Traded To The Lycan King by MG Wattsons - Chapter 142

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I wait for Kyra to make her way over to the fire after changing her clothes, my feet kicking at a stone stuck in the dirt. It was a bad call to leave her behind. No, it was worse than a bad call. It was a grave mistake that I feel deeper than I am prepared to admit. Kyra could

have died, and it would be my fault just like it was with Leandra.

My throat tightens, and I clench my jaw. Anger, my usual companion, seems to morph into a heaping of self loathing. Shit. I should have just dealt with it, but Kyra, with her red hair and freckles like the stars in the sky, she complicates things. She floods my head with memories of who I was, what I lost.

And as much as I need her gone, I don't want her hurt. I care for her, I always have. She was an amazing friend and a bright spot in my past. But my past is buried in ash, and having her here does nothing but stir up those ashes and leave me exposed. "I don't think she wants to come over, Hayes." Marcos says, coming up behind me.

I lick my lips, biting back a bitter chuckle. Of course she won't. The damn redhead has as much a fight in her as I have anger.

"Did you tell her she does not have a choice?" I ask, turning slowly to face the annoying, handsome lycan. My gut pinches, my eyes scanning the man before me with a renewed bite of jealousy.

"No offense, but you aren't a beta anymore-" He says, breaking off when a low growl rumbles through my chest. "Look, she is shaken up. In my opinion, she needs space."

"I will ask for your opinion when I want it, Marcos. Now go fetch my fucking tracker."

He lingers for a moment before shaking his head in disbelief and wandering off to a small tent. Marcos disappears for a minute, before he steps out, giving his hand to Kyra, who takes it as she limps in my direction. It feels like there is something stuck in my throat as I clear it, and adjust my sweatshirt at the neck.

Why does it feel so hard to breathe when I see someone like Marcos touching her?

"You called for me, your royal dictatorship?" Kyra says, wincing as Marcos helps down on the to log in front of the fire.

"You alright? Do you need anything?" He asks, his eyes focusing on her face like he knows her well enough to care. I bite back a scoff just as she barks a soft laugh.

"Oh, you think I trust you enough to ever take something from you again? How fun." She sneers before she whips her heated gaze to me.

"Marcos, go get the ointment." I order him, and he frowns as his shoulders slump and he stalks off doing as I ask.

"Don't bother," she calls out to him as he continues to walk on.

"Let me see you," I say, stepping over to her.

"There is nothing to see. I am a lycan, and I will heal after a good sleep." She protests, her arms crossing over her chest, but I see the way her already pale cheeks lose more color and she seems to gasp silently. Guilt and frustration swirl together as I press my lips together and scowl at her.

"It's my fault you are hurt, so shut up and stop resisting." I mutter.

She stops moving, sighing as she gives in and leans forward as I step behind her. My hands reach out to lift her shirt and my breathing hitches. A shiver running through my body, making me freeze as I blink and try to regain mental control. Why does the thought of seeing her smooth skin make me feel uncomfortable? What the hell is wrong with me?

"Are you going to look or are you trying to muster up a half-assed apology?" She mutters, giving me permission as I pull up the hem of her shirt and look at her bare back.

She leans forward, her elbows on her knees as she reaches back with her hands shielding her front as she grips the shirt at the base of her neck. Everything goes still, the air no longer moving and the sounds disappearing as I stare at the damage I caused.

When you live in a mentally dark place, you don't think you can sink any lower. That is until you witness what exactly that darkness has led you to do to someone you used to care deeply for.

The deep bruise covering the entirety of her back makes my heart skip a beat and the jagged cut, though clean looking and no longer bleeding, looks deep. She is littered with lacerations and scraps.

"Damn it, Kyra." I grumble with a heavy sigh. "I thought you said you were fighting dragons. It looks like you fell off a fucking mountain?"

She scoffs and shakes her head. "I did fall off a mountain. More like I slipped, dragon's blood and their fuel reserves are slippery."

I bite my tongue until I taste the familiar copper hint of blood in my mouth.

"Fucking hell." Dean whistles as he walks over and crouches closer, looking at the array of bruising colors on her once perfect skin. He reaches out, his fingers close to her skin, skin he has no right to touch. "What the hell are you doing?" I grind out.

"This one goes all the way along

here. She might have some broken ribs." He murmurs, his hand touching her as she reacts with a hiss, but she leans to the away.

exposing more of her side a net

around to her upper stomach My eyes linger on the swell of the bottom of her breast that she covers with her shirt and biceps, making my

"I had broken ribs and a punctured lung." She says. "Hence why I still look awful. Internal injuries heal first."

My ruined fingers reach out,

touching her hard stomach muscles,

and she gasps, writing away from me. It stings seeing how she runs

from my touch, but not Dean's./ snap my hand back and take the ointment from where Marcos had placed it. A part of me wants to storm off, angry that she seems to be so disgusted by me, by the way I am now.

But my stubbornness wins out and I glare at Dean, who is whole. His attractive features are not marred and deformed by a dragon who took everything from him. All it does is make my fury grow, and before I realize it, I clutch his wrist and force him to face me. "Go away," I hiss between my teeth and he blinks at me, confused.

"She doesn't need you gawking at her bare body." I say firmly, and Dean scoffs.

"I'm gawking at her wounds, Hayes. Not her damn body."

Kyra stands up in a flash and spins, yanking the ointment from me with a glower on her scratched up face. Her freckled cheeks are flushed with anger and pain.

"Its YOU I don't want touching me. Dean can stay and handle this," she says, placing the ointment in his hand. A dry laugh rolls through me that makes the two of them go still, fear in their eyes.

"I apologize that my looks disgust you, Kyra. But this is not up for debate. Sit your ass down and try not to vomit when I put my hands on you."

She stares at me, wide eyes before she swallows roughly and glances at Dean who puts his hands up and walks away, shooting me a curious look and shaking his head.

Then Kyra plops down. She yanks the shirt over her head, hugging it to her chest. She wordlessly shows me the upper part of her shoulders, where a large, slim, brown item glistens under her skin.

"It feels like there is something in my skin here," she mumbles, dropping her head into her hands.

"There is something in there," I sigh, opening the ointment and scooping it onto my good hand.

I stroke it over her cuts and scrapes, my fingers lingering over her skin, causing her to shiver. It brings a smile to my lips, thinking that perhaps it's a response to me. A spark hits my fingertips and I freeze, my chest aching and my body suddenly feeling like a heat is rushing through me after ages of being frozen.

I stumble back, falling over onto my

ass with a grunt. She glances back at me, the look on her face confused and hurt But under all of that, I sense a tiny flicker of hope and slam my emotional wall back up. No. No. What ever that fucking was, me coming back to life or just a peak at a future I could ever have; I shut it the fuck down.

"Marcos!" I call out and he comes rushing over.

"What happened?" He asks, reaching out to help me up, but I shove him away.

"She has a massive splinter in her shoulder that needs to be taken out." I say, pushing myself up and taking a step back. Her eyes meet mine in a flurry of confusion and I look away, retreating quickly to the dark where she can't see me. "And I can't get it with my hand,"

It's not a lie, my dexterity isn't great in my injured hand. I'm not just disfigured, but I lost nerves and muscles to the flame. But my reasoning, though valid, is not why I am retreating.

Kyra's mere presence confounds me. She is bringing me to life when I prefer to live like the dead and I can't have that. I won't. Even if that means watching another man soothe her pain after I am the one who put her through it.