King Novel novel Chapter 30

Chapter 30

Chapter 30

I don’t remember moving. One second, I was standing there, frozen in the aftermath of the chaos, and the next, I was running.

The infirmary doors come into view, but so do the two pack warriors standing in front of them, arms crossed over their chests like two pieces of furniture bolted to the ground. My breathing is uneven, heart hammering as I push forward, but their presence alone is enough to confirm what I already suspected–I’m not getting in.

I barely skid to a stop before I crash into him. “Move.” My voice is tight, demanding, even though I know it won’t work.

One of them, a Beta–ranked warrior with a scar running across his cheek, raises a brow at me. “Off–limits.”

I step forward, trying to shove past, but he doesn’t budge. My fingers curl into fists. “He’s hurt–what the fuck do you mean, off–limits?”

The other guard, bulkier, sighs like I’m a mild inconvenience. “It’s the Alpha’s orders. Step away, Omega.”

Alpha’s orders.

I clench my fists, my nails biting into my palms. I should’ve known. Kallias‘ father–the walking corpse who calls himself an Alpha–probably thinks keeping me away from Enoch will make me shut up. Obedient little Omega, know your place.

They’ve got me all the way fucked up.

I almost argue. I almost tell them that Enoch is mine to look after, that I pulled him out of that goddamn forest with my own hands, that if anyone has a right to be in there, it’s me. But I can see it in their faces–there’s no room for negotiation. They aren’t here to listen. They’re here to keep people like me out.

So I turn and run.

I spin on my heel and storm down the hall, ignoring the warriors‘ tense muttering behind me. I know exactly where to go. If I can’t get into Enoch’s room, I’ll go to the person who should be treating him.

Dr. Lisa.

I don’t knock. I don’t hesitate. I don’t even give a single shit that she’s in the middle of a consultation. I shove the door open so hard that it bounces off the wall, rattling the framed certificates and making the patient jump like I just pulled a gun on her.

“Taryn, what the-”

“Out,” I snap, looking at the patient, some middle–aged she–wolf with a sprained wrist or whatever. I don’t have the patience

to

care.

The woman gapes at me. “Excuse me?”

Dr. Lisa exhales, rubbing her temples. “Taryn, I’m in the middle of an appointment-

“Out,” I repeat, sharper this time, and when the woman doesn’t move, I jerk my chin toward the door. “You’ll live. Come back later.”

She huffs in indignation but grabs her bag and storms past me, muttering something about ‘rudel breath. I don’t give a shit. The second she’s gone, I whirl on Dr. Lisa.

Omegas‘ under her

“Why the hell aren’t you treating Enoch?” My voice is shaking, and it’s not from fear. It’s from the kind of rage that makes people do irreversible things. “You’ve been his doctor this whole time, and now you’re just–what? Ignoring him?”

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Chapter 30

Dr. Lisa leans back in her chair, her expression shifting from irritation to something more exhausted. “It’s are up we Taryn.”

“Like hell it isn’t,” I snap. “You’ve been patching him up for weeks-”

Lisa exhales, leaning back in her chair, looking exhausted. “Because I was told not to”

1 freeze. “By who?”

Her lips press into a thin line, “Who do you think?”

I fucking knew it.

I shove my hands through my hair, tugging at the roots like the pain will somehow ground me. “You’re the one wish bera treating him this whole time,” I hiss. “You’re the only one who knows how to handle him, and now, suddenly, you’re at allowed to anymore? You’re just gonna sit there and let that happen?”

Her gaze hardens. “I don’t have a choice, Taryn.”

“Bullshit.”

She hesitates, glancing toward the door like she’s afraid someone might be listening. When she finally speaks, her voice is lower, careful. “I don’t know, but he’s fixated on him. He keeps asking about Enoch’s origins. Where he came from. What I

know about him.”

My stomach tightens.

She doesn’t know anything. Not really.

I’m the only one who does.

“Did you say anything?” My voice is barely above a whisper.

Dr. Lisa shakes her head. “There’s nothing to say. He was found in the forest, half–dead. That’s all I know.” She passes, expression grim. “But I don’t think the Alpha believes that’s all there is to it.”

Neither do I.

I don’t remember leaving her office, only the heaviness in my chest growing heavier with every step. I feel sick, as if I’m standing at the edge of something I don’t want to see—I don’t want to know. But my feet keep moving, carrying me straight to Enoch’s room, our room.

It’s empty, my bed made, his things untouched under my bed since the last time he was here. My hands shake as I reach for the book he’s been reading for weeks–the one he got from the library, the one he pores over as though he’s searching for something buried in its pages.

The History of the Lycan Monarchy.

I flip through the worn pages, my breath catching when I see the markings. The circled words. King. Alpha King. Dead parents. Unknown face of the current ruler.

Enoch doesn’t remember who he is. He doesn’t know where he came from. But something inside him does.

My head is spinning. pers I’ve kept for years.

My throat tightens as I scan the pages, my vision blurring. I don’t want to believe it. I can’t belie but my body is moving on its own. I throw open my desk drawer, yanking out a stack of old ne Articles about the Lycan King. His birth. His disappearance. The laws he established. How he’s never been seen, how no one knows his face.

My fingers tremble as I compare them to Enoch’s notes.

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Chapter 30

The King’s birth year. Enoch’s birth year.

The timelines match.

No.

No, no, no.

I shut the newspaper with a sharp exhale, my hands trembling. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything. But my instincts are clawing at me, screaming at me, and I don’t know whether to listen or shove the thought so deep inside that it never sees the light of day.

I shove everything back, cramming it under his clothes in a frantic mess, heart slamming against my ribs. I don’t know what’s worse–the fact that this is making sense, or the fact that I don’t want it to.

I have to hide this. Now.

But as I do, my fingers brush against something cold and familiar.

I pause, pulling out the small camera I bought him weeks ago.

I flip it on, expecting nothing. He hated this thing. He flinched when the flash went off, like it physically hurt him.

But the gallery isn’t empty.

My breath catches in my throat.

They’re all of me.

Candid shots, dozens of them. Me eating, me laughing, me cooking, me glaring at him when he said something stupid. Some are blurry, like he took them in a rush. Others are clearer, more intentional.

-My chest tightens as I click through them, my fingers trembling. And then I find the videos.

I click on one, my heart hammering. The screen fills with me, standing at the kitchen counter, grumbling under my breath as I stir a pot of

soup.

I press play on the first one.

The screen flickers, and there I am–standing at the stove, stirring a pot, mumbling under my breath.

Then his voice, deep and hesitant.

“Pretty.”

My heart stops.

In the video, I look up, scowling. “If you’re calling me pretty just so I’ll cook faster, I swear to God-”

“Pretty,” he repeats, firmer this time. Like he wants me to get it.

Like he means it.

The video cuts off.

Another clip–me, dozing off on the couch, a book open on my chest.

His voice, softer this time. “She reads. Many books. Falls asleep before finishing.”

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My vision blurs.

I don’t even realize I’m crying until my shoulders shake, a choked sob breaking free. I press the camera against my chest. curling into myself.

He doesn’t want his own picture taken. He panicked when I tried, as if the flash had physically hurt him.

But he always takes pictures of me.

I clutch the camera tighter, my body wracked with silent sobs. Because for all his quietness, his blank stares, his lost memories–this? This tells me everything I need to know.

Enoch sees me. Notices me in ways no one else ever has.

And I don’t know what to do with that now that I have sent him to his own hell.

It’s all my fault.

The world feels like it’s moving in slow motion when I wake up. My head is heavy, eyelids crusted with dried tears. The ache in my chest lingers like a wound left untreated, festering under my ribs, but the exhaustion has dulled it into something bearable. Barely.

Enoch’s things are sprawled around me on the bed, scattered evidence of a man who never should’ve been in my life but somehow became my whole damn world. The camera, the journals, the old newspapers I rifled through until my fingers were covered in ink smudges.

Proof of how much he’s been trying to remember, and proof of how much he remembers me, even if he doesn’t realize it

yet.

I rub at my eyes, dragging in a deep breath. The room is dimmer now, the afternoon slipping away. No one woke me up for my duties, which is either a miracle or a warning. Maybe everyone’s too afraid to come near me after what the Alpha did. Maybe they think I’ve finally cracked.