Page 34 of His Fierce Lycan Luna
Trey shakes his head, the lines of frustration etching deeper into his face. “No, Marissa never had a scent, so I wouldn’t have recognized her by scent anyway.” He pauses, as if the next words are heavy on his tongue. “Tatiana and Garret were paranoid about security. She used to make everyone in the castle use a descenter, so our scents couldn’t be tracked,” he explains.
I lean forward, resting my elbows on the cold, hard surface of the desk, the weight of centuries-old wood bearing witness to the tension in the room. “Not even by sight?” I ask, my voice laced with incredulity.
“I wasn’t here when she was here,” he replies, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his tone. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair before continuing. “I failed the trials three years in a row. I worked at the mill in town before I made your guard; she was already gone by then.”
The creak of parchment echoes softly as I sift through the stack of documents cluttering my desk, searching for corroborating evidence. Trey watches me, his gaze never flinching as if daring me to challenge his words.
“The year you accused me of tampering with your trial was the year I was officially made a guard.” The simplicity of his statement hangs between us, unadorned and raw. “I hardly entered the castle grounds except to drop wood off,” he adds.
My fingers find the edge of a particular sheet, and I pull it closer, scanning the neat script that lists appointments andduties. Trey’s name stands out; he was appointed guard two years after my sister’s death, just as he said.
It clicks into place—after her death, I had created the blood oath for my men and selected staff.
“Your story checks out,” I concede, my mind reeling from the implications. The pieces of the past settle into a new pattern, one where Trey’s presence now makes a twisted kind of sense. His unwavering gaze tells me he knows it, too—that the truth has always been in his favor when Dustin speaks.
“Then why were you a jerk to her in the stables?” Dustin asks.
Dustin’s question hangs in the air like a blade poised to strike, and Trey’s jaw tightens visibly. For a moment, he simply stares at Dustin, his eyes dark pools of old pain and regret. Then he leans forward, gripping the edge of the desk.
“I told you,” he starts, his voice rough, carrying the weight of years marred by a guilt that has never left him. “I thought she was Marissa Talbot’s daughter.” He pauses, swallows hard, and when he continues, there’s a fierceness in his tone that wasn’t there before. “Do you have any idea of the guilt I have lived with for not being there that night?”
“Azalea was my charge, and I left, and she vanished by the time I got back!” The words are like a confession, a plea for understanding from someone who has been living in the shadow of a single, haunting failure.
Trey’s breath hitches, and he looks up, his eyes meeting mine with a raw honesty that is almost painful to witness. “I would never hurt her,” he says, and there’s no mistaking the sincerity in his voice.
“I just need to be around her now,” Trey says, and his voice breaks slightly, revealing the cracks in his composure. “That is why I have been so desperate to stay on as her guard.”
His admission lingers in the air, and I feel something shift—like a lock clicking into place that allows me to see the fullpicture of Trey’s allegiance. It’s no longer just about duty; it’s personal and fiercely protective. And as much as I hate to admit it, I understand that desperationbecause I feel it too—every time I look at Azalea.
Chapter
Twenty
AZALEA
My eyes flutter open, and I’m met with a cold absence on the other side of the bed. Kyson is gone. A low growl vibrates in my throat, frustration simmering through me like a brewing storm. Of course, he would leave before dawn, evading the barrage of questions he knows all too well are perched on the tip of my tongue. I throw the blanket back with a huff, the air chill against my skin.
I snatch a robe from the end of the bed and draw it around me. The fabric clings to my body, offering a scant comfort as I stride across the room. My fingers grasp the door handle, turning it with more force than necessary.
I open the door to the corridor to find Liam, his feet moving in a rhythm known only to him, his voice lilting softly as he sings a tune under his breath. He twirls, a solitary dancer lost in his own performance, but halts mid-spin as our eyes lock. His dance ends abruptly as if he’s just now aware of his audience.
“My Queen,” he greets, the words rolling off his tongue.
“Good morning, Liam,” I respond, my tone light despite my frustration. “Do you know where the King went?” My eyes search his, seeking an answer, but also gauging whether he’llbe straightforward or send me on a merry goose chase for information.
Liam’s eyebrows hitch upwards, his lips curving into a mischievous grin that doesn’t quite reach the worry etched in the corners of his eyes. “He’s with Trey,” he says, almost casually, like he’s commenting on the weather rather than the whereabouts of my missing husband. “Kyson’s trying to untangle the mess you left with Gannon and Dustin.”
My heart hitches as I process his words. “Huh?” escapes my lips. The command I had given in a moment of heated emotion now feels like a bomb I’ve inadvertently set off.
“Your command,” Liam clarifies, gesturing with a slight roll of his wrist. “The one where you ordered them from following or touching you.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, chastising myself.
“Right,” I mutter, more to myself than to him, a reminder that my words carry more weight than I realize. “And Kyson thinks I can just... undo that?”
“Perhaps,” Liam mumbles, his tone noncommittal, but the twinkle in his eye suggests he knows more than he’s letting on.
“Great,” I mutter, feeling the weight of my unintended consequences. “And why is Kyson talking to Trey?”
