King Novel novel Chapter 39

Chapter 39

Chapter 39

Enoch shouldn’t be behaving like this if he doesn’t feel what I do.

He steadies me effortlessly, but the second he realizes just how close we are, he recoils like I burned him. His body jerks back so fast I nearly topple over again. It’s almost funny–the big, bad, amnesiac Lycan King acting like I’m a fucking disease.

“Thanks for the save, asshole,” I mutter, brushing dirt off my palms.

He just grunts as an answer, those gaze barely looking at me, his expression is once again unreadable. His reactions are always a gamble. Sometimes he’s completely unreadable, like now, and other times, he looks at me like he wants to devour me whole. No in–between.

We go about the rest of the training session in tense, loaded silence, dodging, striking, moving in sync. It should be like every other day, but there’s something different. An energy that linger—suffocating with its thickness, even after we finish and the rest of the pack drifts away, sneering in my direction as they pass.

Nothing new.

The rest of the day was like usual ever since the Alpha announced that stupid command: the pack are either pretending we don’t exist or shooting me glares that could strip flesh from bone.

Good. Business as usual.

But that’s not what sticks with me as I walk back to the packhouse. It’s that feeling again.

The one that has nothing to do with my usual paranoia.

Someone is watching me.

I feel it. It prickles along my spine, an unwelcome presence in the shadows, just out of sight, lurking. I glance back toward the deep forest, scanning between the thick trees. Nothing but darkness stretching beyond the clearing.

Still. The feeling doesn’t fade.

***

Night falls, and I realize I haven’t seen Enoch in hours. Not on the training ground, not in the kitchen, not even perched on his usual windowsill, obsessing over that damn book about the royal family he always reads as though it holds the answers to his missing past.

That’s when I find him.

On the bed. Unmoving. A fevered flush crawling up his neck, his skin clammy, his breath shallow.

Shit.

I don’t panic. I’m not that girl. But something about seeing him like this makes my stomach twist. He’s strong, impossibly strong, but right now, he looks… vulnerable. And I don’t fucking like it.

“Enoch,” I say, shaking his shoulder lightly. “Hey. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Nothing. He shifts, the movement sluggish, barely there.

Double shit.

I move to call Dr. Lisa. Because sure, it’s just a fever, but this is Enoch. Not just any wolf. A Lycan. And something tells me his biology doesn’t follow the same rules.

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Before I can leave, though, a burning–hot hand latches onto my wrist.

“Don’t,” Enoch rasps.

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His fingers tighten, and when I turn, his forest greenneyes–dazed, wild–are locked onto me.

“Stay” he rasps.

That one word, hoarse and wrecked, does something weird to my chest. I chalk it up to secondhand fever delirium.

“You need a doctor, Enoch,” I argue, trying to pry myself free.

His grip tightens. “No.”

His voice is more insistent this time, more… desperate. His forehead creases, his lips parting slightly like the idea of me leaving is physically painful for him.

I exhale sharply, yanking at my wrist. “I don’t care if you have some weird phobia of needles or white coats or whatever the fuck-”

He groans, low and pained, but his eyes crack open.

“You” he breathes, “Enough.”

My throat goes dry,

Oh,

His lashes flicker, and for the first time, I see it. The barest flicker of something primal lurking beneath the fever haze.

Lycan

This isn’t just a fever. His body is changing, shifting, something deep inside him waking up.

The realization settles like a rock in my gut. I stare down at him, and for the first time since I found him bleeding out in the woods, I realize just how unfairly beautiful he is. Even sick, sweat–damp hair sticking to his forehead, he looks like something carved by gods with too much free time and a thirst for cruelty.

“I” My words die in my throat when he tugs me again, this time harder, until I stumble forward, right into the heat of him.

His fingers flex against my wrist, then he tugs–hard.

I don’t just stumble. I crash, landing half on top of him, my palm splaying against his bare chest for balance. Heat radiates off him in waves, and suddenly, there’s no air between us. Just fevered skin, tangled limbs, and his eyes, hazy but intent, watching me as if I’m the only thing anchoring him right now.

My heart slams against my ribs, a reckless thing, and for the briefest, stupidest moment, I think about leaning in.

Instead, I groan. “You’re a goddamn menace.”

A ghost of a smirk tugs at his lips before, his eyes flutter closed. His breathing evens out, but his arm me close, locking me against him.

n’t loosen. He holds

My throat tightens. I should pull away. I should argue, tell him this is a stupid idea. But there’s something desperate in the way he’s holding me, something raw and unguarded.

And just for a second…

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I let myself sink into it.

I let myself be enough.

Enoch’s head on my chest should be uncomfortable. It’s not.

It should be suffocating, considering he’s half a furnace, radiating heat as though he swallowed the sun. But instead, his warmth seeps into my skin, grounding me, lulling me into a false sense of peace.

His breath is slow, rhythmic, tickling the exposed skin of my collarbone. I would almost think he’s asleep if he didn’t suddenly mumble, “Noisy.”

I blink down at him. “I’ll try to minimize my breathing.”

“Not you.” He shifts, his voice barely above a growl. “Them.”

A slow chill creeps up my spine. Them?

I don’t hear anything except the rustling leaves outside, the occasional howl in the distance. But Enoch–he hears something else. Something I can’t.

My fingers instinctively stroke through his damp hair, the strands curling from the fever still cooking him from the inside out. “What do you hear?”

His face is buried against me, but his voice is eerily clear when he mutters, “She’s fucking him.”

My entire body goes rigid. “Excuse me?”

“They say.” His breath hitches, nostrils flaring like he’s drinking in something foul. Then he repeats it, verbatim, tone flat, disinterested. “The Omega whored her way into his bed. The rogue is rutting her like a bitch in heat.”

My jaw unhinges. The fuck did he just say?

I sit up so fast Enoch groans, his arms tightening around my waist as if I just yanked his pillow out from under him. “Who the fuck is saying that?!”

He doesn’t answer right away, just shifts, nuzzling against my sternum like I didn’t just have an aneurysm.

“More.”

“More? More what? More fucking slander?” I seethe, hands balling into fists.

Enoch hums. “They say the Alpha will regret it. That he will claim her again.”

I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh, will he? That piece of shit?”

His hand twitches against my side, his fingers flexing. “They say.” His voice drops lower, almost guttural. “That he will force her.”

A fresh, hot rage unfurls in my chest. My pulse hammers in my throat, a violent, living thing. “Well, they can go themselves.”

Enoch exhales heavily, as though my words satisfy him.

fuck

For a moment, there’s silence. My fingers resume their absentminded stroking through his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp, something I know he likes even if he won’t admit it.

Then, just as my breathing starts to level out, he adds, “They say she moans so prettily for the rogue.”

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Chapter 39