completely reach the concern etched deep in his eyes.
“You want to work? Fine, but not in this uniform. You aren’t a servant,” he growls, the words rumbling from him like distant thunder.
I square my shoulders, feeling the weight of the skivvy under the dress which makes my skin itch. “What does it matter if I am a servant or not? Clarice is a servant! Do you think so little of her too?” The challenge in my voice is as tangible as the tension that crackles in the air between us.
His reaction is immediate, a flash of surprise lighting up his features.
Gannon’s stance softens ever so slightly, the rigidity in his posture melting away as he grapples with the meaning of my words.
Clearly, I had struck a chord, unearthed a sliver of guilt or an unconsidered bias he hadn’t been aware of. When he suddenly becomes angry.
Gannon’s fingers are quick and deft as they reach for the row of buttons on my dress, his movements driven by a blend of frustration and an impulse to protect.
The fabric gives way under his touch, slipping free one button at a time as he works with a determination that is both infuriating and confusing for me.
“Gannon stop it! I am wearing it. Now leave me be!” My voice cuts through the mounting tension. The demand in my tone leaves no room for argument, even from someone as stubborn as Gannon.
For a moment, he pauses, his hands stilling mid-motion.
His gaze locks onto mine, searching, perhaps for a sign of surrender that he won’t find.
Finally, his expression shifts into something like resignation, his lips pressing into a thin line of unhappiness.
Slowly, his hands rise in a gesture of surrender, hovering uncertainly in the air between us before falling to his sides.
The room seems to exhale around us, the atmosphere relaxing ever so slightly.
The chill of morning had not yet lifted when I turn from the mirror, abandoning my reflection dressed in the stiff fabric of the servant’s uniform.
Gannon’s brooding presence fills the room like a brewing storm, his disapproval almost palpable as he watches me with an intensity that makes me want to apologize for snapping at him.
“You don’t have to wear that,” he says finally, his voice low and laced with an undercurrent of something I can’t quite decipher—concern or command, perhaps both.
“I know I don’t have to wear it.” My fingers brush against the crisp material of the dress, the texture foreign yet familiar as it grazes against my skin.
“I know,” I say, meeting his gaze head-on.
I need him to understand that this is about more than clothing—it is about asserting some semblance of normalcy in a life that has become anything but.
Gannon holds my stare for a moment longer, his jaw set and lips in a hard line that speaks volumes of his internal struggle not to rip the dress from my body.
“Do you? You don’t have to be a servant, you don’t even have to work if you don’t want to,” he says, his voice threaded with a barely suppressed frustration.
My heart flutters against my ribs, yet I meet his gaze with steady resolve.
“Why are you so against this?” The question slips out, not accusatory but laced with genuine curiosity.
“Because I don’t want you to think you are nothing more than a servant. I don’t want you serving me like I am one of your chores,” he says.
“I’m not,” I respond, my voice a whisper of defiance. The defensive bite of my lip betrays my anxiety as his gaze sweeps over the room, taking in the room.
He turns abruptly, the muscles in his back rippling as he strides towards the bathroom. The door groans open under the force of his hand, and his growl vibrates through the air, mingling with the lingering scent of disinfectant I had left behind.
The sight of the pristine bathroom—scrubbed tiles glistening, the mirror free of water spots, and dirty laundry removed from sight—seem to ignite something within him.
Gannon’s nostrils flare as he inhales deeply, the sharp tang of bleach cutting through the air. His eyes narrow as he turns to look at me.
“Really? Then why can I smell bleach?” he demands, his voice low and vibrating with an undercurrent of anger. The sound echoes off the bathroom tiles.
I try to maintain my composure, but his intense gaze is like a weight pressing down on me, demanding an answer.
“I want a mate, not a house cleaner,” he says, pinning me in place with that intense look—a look that strips away any words I might want to say and sees right to the core of me.
I cross my arms across my chest. “And mates do that sort of thing. They clean up after each other. Geez, Gannon, my dirty washing was in there too, and I sure as hell don’t want one of the other servants cleaning up after me.” The words tumble out in a rush.
Gannon’s brow furrows, the cogs in his mind visibly turning as he considers my argument.
He had always been the type to think before he spoke, weighing each word with care like he was afraid of upsetting me, but not today.
A deep breath fills his chest, and he runs a hand through his hair—a sign he is searching for a solution other than me being a maid.
“You could work in the library or the kitchens, or,” he starts, halting mid-sentence. His suggestion hangs incomplete in the air.
I watch him closely, reading the conflict that dances across his features.
He wants to support me, to see me happy, but the thought of me adopting the role of a servant seems to twist his insides.
Yet, in his eyes, I glimpse a glimmer of understanding, acknowledgment that perhaps the lines we draw around each other are more confining than protective.
The thought of working in the library or the kitchens feels wrong—like trying to fit a square into a circle.
“The stables?” he offers, and I scoff, more to myself than to him.
My eyes dart across the room, skimming over the neatly made bed. “Gannon, I want to work as a servant. I know what I am doing.” “Kitchens are full,” I continue, each word punctuated by the ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, “and the library? What use would I be when I can’t read?”
Gannon’s gaze softens, losing some of its earlier intensity. “Well, you can come with me,” he finally says, his voice low and even.
“I am not following you around like a lost puppy. I need to have my own things to do. I don’t see what the big deal is,” I tell him, walking over and grabbing my flats and socks.
I sit on the edge of the bed, bending down to pull my socks on when Gannon snatches them from my hand, kneeling in front of me.
“Let me,” he says, not a command, but not quite a request either. His tone is gentle, but I sigh, allowing it.
He lifts my foot, resting it on his thigh. The sock slips over my heel, encasing my foot with a snugness that only his touch could bring. I expelled a heavy breath, a mix of exasperation and something far softer, watching him perform this simple act of care.
I bristle at the gesture, yet the warmth of his fingers as they graze my ankle is undeniably soothing. I let out an involuntary chuckle, the sound tinged with both warmth and a hint of irony as I watch him.
“You know I don’t want a servant either, right?” I chuckle, the corners of my mouth lifting into a smile despite the fluttering nerves in my stomach.
“Huh?” Gannon pauses, his eyes meet mine with a curious glint as he processes the playful accusation in my tone.
“Is that why you think I do those things?” he chuckles, a low rumble that vibrates through the space between us. His head gives a slight shake, dismissing the idea even as his fingers resume their task, slipping the shoe onto my foot with ease.
“Here I thought chivalry wasn’t dead. Apparently it is just non-existent,” Gannon laughs, lifting my other foot to put the sock on. He kisses my foot.
I shrug.
“Abbie,” Gannon begins, his voice taking on a softer note as he ties the laces. “I do those things because I like doing them for you,” he says.
“And same with me setting your clothes out and cleaning the room, and making our bed. It’s our room, I should be able to clean it,” I insist.
A chuckle rumbles from his chest, the sound rich and warm.
“Our bed and our room, huh?” His voice holds a playful note, my cheeks flush, the heat spreading across my skin as acutely as if he had traced the path with his fingertips.
How easily the words had come, claiming his space as mine, intertwining our lives with the simplicity of a sentence.
His eyebrows arch in amused inquiry, his hands resuming their journey upwards until they encircled the curve of my hips. With a gentle tug, he drew me closer, the boundary between us blurring as our breaths mingled.
“If this is our bed, I should be able to sleep in it then, right?” The words hang between us, a grin tugging at his lips.
I find myself caught in the moment, my worries temporarily shelved. My teeth captured my lower lip, unsure of what to say.
“Maybe you could sleep in the bed?” My voice is barely a whisper.
“I’m playing, Abbie,” he says, his voice softer now, closing the distance between us. A quick peck lands on my lips, a fleeting touch that sends an electric jolt through me, igniting my face with a warmth that surely matches the color of a tomato.
Gannon reaches for his shirt, pulling it over his head, muscles shifting beneath it. He replaces it with the crisp one I’d laid out.
Finished, he cuts through the stillness of the room with a playful twirl of his finger in the air, signaling for privacy. I avert my gaze.
The metallic rasp of Gannon’s zipper breaks the hush that has settled in the room. I catch a glimpse of annoyance etching his brow as he fumbles with the fastening of his belt, a low groan escaping him—a sound laced with frustration that is uncharacteristic for the usually composed man.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, curiosity piquing at his display of irritation.
“The King wants to leave early. He and Azalea had an argument,” he says, each word heavy with a sigh.
He comes over and presses his lips to my forehead before gripping my chin, forcing me to look up at him.
“There is no rush to do anything. And if you want to clean the room, fine. I just don’t want you thinking you have to, OK?”
I nod and he smiles, dipping his face closer to see if I would pull away.
When I don’t, he presses his lips to mine, softly and my lips part invitingly.
Gannon groans pulling me closer, his hand going to the back of my head as he tipped my head back, running his tongue across my bottom lip first before his tongue delved between my lips, brushing mine gently.
I kiss him back, wanting to let him have this small victory because right now, that is all I could offer him.
Table of Contents
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- Page 36
- Page 37 (Reading here)
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