Chapter 12
The news hit me like a physical blow, forcing the air from my lungs. “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, but 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 surges within me, sending my heart into a frenzied beat. I press a hand against my chest, trying to calm the wild thumping. “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 was familiar, a known threat. But this… 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 carer?” she suggests, looking at me with a mix of hope and trepidation. Her hands are trembling slightly, betraying the concern etched into her wrinkles.
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My breath catches as Granny’s words sink in. Lycans–rulers of our kind. My mind races. 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 then.
Just Granny lying about me being here could get her executed. And if the King’s guard finds me, I am 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 am struggling to associate the man everyone fears with the man I met.
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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
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temper.”
Her words echo ominously around the room. I stand there, feeling the walls closing in on me. The man who had shown kindness was also the one who could order my execution without a second thought. A shiver runs down my spine.
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.” Her hands reach out, steady and warm against my cold, clammy ones.
The dam breaks, and tears well up, mirroring the storm inside me. They blur my vision as I choke out the painful truth.
Here I am, potentially under the rule of a man whom my former mate had dealings with–a man who apparently accepted me as payment for Rhett’s debt. The complexity of my situation is overwhelming, and as I ponder my next steps, I know that finding a way to stay under the radar is crucial.
Granny noticing the shadow of fear crossing my face, the way my eyes dart around nervously. “You need to leave, don’t you?” she asks, her voice sharp with concern.
Tears well in my eyes, not wanting to leave her, but what choice do I have? I can’t stay here. I nod, feeling the weight of like a stone in my stomach. “I have to go, Granny. It‘
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s not safe for me here.” The words tumble out in a rush.
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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, my heart pounding against my ribcage like a caged animal desperate for escape.
“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.” I confess, the words tasting 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. But 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
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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 surge of 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, but 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 guiding me away from the abyss of memory that threatens to swallow me whole.
She turns towards me, extending a trembling hand that holds a single, worn document. Instinctively, my fingers reach out,
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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.
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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.
