Traded To The Lycan King by MG Wattsons

*Hayes*

I barely have time to get her name out of my mouth to warn her, my heart pounding out of my chest as I watch in shock. I try to get to her, but it's too late as a tree swings wildly in the raging mud. Its branches reach out and toss her slender frame like a rag doll twenty feet from me.

"Kyra," I call out again, my voice harsh and loud. I duck under the tree as it's pulled back into the fury of the waves that rush by with no care.

"Shit," I mutter, eyeing the way the water seems to rise further, putting us in danger of being sucked back in. With the way the current is going and Kyra lying unconscious, that is the last thing I want right now.

We need to move away from this river or mudslide or whatever natural shitstorm this is. There is no time to waste as I gingerly turn her onto her side. She is limp as I collect her in my arms. Her warm skin is raised and already bruising as I sprint further into the woods. My lungs burn as I push myself to run harder.

I stutter in my step when I look down. The full force of nature's light showcasing the depth of her injuries. Kyra's perfect face is swollen, her entire right side bruised with a deep gash from her hairline to the top of her cheekbone. The Purplish hues make her freckles disappear and my stomach lurches, my fingers grip her tighter as guilt washes over me.

I hate myself, the selfish way I've grown in my desire to just end my life. These bruises, her injuries, they are my fault. Had I not been so blinded by my own shit, I might have seen that she would come for me.

I swallow the lump in my throat, licking my dry lips before I look away, searching to see where I am, and if we can stay here at least until she wakes up. I find a soft, mossy spot near a tree and move toward it.

Kyra groans in pain as I lay her down, her face wincing as I wait for her to wake up. But she doesn't. Impatience takes over as I lean forward to nudge her awake with a gentle touch.

"Kyra," I whisper, moving closer as my hand strokes her cheek, trying to bring her back to consciousness. "Come on Ky, it's time to wake up now."

It does nothing, and I groan in annoyance, running my tongue over my teeth. I exhale sharply, my hand falling away before I stand and pace back and forth. Waiting, and waiting...and waiting for her to wake up and yet she doesn't open her eyes, or even move for hours. I check her pulse, my fingers brushing over her soft wrists, searching for any sign of life. Her heart beats strong and steady, and yet every time I step away from her, that panic that she won't wake up takes hold.

So instead, I decide to occupy my mind and get things done, opting to believe she will wake up sooner rather than later. Hope and patience are my only options now, and I'm not great at either of these days.

For a short time I leave her, verifying we are safe enough and that Ezrah is not nearby or anything worse, like dragons or some other lurking enemy. Thank the heavens that none of our enemies seem to be nearby, and as luck would have it, I find a rundown car with grass and cobwebs for an engine.

I search it for anything I can find. The blanket is gray and holey, but the dust seems to shake off decently when I whip it through the air a few times.

Under it, I find a stash of broken suitcases and grab the few items of clothing that seem like they might work based on her size. Then I shove my legs through some jeans that are not the right size. I tuck the blanket under my arm and rush back to Kyra with a shirt and some shorts in hand.

Each step brings a throbbing in my chest of hope that maybe she woke up and is sitting and waiting for me. A strange desire settling deep in my gut to see her eyes and feel her gaze on me blooms and I can't hide the fact that I hate this. To see her hurt, unresponsive, again, is...making me go crazy.

As I break into the little area I had put her, a sick feeling of dread falls over me. Kyra's unconscious body remains exactly where it was, unmoved, as if she has done nothing but breathe and hold on to life.

Her naked body is covered in

goosebumps, the only sign that she is still clinging on. Her torso and chest are riddled with healing

bruises and her shoulders bare an et

deep red mark. She was struck incredibly hard, her head catching the brunt of it. Clearly why she is still asleep. I only hope that the internal damage is enough that her body can

heal it.

"I got you some clothes." I say, stalking toward her unconscious body, feeling a little awkward speaking to someone who can't respond. "If you wake up while I am doing this, I swear I am just getting you dressed."

I kneel beside her, gently sliding my hand under head and lifting her slightly as I slip a green oversized shirt over her head. My fingers skim her skin tenderly as I pull the fabric over her arms and down her legs as far as I can.

I move to her ankles and slip her feet through the holes in the terry cloth shorts and slip them up her legs. Then I grab the blanket and lay it over her. The exhaustion from earlier is gone as I watch her delicate features as she remains passed out with me on watch, sitting next to her.

Kyra has always been beautiful.

When we were younger, her freckles

reminded me of the stars, and most nights after she ran away, I would stare up at the sky and regret everything in life. I missed her, still miss her. It took watching her nearly dying a second time to realize just how much I hate the thought of a world without her.

It is captivating, just how much she has changed, all the while still being exactly who she always was. There was a time I wanted to kiss those lips until they were red and swollen.

A time where I would have given everything for her, a time before I realized we weren't fated mates. Well, that's not all that true either. Even now, looking at her as she breathes, the air whistling from her pursed lips... the urge to touch them is overwhelming.

I reach out, pulling my hand back as I hesitate for a moment, then I press my fingers to her swollen face. Her skin is warm to the touch, the bruise already looking better as the cut on her head is healing already. My fingers slip down her cheek, finding a freckle before I drag it to another, then another.

I could get lost in these freckles, just drawing sweet nothings as I connect them from one perfect little brown spot to the next. My fingers stop at a larger freckle just at the corner of her lip, and I find my mouth is dry.

This is why I had to reject her confession of love, why I had to cut ties. How could I love someone this hard when there is no bond? And how desperately would it have hurt her had I accepted her and found my mate later in life?

Breaking her heart was the easiest thing to do, as I knew I was protecting her from something far worse. Or so I thought, but not even I could save her from the pain of losing a mate. Hell, I couldn't save myself either.

I inch down, laying beside her as she shivers, my arm slips around her stroking her back as I try to warm her with my body heat. Moments like this, in the silence, where I am lost in a time, where I was happy and not broken. I think maybe, just maybe, I could live a life after Leandra.

Maybe I could deserve it, if this

woman right here didn't hate me. Her lips press together, and then the part, a huff of hot air hitting my face and it overcomes me. Fuck, I have tried to block those old feelings, convince myself she isn't the same girl loved, but under that sassy attitude and strong facade is just Kyra. My Kyra, if I had let her be mine.

I slip my hand up her arm and over her shoulder, finding her cheek as I commit every second of this to memory. With the gentlest caress, I stroke my thumb over her lips, my eyes falling closed as the lightest tingle glides up my arm, bringing a smile to my face. Then my eyes snap open, my hand yanking back as if her skin is made of lava, my chest heaving for air. What the fuck was that?