Unwanted Mate Of The Lycan Kings (by jessica hall)

Lycan Queen's Prey Chapter 47

~Zirah~

The inky blackness of unconsciousness ebbs away as I sluggishly claw my way back into the land of

the living. Strands of consciousness intertwine, weaving a confusing web of reality and dreams. It’s like

trying to catch a gust of wind with bare hands—passing and elusive. My body feels heavy, as if

submerged in an ocean with weights around my ankles.

As my thoughts return and I cling to the remnants of earlier memory, my limbs respond with the speed Còntens bel0ngs to Nô(v)elDr/a/ma.Org

and grace of driftwood in the undertow. I’m trapped within the confines of my body. Every attempt at

movement is squashed by an unseen force. It’s like being a ghost in my own vessel.

When my eyes first open, I am confused by the gray paneling. It takes me a few moments to recognize

my surroundings. I’m in the back of a van, and a chilly breeze sweeps across my feet, but I don’t feel

movement or hear an engine.

My disoriented gaze peers around, capturing snapshots of the grim reality I have found myself in. Lyon

is sprawled on the floor, unconscious. His chest heaves in a rhythmic pattern as he dances between life

and death, walking on a blade’s edge. My stomach sinks at the sight of him.

Zeke is anything but himself at the moment. He leans heavily against the van wall, his eyes open but

vacant. His limbs are pinned down by the cold shackle of chains that wrap around him and hold him

against the wall of the van.

His hands are bound to the cold steel wall, while another chain loops tightly around his neck. It gnaws

into his flesh, revealing a haunting truth—one wrong move, and he’ll strangle himself.

My head spins as I attempt to turn it. It feels as if an anvil rests upon it, transforming each small

movement into a superhuman effort, while vertigo washes through me despite barely moving. However,

the feeble attempt draws the attention of a guard, who heartlessly nudges me with his foot. The impact

forces me onto my back, opening up a clear view of his demonic red eyes. A savage sense of

satisfaction gleams in his crimson orbs, like a cat playing with a cornered mouse. His face stretches

into a smug smirk as he declares.

“She’s awake,” he calls out, his voice a sinister sound in the silence. Footsteps approach, vibrating

through the van’s metallic floor and resonating in my bones. Another figure clambers into the back of

the van, his silhouette blotting out the little light filtering in. A wave of dread crashes over me as the

conversation ensues.

Scattered pieces of conversation whirl around me. Their words dip and flow, leaving me to wade

through the murky waters of my thoughts as my hearing rings and their words sound muffled. Yet, with

each passing second, their voices grow clearer. The van’s open doors reveal a sight that propels my

heart into my throat. My breath hitching, I recognize this place—Regan’s kingdom. The torture

dungeons, their bricks blackened by the flames of when Regan burned those inside, stand hauntingly

close.

“He can’t have gotten far?” the first guard muses. I strain to make sense of their disjointed talk while my

mind races to unravel what the hell is going on. As if on cue, a new person steps into the back of the

van. He towers over me, his eyes glinting ominously under the dim light. A cruel smile plays on his lips

as he kicks Lyon in the ribs. “He still hasn’t woken?” the man asks, glancing at the two guards. They

shake their heads, and the man sighs.

“He’s barely alive; leave him; he probably won’t last long,” he dismisses, his words laced with icy

indifference.

The harsh reality of his words grips me—if Lyon succumbs, the others will follow suit, and so will I. The

grim revelation is driven home by the new man.

“Not my issue; I don’t understand why he doesn’t just kill them and be done with it. Not that it will matter

if we can’t figure out where Regan dropped.” His statement leaves a dreadful echo hanging in the

silence.

Soon another man steps into the back of the van, the place feeling crowded. The mere shadow of this

man, who drips authority and dominance, sends an icy shiver down my spine. King Slavic. The

Vampire King.

“My King,” The guards say simultaneously, dipping their heads to him.

“Some of the city people said he left, that he tore out of the city late last night. How are our prisoners?”

he jests his words in a twisted mockery. He crouches over me, his hands gripping my face, his fingers

digging into my flesh. His chillingly familiar words ring in my ears. “Gosh, you look like your mother,” he

states, turning my head from side to side, assessing me.

“Not as strong, though; your mother was a force to be reckoned with, but you just had to get yourself

tied to the Lycan Kings,” he mocks.

“So we have no idea where he went, my king?” the vampire guard asks, and my eyes go to him; I can

smell his fear; it perfumes the van, and my eyes go back to King Slavic, who was just addressed as the

vampire king, confirming who I thought he was.

“They’re linked. Malachi said she marked them all, so wherever he is, as long as we keep these two

down, we’ll have time to perform the ritual. He won’t be coming for anyone if these two are in this

state.” The king says, and I can’t help but laugh, the noise sounding odd as it escapes my throat.

The king’s blood-red eyes peer down at me, a devious sparkle in them, like he finds me amusing. “My

Queen, do share what you find so funny, you’re helpless, useless while your mates are paralyzed, and

your coven?” my laughter cuts out abruptly. Then King Slavic laughs.

“Oh, you didn’t know? I’m guessing by the look on your face, this is news to you?” he laughs,

squeezing my face harder, his nails digging into my skin. “I have your coven, and soon I’ll have the four

kingdoms. I will drag your mates with so much mandrake root and amphetamine, I will watch as they

hallucinate and tear their mate apart….” I glare at him.

“But first, I need something else. I need them to bring my son back,” he snarls. “I just need to find

Regan first,” he chuckles.

“So, if you could point me in the right direction, it would be much appreciated; I’m a little bored of this

game of hide and seek,” he chuckles.

Something within me sparks. A sense of defiance bubbles up, kindled by his derisive words. “You

foolish man,” I sneer. He smirks at my response, clearly underestimating the storm brewing within me.

He dares to ridicule me, belittle my ties with my mates, and lay claim over my coven. His audacious

claims ignite smoldering anger within me.

“You forget, my king,” I spit the last word, my dislike for him evident in my voice.

“I am not my mother; you are right. I am something else; I am the curse she created.” He raises an

eyebrow, the first flicker of doubt crossing his features.

“I know exactly who you are, Zirah,” he retorts, a note of challenge lacing his words. I laugh, the sound

eerie and resounding in the confined space of the van. His guards glance nervously at me, their fear

palpable in the air. The tremor in their eyes fuels my resolve and stokes the embers of my rebellious

defiance.

“And you,” I start, turning my attention to the guards. “Are all dead,” I chuckle.

The guards glance at each other, and the King raises an eyebrow at me.

“‘Hell hath no fury,’” I begin, a cryptic smile dancing on my lips. I let my voice trail off, the silence

stretching taut between us. My eyes flick from one guard to another, ensuring my words sink in. I am

but a messenger delivering a prophecy of doom right now. The silence stretches, heavy and ominous,

before I complete the warning,

“...like wrath.”

“Regan is somewhere passed out in a ditch, turning cold and probably pissing his pants right about

now,” King Slavic states. I laugh; this idiot has no idea the monster he is playing with.

“Imagine, if you will,” I challenge the king, my voice dripping with icy scorn, “a wrath that’s been

wronged, a wrath that’s been provoked. But now imagine... that same Wrath, ignited by the desire to

save his virtue. To save me.”

“She lies, ignore her ramblings, she is hallucinating from the mandrake root,” the king states, rising to

his feet.

“Do you really believe your castle walls, your armies, or even your power would be enough to halt

him?” I laugh, the sound echoing in the chilling silence, starkly contrasting the grim situation they’re

about to find themselves in. The king’s face turns ashen, his bravado faltering at the potency of my

words.

“Gather your guards, fortify your defenses, and you better start praying. For when Wrath arrives, not

even the fates can save you.”

“You think your words scare me?” he laughs, leaning down. “They should, my king,” I spit at him. He

falters for a second. “Wrath is not tied to me for I rejected him, but he’ll come for me, he’ll come for his

brothers, and when he does,” I smile.

“You’ll meet your son in the afterlife,” I whisper, and his hand raises before connecting with my face. My

head whips to the side, but I don’t feel the sting. However, I do taste my blood as it fills my mouth. My

tongue runs over my bit lip. I smirk, knowing I got under his skin.

The king hastily exits the van. His men follow suit, leaving me alone in the belly of the beast. The

deafening slam of the door reverberates through the van, plunging me into darkness. I find myself

alone with my thoughts, their loud racket drowning out the eerie silence of my physical world.

King Slavic wants to run, for if Regan doesn’t kill him, I will the moment I feel my magic.