The taste of her was intoxicating, a dizzying blend of sweet desperation and heat that tore through Dronti’s lingering restraint.
But as his hand shifted higher, sliding over her ribs to pin her more securely, a sudden, sharp wince tore through her muffled breath.
A distinct, copper scent pierced the heavy air—the smell of fresh blood seeping through the bandages he had placed over her wounds hours before.
Even in the grips of an aphrodisiac designed to reduce a Lycan to pure instinct, the realization struck him like a splash of frost.
He couldn’t ravage a woman who was hurt.
Grumbling a low curse, Dronti began to pull his weight back, intending to put distance between them before his surging blood overrode his reason entirely.
But as he lifted himself, a small, trembling hand reached out through the dark.
Her slender fingers wrapped around his forearm, tugging him back down with a frantic, desperate strength.
Breena’s mind was completely fractured.
The searing potion in her blood had fused with the electric, overwhelming warmth of his body, burning away every shred of her carefully built defenses.
She forgot about her parents, forgot her years of bitter isolation, and forgot that the heavy, suffocating weight pressing down on her belonged to the man she had sworn to kill.
Right now, he was simply the only relief for an agonizing fire that made her skin feel like it was peeling away.
The raw itch beneath her flesh hurt so intensely that she stilled his hand, silently pleading for the very touch she had spent years trying to avoid.
Dronti stilled, his broad chest rising and falling in harsh, ragged strides.
“You’re hurt,” he rasped, his voice rough and deep in the darkness.
He was in no mood to take advantage of an injured woman, especially when his sharp senses told him something was deeply wrong.
A sober Breena would never cling to him like this.
He knew she had kept silent earlier just to hide her identity, unwilling to share this kind of surrender with him in the light.
His hand rested motionless against her waist, his body rigid as he issued a stark, low warning against her ear.
“Woman, hear me.
I hope you know what you are asking for.
If I lose control now, I won’t be gentle with you.” Breena didn’t answer with words.
She couldn’t.
Driven past the point of no return, she lifted her chin blindly into the complete obscurity of the room, her trembling lips searching until they found his.
When her mouth brushed against his, all remaining reason shattered into dust.
Dronti let out a guttural growl and surrendered.
He captured her lips in a deep, agonizingly slow kiss that drank in every helpless gasp she offered.
His large hand slid down her hip, gripping her waist to pull her flush against him, while his other hand tangled in her hair, holding her still as his tongue dominated hers.
Breena shuddered, a long, shivering sigh escaping her chest as a wave of pure, liquid heat surged straight to her core.
The friction of his heavy body against her bare skin sent electricity snapping through her nerve endings, making her arch helplessly into his touch, completely consumed by the chemical storm drowning them both.
Breena’s breath hitched into sharp, shallow pants, her hands clutching at his broad shoulders, pulling him down until there was no space left between them.
Dronti braced his weight on one elbow, his hand guiding his rock-hard length to align directly at her slick, throbbing center.
The head of his shaft pressed firmly against her entrance, poised to push through her lingering resistance and sink completely into her heat.
Suddenly, a harsh, heavy splash shattered the darkness.
A deluge of ice-cold water slammed straight into the pair, soaking their heated skin, drenching the tangled clothes beneath them, and shocking the air straight out of Breena’s lungs.
Dronti froze instantly, a violent growl tearing from his throat as the frigid shock clashed violently with the roaring fever in his veins.
He snapped his head toward the open doorway.
A blinding beam of light from a torch cut through the total darkness, illuminating the drenched, panting figures on the floor.
Breena blinked through the stinging water, her vision swimming as she looked toward the threshold.
Outlined in the harsh glare stood a silent, menacing silhouette holding the flashlight high.
Beside them stood a second figure, their chest heaving, holding an empty metal bucket limply at their side.
Dronti’s cold gaze locked onto his mother, his tone dripping with quiet menace.
“Mother, what are you doing here?” Luna Dowager Christine flicked the harsh beam of the torch straight onto Breena, who immediately shielded her face in burning embarrassment.
“She is not supposed to be here,” Christine said, her voice laced with sharp disdain.
“Get up, girl.” The shock of the frigid water had thoroughly brought Breena back to her senses.
Mortified by the position she had been caught in, she felt as though she might sink into the floor and disappear.
She made a desperate move to scramble backward, but Dronti’s heavy hand pinned her gently yet firmly in place, using his broad frame to shield her exposed skin from view.
“Don’t move,” Dronti commanded in a low, absolute tone meant only for her.
He then shifted a lethal glare toward Neil, who stood beside Christine with the empty bucket in hand.
Dronti’s eyes promised a slow, painful death—how dare him pour water on his King?
Turning his attention back to his mother, Dronti barked, “Leave, Mother.
Give me some privacy so I can finish what you started.” Christine’s expression curdled with irritation.
“Not with a weak wolf like her.
This was never meant to happen.
Let go of her this instant, Dronti.
Besides, George is downstairs to see you.” At the mention of that single name, Dronti’s body went rigid against Breena.
She felt the sudden, terrifying shift in his posture—a stark reaction that piqued her curiosity.
She couldn’t help but wonder who could possibly strike such immediate tension into a man as powerful as the Lycan King.
Dronti took a slow, heavy breath, his jaw clenching tight.
“Then leave, Mother.
I will be downstairs to see him shortly.” “Hurry up then,” Christine warned, turning her back to leave as the light flickered away down the hall, “before his anger flares up.” In the heavy obscurity of the room, they dressed themselves in silence.
Dronti tersely ordered her to return straight to her quarters, and Breena needed no second bidding.
She fled down the corridor, her heart hammering against her ribs—partly relieved by the narrow escape, but thoroughly terrified by how close her clouded mind had brought her to surrendering her virginity to her greatest enemy.
The water thrown on them had been laced with powerful cooling chemicals, designed to neutralize aphrodisiacs, and within minutes Dronti felt his mind clear completely.
Returning to his quarters, he changed into fresh, dry clothes before making his way down the staircase to face his visitor.
Waiting in the lower reception hall was Lord George—Dronti’s uncle, the late King’s brother, and the ruthless chairman of the Lycans Leadership Council.
George was dressed impeccably in a bespoke, double-breasted blue suit paired with a silk tie and polished leather shoes—an ensemble that radiated corporate arrogance and subtle, unyielding authority.
He had been pressuring Dronti relentlessly to produce an heir, aggressively leveraging every loophole in the council’s bylaws to challenge Dronti’s control over the Lycans.
The moment Dronti stepped into the hall, George smoothed his cuffs and stood up, executing a slight, mockingly formal bow.
A creepy, unsettling smile tugged at the corners of his lips as his sharp eyes locked onto the young King.
“My King,” George purred, resting a ringed hand over his cane.
“Is there any progress on impregnating a woman?
My son’s wife just conceived.”