Babysitting The Amnesiac Lycan King novel Chapter 90

Chapter 90

Chapter 90

The palace gates slam shut behind me.

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Not metaphorically. Not in a poetic, symbolic way. No, they literally fucking slam. Cold iron. Loud clang. And me, standing outside as some kicked–out groupie who dared to dream too high.

Fuck.

My ears are ringing too loud from how hard I was sobbing just seconds ago. My knees are shaking, gravel biting into my skin. as I finally stand. I don’t even brush myself off. What’s the fucking point?

Sobbing on the palace steps though a goddamn idiot while two oversized wolves watched with blank expressions. One of them finally tells me, “Your things will be sent to your company. You should leave before you draw more attention.”

Right. Because getting thrown out as a piece of trash wasn’t humiliating enough–I should also worry about how I look.

I wipe my nose on the back of my hand. I taste blood in my mouth–I must’ve bitten my lip when I hit the ground. My throat’s raw, as if I swallowed glass, and there’s still that lump in there that won’t go away no matter how many times I swallow.

I push myself up. My palms are dirty. Dress wrinkled. I’m trembling, but I smile like I’m not dying inside. Because that’s what we do, right? We perform. We survive. We fake it.

Inside my head, something shifts.

I hear her.

Eris.

My wolf, the only one who’s ever stood by me, the one who let me cling to her when I had no one else. She’s quiet for a beat, and I stupidly think maybe she’s gonna comfort me or say something vaguely helpful.

She doesn’t.

“I can’t believe you did that to him.”

Her voice is laced with disappointment so sharp I flinch.

“Eris-”

“He was right,” she says bitterly. “Mates don’t do that shit to each other.”

And just like that, she’s gone. Her presence flickers and disappears as someone shut off a switch. Nothing. Not even static. She’s blocked me out.

I’m alone.

Again.

More alone than I’ve ever been.

I swallow the lump in my throat so hard it burns.

I take a taxi back. Not even sure how I remembered to call one or where I found the goddamn strength to climb in. I must look like shit because the driver doesn’t talk. Good. I’m not in the mood to pretend I’m holding it together.

“WolfNet Media HQ,” I whisper.

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Chapter 90

+58)

God, I should run. Hide. Dig a hole and rot in it. But I don’t. Because I’m a journalist. And journalists show up–even when their world is burning.

The moment the automatic doors to the company building slide open, I get hit with–

Confetti.

Fucking confetti.

“YOU GUYS! SHE’S HERE!” someone yells from the other side of the lobby. I blink, confused, as a bunch of my coworkers flood toward me as though I’m some war hero returning from battle.

There’s champagne being poured, cupcakes on desks, and a big–ass sign that says CONGRATS ON GOING VIRAL, QUEEN!

My blood runs cold.

No. No fucking way.

Liam appears in the middle of it all, his tie loose around his neck, blazer half–on like he got dragged into the celebration five minutes before I arrived. He spots me and smiles, the first genuine grin I’ve ever seen on that man’s face.

“Well, well,” he says, raising a glass in my direction. “The star of the show arrives.”

I don’t move.

I can’t.

Liam’s voice cuts through the chaos. “The genius behind the most talked–about exposé of the year.” His smile is smug, arms wide like he’s about to hand me an Oscar. “Taryn fucking Sinclair. Holy shit, you’ve made us a fortune.”

I’m frozen there on the welcome mat while coworkers I barely know start crowding around, clapping me on the back, handing me drinks, spewing praise as though I didn’t just burn down my whole life.

I barely catch the glass of champagne someone pushes into my hand. I don’t drink it.

My fingers are numb.

“That article,” one guy gushes–Josh, I think? From finance? “It’s fucking everywhere! Front page on three national werewolf outlets. Hell, even some humans are reading it. We’ve got interviews lined up, brand deals sniffing around, ad revenue tripled overnight. You basically made this place famous, Sinclair.”

I can’t breathe.

Liam’s behind me now, sliding an arm around my shoulder. “People can’t get enough. The Lycan King’s camera trauma? His media blackout? The meltdown at the Maldives hotel? All of it. You gave the world the story it didn’t know it needed. You’ve got the instincts, kid.”

My mouth is dry. Like sandpaper and shame.

I nod.

Because what else am I supposed to do?

Say, actually, the King you’re all dragging is the man I love, and I didn’t even write that version of the article, and I would give anything–anything–to take it back?

Yeah. Didn’t think so.

I glance across the room and spot Zoe.

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Chapter 90

Star’s standing near the copy machine, arms crossed tight over her chest, lips pressed into a thin, disapproving line. Her eyes seet mine, and at feels as though someone just shoved me down a fucking cliff.

She does sanile. She doesn’t wave.

She just shudes her bead–slow, disappointed–and looks away.

it guts t

Because she knows

She saw us. In the Maldives. When Enoch danced around me like a damn puppy. When he pressed kisses to my jaw and trand to build me a damn blanket fort. She saw how he looked at me like I was his whole world.

And now she thinks 1 betrayed him. Maybe she’s right.

Maybe I did

Someone passes me a tablet with the article on the screen. I glance at the headline.

“The Beast Behind the Crown: The Lycan King’s Media Terror and Dark Past”

By Taryn Sinclair.

My name is burned into the front like a fucking signature on a death warrant.

I should’ve deleted this article.

I should’ve never written it in the first place.

I want to scream. Rip the sign down. Tell them all to shove their viral metrics and champagne up their asses. But my voice is trapped under guilt so thick I can’t even swallow.

“Where did you even get that info?” another coworker asks, awe in her voice. “It’s like you knew him better than anyone.”

I don’t answer.

I can’t

Because I did know him better than anyone. I knew he flinched at camera flashes because they reminded him of the explosion that wiped out his family. I knew he couldn’t sleep unless he heard my heartbeat. I knew the sound he made when he laughed too hard and how he clenched his fists when he was scared.

And I used it.

Even if I didn’t mean to–even if the version I sent was different–they used my words to destroy him.

I stare down at the tablet. The words blur. My vision swims.

I want to throw up.

I set the champagne down, untouched.

I need air. I need-

Fuck.

I think I need to throw up.

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ter 90

I’ve never realized how fucking quiet the city can be until I’m back in this apartment.

Not even back in it yet. I’m just standing in front of the damn door like a loser, with my hand on the knob, trying not to cry in front of Liam fucking Calloway, who is currently juggling my suitcase like a damn body bag.

It’s mine. All of it is mine. My luggage. My boxes. My sad, thrown–out–of–the–palace belongings. The final nail in the “Taryn, go fuck yourself” coffin.

“Here,” Liam says, not even winded, as he drops the last duffel bag on the welcome mat of my tiny apartment unit. His sleeves are rolled up, his hair messy from the wind, and his shirt clings to his chest from the three shots he definitely should not have taken before offering to drive me home. But hey–this is the Free City. It runs on caffeine, ambition, and repressed

trauma.

“You good?” he asks, watching me like I might disintegrate right there on the concrete floor.

I lie through my teeth. “Peachy.”

He raises a brow. “You look like you’re about to crawl into that bag and zip yourself in.”

Honestly? Not the worst idea I’ve ever had.

I snort. “Shut up and get inside before someone mistakes you for my sugar daddy.”

The lock clicks under my palm, and I push the door open. Same peeling paint on the walls. Same creaky floorboard by the kitchen counter. My welcome mat still says Bite Me, which is both ironic and tragically fitting.

The last time I was here, I was still stupid. Still hopeful. Still wanting to wake up next to Enoch with his stupid bed hair and his warm hands on my waist, mumbling my name like it was the only word he remembered.

Now he remembers everything except how to not fucking leave.

I drag one of the bags inside, ignoring how my throat closes up when I catch sight of a sweater of his at the top–black, oversized, the one he used to wrap around me like a goddamn blanket burrito.

God, I’m pathetic.

My eyes sting, and I blink up fast, refusing to let the tears win.

Not tonight. Not after everyone spent the day smiling at me like I didn’t just get emotionally bodyslammed out of the palace.

Zoe was quiet the whole damn day. Probably scared I’d snap if she said the wrong word. Not that I blame her.

I didn’t want to talk either. Just sat there like a mannequin, smiling when needed, nodding when Liam offered me the promotion of a lifetime like it was a consolation prize for being dumped by a fucking king.

“Think about it,” Liam had said, voice too soft, too understanding, too not Enoch.

Fuck, that hurt more than it should’ve.

“Your apartment’s freezing,” he mutters now, stepping in behind me and shutting the door. “Don’t tell me you didn’t pay your bill while you were off playing Queen of the Idiots.”

I almost laugh. “I was busy being emotionally manipulated and borderline kidnapped. Give me a break.”

He walks past me, flicking on the lights with one hand while the other rubs at the back of his neck. He looks too casual for someone I once thought was an absolute dick when we first met.

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Chapter 90

And now he’s carrying my bags and staying late and not saying I told you so.

Which is why I’m on edge.

Liam doesn’t do nice. He does sarcasm and critique and brooding glares that could wither plants. This version of him- quiet, helpful, concerned–it’s throwing me off.

I toss my coat on the couch and stumble to the fridge, opening it just to close it again. Empty. Of course. Just like me.

“Wine?” Liam asks.

“Do I look like I need wine or vodka?”

He raises the bottle. “Too bad. Wine it is.”

We end up on the floor because apparently, sitting on the couch is too formal for two emotionally constipated adults pretending they’re fine. He pours into mismatched mugs because I don’t own wine glasses. Haven’t since Zoe broke the last one in a drunken attempt to toast to “Women Who Survived Terrible Men.”

Fitting.

I down the mug as though it’s water and refill. He watches me in silence.

“You didn’t have to help,” I mutter, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “With the bags, I mean. Or this. Or… any of this.”

Liam’s gaze flicks to mine. “I wanted to.”

“Why?” I ask before I can stop myself. “Why the hell are you suddenly… this?”

“This?”