Babysitting The Amnesiac Lycan King novel Chapter 92

Chapter 92

The second I hear her voice–soft, velvety, and full of fucking pity–I’m gone.

I don’t wait for confirmation. I don’t need to see more than the back of Brooke’s head practically glued to his chest.

That bitch could’ve been breathing his air and I still would’ve turned around.

I don’t wait. I don’t need to. My body does the thinking for me.,

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I take a step back and shit–my heel knocks into a vase, the goddamn thing wobbles, and I watch it in slow motion like that will stop it from crashing.

It doesn’t.

Clatter. Shatter. Echo.

Fuck.

I bolt.

God. My lungs burn.

My chest–fuck, my chest aches like someone cracked me open and dumped acid inside.

My eyes are leaking even before I’ve stopped moving, hot and heavy tears blurring my vision as the corridor splits into two and I pick one on instinct. Or maybe on pure delusional hope that I can outrun this.

My legs don’t ask for directions. They just run. Left, then right, then through a hallway I swear I’ve never seen before.

My boots slap against marble. I catch glimpses of stunned maids, confused guards. Someone shouts my name, maybe, but it’s muffled behind the roaring in my head.

I don’t know where I’m going. Don’t care.

All I know is I need to get out.

Away from him. Away from the sound of her whispering things I was supposed to hear.

“She made her choice.”

No, fuck you. I might have write the article, but I didn’t write it and whoever published it better count her last days.

But Enoch… you lied, you let me fall, you fucking left me for… for her? And now you’re back with… that?

My vision’s tunneling, and everything stings. My throat’s tight. My chest’s worse. Like something’s inside, thrashing against my ribs, trying to claw its way out.

I don’t stop until I do.

My foot slips on one of the polished steps. I grab the railing, barely catching myself. My breath’s coming in short gasps now, stupid, humiliating hiccups choking the sobs that won’t stop clawing up my throat.

Goddess… tears begin to blur my vision again.

Shit. I can’t do this.

I can’t-

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My shoulder hits a door,

I don’t even check if it’s locked–1 shove it open and stumble inside, slamming it shut behind me with a final, satisfying thud.

Silence.

My hand’s shaking as I turn the old–fashioned lock. I don’t even know where the hell I am, but it’s quiet. Dim.

I wipe at my face, but it does nothing. My cheeks are wet again ten seconds later. My breathing sounds too loud in here. Like the walls are listening.

Great. Now I’m going insane.

I look up.

Dusty, but not forgotten. There’s a thick maroon carpet under my feet and the air smells faintly of roses and linen, like someone’s actually been taking care of this place.

It’s not abandoned. It just feels like it’s been… waiting.

I wipe my face with the back of my sleeve, blinking through the wetness. My chest still feels like a collapsing lung, but at least I can breathe in here.

Sort of.

There’s a bed at the end of the room. A real one. With a carved wooden frame, lace canopy, and a bunch of decorative pillows. The kind of bed that makes you feel like you’re intruding just by looking at it.

And then-

Holy shit.

There’s someone on it.

My hand shoots to my mouth as I take a cautious step back, immediately regretting busting into random–ass rooms in a palace full of secrets. But the figure isn’t moving aggressively. She’s just lying there, her back propped up against the pillows like she belongs here.

An old woman.

Like… really old.

White hair pulled back into a braid. Wrinkled hands folded over a pale–blue knit blanket. Her eyes are open, but not alarmed.

She looks at me like I’m a squirrel that wandered into the wrong tree.

“Why are you crying, sweetheart?”

Her voice is smooth. Raspy, worn down by decades, but not unkind.

I freeze. My lips press together like maybe if I stay silent long enough, she’ll just… disappear.

But she doesn’t.

“Come here,” she says. “Come sit. There’s no shame in a girl’s heartbreak.”

I almost laugh. Or sob. I’m not sure which one’s clawing its way out first.

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Still, I move. Because fuck it–at this point, what else do I have?

“Are you hurt?” she asks softly.

I blink at her, sniffling hard, because what the fuck else am I supposed to do? Pretend I’m here on a royal room–checking

mission?

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My throat closes up again. The tears start crawling out before I even know they’re coming. “No. I’m just… fuck.”

I press my palms to my face. There’s no hiding how much of a wreck I am. Mascara smudged, lips trembling, nose red. All of

1. it.

“You’re not fine,” she says gently, like it’s not an insult, just a fact. “Come here.”

I hesitate, but she pats the side of her bed like it’s a goddamn invitation to cry in peace.

And you know what?

Fuck it.

I’ve hit rock bottom in the royal palace. Might as well take a seat next to the friendly ghost of Christmas heartbreak.

close. Just enough that she can hear me when I speak, if I decide to say

The bed dips slightly as it down. I don’t get to clos anything at all.

“You ever love someone so much it makes you feel like an idiot?” I mutter, keeping my eyes on the floor. “Like you knew they were going to wreck you. And you still signed the fuck up for it.”

She hums softly, the kind of sound only old people can get away with without sounding condescending.

“I moved to a new city, got a new job, new apartment, even fucking flirted with someone else. I told myself he didn’t want me. That he threw me out like trash.”

“And yet here you are,” she says gently.

“Here I fucking am,” I mutter, laughing bitterly. “Stupid, huh? I had one glimpse of him and it’s like my heart forgot the last few months even happened.”

“I still remember how he suddenly left back then,” I say, my voice cracking. “He disappeared like he never existed. No goodbye. No explanation. Just–poof.” I wipe my nose on my sleeve again.

“And now he’s back. Different. Cold. And sure I did something bad but–but… she was… on his desk.”

The old woman doesn’t gasp or say anything cliché like “you poor thing.” She just lets me sit there and let the pain leak out of me one shattered piece at a time.

“I lied to him,” I whisper. “I thought I was doing the right thing. But I think I just made it easier for him to forget me.”

There’s a pause. Then her hand, paper–thin and warm, lands gently over mine. I flinch but she doesn’t let go. And for once, I bathed in the warmth given to me by a stranger.

“I once loved a man who belonged to the world more than he ever belonged to me,” she says, her voice low. “He carried the weight of a kingdom on his back.” she murmured, eyes on the window yet her hand is on mine. She’s reminiscing.

“While I… I carried the weight of his absence.” she continues.

I glance at her. She’s really not looking at me. Her eyes are on some invisible memory in the corner of the room.

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And maybe that’s what we both need right now. To just be… heard.

“We had a son. He inherited that same burden. Responsibility is a curse, my dear. Especially when love is in the way?

I go quiet.

What kind of responsibility did her husband needed to carry for him to have left her here?

She speaks again, softer now. “Sometimes love doesn’t die. It gets buried beneath duty. Buried so deep, you forget where you placed it.”

Something inside me clenches.

I don’t know why her words hurt like that. Maybe because they sound too close to what I’m afraid of. What I know.

“Did he ever come back?” I ask, barely above a whisper.

She looks at me, and her smile is sad.

“He never left,” she says. “But he was never really there either.”

I swallow. Hard.

And for a moment, we just sit there. Two women in a room that doesn’t belong to either of us, holding a silence that says all the things we can’t.

Maybe love isn’t enough.

Maybe that’s the cruelest part.

I sat there for Goddess knows how long. I don’t even know this woman but she’s amazing. She should be my therapist for goodness‘ sake.

She’s really warm.

Her shawl smells like lavender, mothballs, and expensive soap. A

nd I’m crying like I’ve been split open down the middle. As if everything I’ve been holding together with duct tape and spite just snapped.

“I knew what I did was wrong,” I whisper, voice so thin I almost miss it myself. “But I didn’t publish it, and he still threw me out.”

Her hand pets the back of my head, slow, gentle, though she’s done this a hundred times before. Maybe she has. Maybe she’s just used to broken things clinging to her.

“I just… I miss him,” I choke. “I fucking hate him, and I miss him. What kind of dumb bitch logic is that?”

She doesn’t answer, but keeps rubbing her hand over my hair. My cheek is pressed to her chest, and her heartbeat is steady, grounding, a goddamn metronome in this mess.

This should be awkward to do with a stranger you

don’t know.

“You’re not dumb,” she says eventually, “You’re just in love.”

I laugh, but it’s the kind that tastes like salt and regret.

The silence after that is peaceful, but not comforting. My thoughts are racing, looping around the same dead ends. Brooke. Enoch’s face. That fucking kiss.

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And then–her breath stutters. I immediately look up.

Once,

Twice.

And stops.

My whole body jerks.

“Granny?” I say, sitting up, heart flipping so violently it knocks the air out of me. “Hey–hey, are you okay?”

Her eyes flutter. Her hand goes slack. Her lips part, and her face twists in something tight and sharp.

Oh fuck.

Oh freaking fuck.

She clutches her chest.

11

I move fast–instinct, muscle memory, the echo of Dr. Lisa’s voice barking at me in the med hut back in Riverstone. She taught me this, I should know how to handle this.

My palms are already on her shoulders, easing her back as she starts to slide sideways.

“Don’t move. Shit–Granny, can you hear me?”

She gasps, nods weakly, then winces. Sweat dots her upper lip. Her skin’s turning pale, and I know what this is. I’ve seen it before in Dr. Lisa’s clinic. Heart attack.

“Fuck, okay. Okay. Deep breaths, come on–shit, I’m gonna lay you flat.”

I ease her down to the rug, heart hammering in my throat. My hands fly. Loosen the scarf. Elevate her legs. Check her pulse -thready. Breathing–shallow.

“You’re gonna be okay. I’ve got you, I promise.”

I grab the little decorative pillow and shove it under her knees. My hands are shaking but they know what to do, like they remember better than I do.

“Fuck, I need to call someone,” I mutter, snatching my phone out of my coat pocket.

But before I can even dial, her hand clamps around my wrist. Shaky. Weak. But insistent.

“No,” she croaks, voice barely more than a rasp. “Don’t … call.”

I stare at her, mouth open. “Granny, no offense, but you’re literally dying right now.”

“Not yet,” she says with a wheeze. “Work… for me.”

What the actual fuck?

“I can’t–I need to get you help, now isn’t the time for—”

She yanks my wrist. Hard. Her eyes go wild for a second. “Work. For. Me.”

“What–like in this palace? Who even are you?”

Before I can argue further, she jerks her arm sideways and grabs a rope bell near the side table. It clangs—loud, ancient,

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