Lycan - Chapter 4

Lycan set down the glass he had raised to his lips and placed it on the table. When he turned around, the woman was staring at him with wide, startled eyes.

“Hard cider isn’t something I drink,” he said.

For a brief moment, the woman’s face crumpled as if she was about to cry. But she didn’t. Instead—

“The cider they make here is strong,” she said, her voice almost pleading. “It’s made with fresh fruit and aged for a long time, so it’s….”

Trying to convince me, are you?

Lycan found her efforts increasingly amusing.

“I don’t need alcohol,” he replied, his tone low but firm.

A subtle, unfamiliar scent wafted from the woman standing close to him. It was soft and alluring, stirring something primal within him. It had been almost half a year since he’d left his territory, and that also meant it had been far too long since he’d last held a woman.

Lycan prided himself on his discipline and patience.

But in front of this woman, his restraint was crumbling at an alarming rate.

“Alcohol… well, alcohol sets the mood,” she stammered. “We got married so suddenly, and things are awkward between us. So, I thought…”

Her words, which had been rushing out, slowed. She looked like she was debating what else to say. Then she put on what she probably thought was a stern expression.

“Alcohol will help us relax,” she said, almost commanding him.

An odd feeling gripped Lycan. He was torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to throw her down right then and there—or, more immediately, to seize her red lips in his teeth.

He stepped forward, grabbing her arm and pulling her close. The sudden movement made the woman stumble into his chest. She tried to pull away, but Lycan wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her firmly.

Damn. The sensation of her soft body pressed against his solid muscles made him feel like he was about to lose control.

And that scent—what on earth was it?

“D-don’t do this. You can’t,” she stammered.

Suppressing a chuckle, Lycan lowered his head. That’s when it happened—

Something cold touched his neck.

The moment he realized it was the blade of a knife, his body froze.

“Step back,” the woman whispered, her voice low.

When he didn’t move, she took a step back herself, keeping the blade raised.

“Incredible,” Lycan said sincerely.

Her audacity, her sheer nerve—it was absurd.

Did she really think she could survive after holding a knife to his throat? To him, Lycan, the Black Wolf?

Even as anger flared within him, he found himself oddly impressed by her recklessness.

“One day, even Lycan will slip up because of a woman,” someone had once said to him.

If Wyatt, who always boasted so boldly, saw him like this, he would laugh and mock him for two days and nights—or perhaps for the rest of his life.

Lycan looked at the woman gripping the knife tightly in her hands.

How could he make such a mistake?

That he hadn’t noticed she was carrying a weapon—unbelievable. He had been so consumed by desire that he hadn’t even realized it until she drew the knife and pressed it against his throat.

If not for his deal with King Ar, he would have snapped that slender neck of hers without hesitation.

“Put the knife down,” Lycan said coldly.

But instead of backing down, the woman adjusted her grip on the dagger, positioning the blade downward. It was a proper stance—or at least an attempt at one. But that’s all it was—an imitation.

There was no way the daughter of a count would know how to use a dagger properly. And honestly, what kind of noblewoman points a knife at her husband on their wedding night? Unless, of course, she had a man she loved so much she was willing to risk her life for him.

Lycan’s icy gaze bore into her.

He debated. Which would he break first? That pale, exposed neck? Or her thin wrist, delicate like a brittle branch? Both could be snapped in an instant with one hand.

But the problem was, he couldn’t do either.

“You must marry the Count of Osphia’s daughter. That way, King Deacons can show the entire continent that he’s a benevolent ruler who embraces even the conquered.”

King Ar wanted to earn the respect of every race on the continent. He dreamed of one day uniting the scattered kingdoms and rising as the ultimate sovereign.

Let him do whatever he wanted. Lycan didn’t care. He just didn’t want to waste time arguing with the king over it. Besides, he needed a break. He’d been away from his territory for far too long, fighting in wars.

So, whether this woman had someone else in her heart or not, he had to at least pretend to take her back to Beaturum.

Which meant, for now, she had to live—despite the overwhelming urge to kill her.

Oh, and, of course, there was also the rather powerful desire to complete the final act of sealing this marriage. That was just as intense.

Lycan warned her again, his voice like steel.

“I told you to put that down.”

He stepped forward, his tone as cold as ice. Most men would have dropped the knife by now—unless they were prepared to die.

But the woman flinched, startled, and gripped the knife even tighter.

And then—

“Don’t—don’t come any closer. Please.”

“Hah. So you’re scared, but you still won’t put down the knife?”

Lycan’s patience had reached its limit. He growled, “I’ll break your neck and drink the blood that spills out.”

He reached out to grab her, but the woman was quick. She dodged his grasp with an agile movement.

Hah. What a sly little cat.

A wave of fury washed over Lycan. Just as she tried to dart past him, he lunged and seized her waist in one swift motion.

“Ahhh!”

The woman screamed and swung the dagger with a sharp whistle through the air.

His first mistake was assuming she wouldn’t dare actually use it, even if she was holding it.

His second mistake? Being so certain that the count’s daughter wouldn’t know how to handle a dagger properly.

Without a moment’s hesitation, she slashed upward with precise, calculated intent—not a random, panicked swing.

This wasn’t luck. It was a deliberate move.

Blood began to trickle from Lycan’s arm, but he didn’t even flinch. Instead, his eyes, burning with a mixture of admiration and rage, remained locked on her.

Clang.

The woman, who had seemed so determined never to give up, finally dropped the knife when she saw the blood. She stared at it with a dazed expression, as if she couldn’t believe what she’d done.

When her wide, terrified eyes met his, Lycan felt his anger subside slightly.

A cold smile tugged at his lips as he strode toward her.

“I-I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to actually— I mean, I told you not to come any closer!” she stammered, stumbling backward in fear.

But she’d miscalculated.

Her panicked retreat led her straight toward the bed. Lycan’s eyes glinted sharply as he watched her corner herself. Like a predator stalking its prey, he advanced slowly, his gaze filled with a dangerous intensity, driving her further into the trap.

The woman’s back hit one of the bedposts, and she froze, realizing she had nowhere left to run.

In a desperate move, she turned sharply, but Lycan was faster. He lunged, grabbing her before she could slip away.

In that moment, she bit down hard on his arm.

“Urgh! Ferus Catta!” (Savage cat!)

Lycan hissed the words through gritted teeth, glaring down at her.

Her thick, disheveled hair had come undone during the struggle, giving her the wild appearance of a bristling cat. The sight of her—feral and defiant—reminded him of the legendary warrior women of old.

Once again, desire flared within him, sharp and undeniable.

Tonight, he would have her. No matter what.

“This is getting more interesting,” he muttered with a twisted smirk as he stepped closer.

The woman’s trembling hand groped behind her, searching for anything she could use. Her fingers found an ornament on the bedside table, and without hesitation, she hurled it at him.

Lycan tilted his head slightly, easily dodging it.

The ornament crashed into the wall with a loud thud, shattering into pieces.

Undeterred, she began throwing anything within reach. One object struck him squarely in the chest.

There was a wet, slimy sensation, followed by a sticky liquid trickling down his torso.

“Oh no…” the woman murmured in despair.

Lycan glanced down at himself.

Dark red liquid was dripping down his chest, staining his abdomen.

And the smell—it was revolting.

“Chicken… blood.”

The metallic stench—it was the same smell he’d noticed when passing the chicken coop earlier.

The woman’s reaction was telling; she was clearly startled by how quickly he had identified the source of the blood. Lycan’s gaze flickered to the wine bottle on the table.

Wine and chicken blood.

A sly grin curled at the corner of his lips. When he looked back at her, his expression was unnerving.

“So… your plan was to drug me, smear chicken blood, and claim you lost your virginity?”

The woman’s eyes widened in shock. The look on her face—it was like a guilty child caught red-handed.

Exactly. That was it.

Foolish woman. Anyone with half a brain would have seen through such an obvious scheme.

“Were you trying to hide the fact that you’re not a virgin?” he asked with a sharp, cynical smile.

Her eyes widened further, and her cheeks flushed bright red.

“It’s not like that!” she shouted, her voice sharp and indignant, her expression twisted in frustration as if she were genuinely offended by the accusation.

Lycan didn’t believe her. She had already lost any semblance of trust.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, his tone chillingly calm. “By the time tonight is over, you won’t be a virgin anyway.”

The predatory smile that followed made her face go pale as a sheet.

It was at that moment—

Bang! Bang!

“Khan!”

“Your Grace!”

Two familiar voices called out from the other side of the door, alternating. The kind of men who wouldn’t hesitate to break the door down if left unattended for too long.

Damn it.

Lycan clenched his teeth in frustration. With a sharp motion, he bent down, grabbed the fallen dagger, and stalked toward the door.

He flung it open to reveal Wyatt, his fist still raised mid-knock, and Owen standing just behind him.

“By the gods, Khan, what the hell…?” Wyatt muttered, his eyes widening in disbelief at the sight of Lycan’s wounded arm and bloodstained body.

Lycan shoved the dagger into Wyatt’s hand before he had a chance to ask more questions. Wyatt, still dumbfounded, accepted it automatically.

“What happened?” Owen asked, stepping forward with concern.

“Nothing,” Lycan replied curtly.

“But there was a loud noise just now. And that blood—”

“It’s not mine.”

“…”

“Do not disturb me,” Lycan said coldly, his tone brooking no argument. “No matter what noise you hear, don’t come near this room.”

With that, he slammed the door shut.

When he turned back around, his eyes fell on her again. She was trembling like a frightened bird, dressed in nothing but a thin nightgown that did little to hide her form.

Desire flared again, stronger this time.

Yes. It was time to finish what he’d started.

Striding over to her, Lycan caught her arm just as she tried to bolt and flung her roughly onto the bed.

When she opened her mouth to scream, his cold, deadly warning cut through the air.

“If you make a sound or move, I’ll throw you out the window.”

Her lips snapped shut, and she froze.

Satisfied, Lycan smirked. She stayed still, her wide eyes darting around as if searching for an escape. Even terrified, she was plotting.

How amusing.

But Lycan had lost all patience. His body burned with a desire that could no longer be suppressed.

Wiping the blood off his arm as best he could, he climbed onto the bed in an instant, pinning her beneath him.

Gripping the neckline of her thin nightgown, he tore it open in one swift motion.