Page 3 of The Wolf’s Appetite (The Lycans #8)

AISLING

Months later

T he tray was steady in my hands as I climbed the spiral staircase to Prince Lennox McGregor’s chambers, the thick runner silencing my steps.

The stories whispered about the wounded Lycan heir by the staff in secret were enough to make even the bravest servant hesitate. But I didn’t shy away from the difficult tasks and volunteered to serve him so others didn’t have to.

Since his return from the fight with the vampires and Lycans attacking the Assembly a handful of months ago, Lennox McGregor had been an unseen force of brooding anger and dark moods. His temper was as sharp as the claws of the beast he once harbored within.

But I knew better than most that the stories only scratched the surface.

I was one of the few who had been pulled into the fray and nursed Prince Lennox back to health in the dark, makeshift hospital set up in the lower levels of the McGregor family castle in Scotland.

I’d witnessed him thrash against the bed as pain consumed him and as fever took hold. His broken, battered body strained against the cot, his teeth bared in a silent, agonized snarl as his bones tried to knit themselves back together without the guiding presence of his wolf.

I had watched the rise and fall of his chest as he slipped in and out of consciousness, his massive form reduced to a shaking, twitching shell of the fierce warrior he had once been.

And his wounds… without his wolf present, that massive, extremely powerful creature housed inside of him, his wounds were healing at a snail’s pace.

No one knew why or how his inner beast had gone silent, and not many knew that truth, either. Because it put the McGregor line in danger with their enemies if the news got out a Lycan’s beast could just disappear—lie dormant with no rhyme or reason .

I’d been tasked all those months ago–when they first brought him back from the fight–to tend to him.

I’d wiped the sweat from his fevered brow, pressed cool, damp cloths to the jagged, blood-soaked wounds that criss-crossed his chest, and prayed to gods that had long since disappeared for Lennox to heal.

I didn't know him, but he’d been suffering. I wanted to ease his pain.

And as time passed and he healed, I wasn’t surprised to find out that he had no memory of me.

Lennox had been barely aware, his mind shattered, his body broken, and his inner animal silent for the first time in his life.

It was an unthinkable feeling, I was sure.

I didn't know what I’d do if my own Lycan was gone.

My mind kept thinking about all that had happened these past few months and what would happen in the future.

My family had served the McGregor royal clan for generations, our small homes just outside the sprawling estate.

Our lives intertwined with those of the royal family for as long as any of us could remember.

I’d grown up in the shadow of this great, looming castle, its tall spires and thick stone walls a constant presence on the horizon and a silent reminder of the power and authority of the McGregors.

But now, I found myself being Prince Lennox’s personal servant, the only one he seemed to tolerate, even if he was cold and crass and intimidating .

He was no longer just a distant figure of authority, a future ruler of the Scottish Lycan clan. He was a wounded, broken beast, a male caught between the world of man and wolf, his spirit shattered, his power diminished, his rage simmering just beneath the surface.

The hallway to his chambers was darker than the rest of the house, the sconces flickering weakly against the oppressive gloom.

His door loomed at the end, a heavy oak structure that seemed to absorb the light, its iron handle cold and unwelcoming.

I’d been coming here several times a day for months, and I always hesitated, my pulse a chaotic drumbeat in my ears.

What mood would he be in now? Silent and distant? Or rude and distant?

I exhaled and brought my knuckles to the wood, knocking three times before hearing, “Enter.”

The voice that cut through the silence was low, gravelly, and clipped with no trace of welcome. Clenching my teeth and stealing myself for what was to come, I pushed the door open and stepped into his dimly lit chamber.

The fire I’d started last night still burned in the hearth, casting long shadows across the walls. He always refused his curtains to be drawn to let natural light in, but I still asked every morning.

“Would ye like yer curtains opened, My Lord? ”

“No,” he replied stonily.

The air was thick with the aroma of burning logs and aged leather, along with the distinct scent of his natural, wild musk.

He sat in a chair near the fire, his massive frame hunched over, his head bowed. The dark, short tangle of his hair fell over his scarred face, obscuring his features. He refused to let anyone trim his hair or his beard, and he now looked more like a mountain man than the prince he was.

But I didn’t need to see his face to know the harsh, jagged line of the scar that cut down his cheek and along his jaw or the smaller, twisted ones that covered his neck and chest. They were a forever brutal reminder of the battle that had nearly taken his life.

“Ye’re late,” he said without looking at me directly. His voice cut through the silence like a blade, each word deliberate and cold, the tone of a male who had grown used to giving orders and having them obeyed without question.

“My apologies, My Lord,” I replied, my voice steadier than I felt, the familiar dance of defiance and submission playing out in my mind as I stepped further into the room, the tray balanced carefully in my shaking hands.

Of course, that wasn’t what I’d wanted to say. I wanted to tell him that I brought him tea at the same time every morning, afternoon, and evening, and even if I was a few minutes behind, I always had good reason.

He wasn’t the only thing that needed to be tended to in this estate.

His head snapped toward me, the full force of his gaze locking onto mine as if I’d said my snarky remark out loud. Even in the dim, flickering firelight, his eyes burned with a fierce, smoldering intensity, the stormy depths a stark contrast to the broken male I’d nursed back to health.

He didn’t say anything in response, but his expression was as biting as it was dismissive. Something inside of me rebelled against his look, like my presence in his chambers was a burden rather than a service.

I said nothing but hoped he could see my irritation as I stepped forward and placed the tray on the table near his chair.

The tea was probably lukewarm by now, the fruit bread at room temperature even though it had freshly come out of the oven just moments before I came to his room.

And I knew it. The thought of his annoyance of that small fact sent a flicker of satisfaction through me—a dangerous, foolish satisfaction.

The silence that followed was suffocating. His expression hardened, the shadows deepening the lines of his face making him seem even more menacing. For a long, unbearable moment, we said nothing, but his jaw clenched, and the muscles in his neck corded tightly.

“Ye say nothing, but the look ye’re giving me is sharp. Ye should know better,” he said finally, his voice quiet but no less dangerous. He leaned back and stared at the fire once more.

I didn’t know what came over me, but before I could stop myself, the words tumbled out of my mouth. “And ye’ve got a nasty temper for someone who should be grateful that ye’re surrounded by those who care for ye and who make sure ye have everything you need tae heal.”

I felt the tension heighten in the room, and this coldness filled the bedchamber despite the fact that I was standing by the fire.

His chair creaked as he shifted forward, his broad frame imposing even from the distance. The scars on his face caught the firelight, jagged reminders of battles fought and lost.

“I’d prefer if no one came tae my room,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, threatening rumble. “But my father, the stubborn bastard he is, demands I’m looked after like a fooking child.”

I bristled at the way he spoke of his father, even though I knew Prince Lennox loved his family dearly. I knew he’d die for each and every one of them.

I should have been afraid. I should have apologized for running my mouth. But instead, I met his gaze, defiance simmering beneath the surface. “Then perhaps ye should ask someone else to bring yer tea, My Lord. Someone more pleasing to ye.”

The faintest flicker of something crossed his face, too brief to name—surprise, maybe, or amusement quickly buried under a mask of disdain.

“Careful,” he said again, leaning back into the shadows. He grabbed his tea and took a long drink from it.

I expected him to bitch about it being lukewarm, but he kept drinking as he stared into the flames.

My heart pounded so loudly I was sure he could hear it even if his wolf was silent. As was custom, I bowed respectfully and turned to leave, slipping out of his room and closing the door silently behind me.

I shouldn’t care, but I found myself doing just that for the lord of the manor who intrigued me as much as he infuriated me.