A Dangerous Obsession
Chapter 73 - 72

Chapter 73: Chapter 72

The world around me swam back into focus, blurry and distorted like looking through a fogged window. My head felt leaden, my limbs too heavy to move. But it was the ache in my chest—a deep, hollow pain gnawing at my soul—that finally dragged me into full consciousness.

And then the tears came.

Hot and relentless, they spilled over before I could even think to stop them. Silent sobs wracked my body, my shoulders shaking as I struggled for air, every breath shallow and uneven. It felt like I was drowning under the weight of it all.

I tried to move, to lift a hand and wipe my face, but my body refused to cooperate. I was too weak, too fragile, and the realization only made the grief hit harder.

A shadow loomed beside me. I hadn’t noticed him before, but the faint scent of pine and something darkly earthy reached my nose, stirring a flicker of recognition.

The Lycan King.

He didn’t speak at first, just sat there, exuding an air of calm that felt so at odds with the storm raging inside me. Then, as if compelled by some unseen force, he moved.

His hand brushed my cheek, the rough pad of his thumb gently wiping away the tears that wouldn’t stop. His touch was warm, almost reverent, and it sent an unexpected shiver down my spine.

"Don’t cry," he murmured, his voice low and smooth, carrying a quiet authority that seemed to still even my deepest fears.

I looked up at him, though my vision was still blurred by tears. His expression wasn’t soft, but there was something almost amused in his piercing gaze.

"Your goddess might have abandoned you," he said slowly, deliberately, "but don’t you worry, darling."

"You can worship me now."

His absurd words cut through the fog of my grief like a blade. My breath hitched as I stared at him, stunned into silence.

"I am a god, after all," he added, his lips curling into a smirk that was as infuriating as it was confident.

Before I could process what he meant—or summon the energy to care—his hand pressed against my forehead.

The sensation was startling, like fire and ice coursing through my veins all at once. A warmth spread through me, chasing away the suffocating weight in my chest. For the first time in what felt like days, I could breathe freely.

Air filled my lungs, and I gasped, startled by the ease of it. The hollow ache in my chest didn’t vanish entirely, but it dulled, pushed back by the strange energy radiating from his touch.

I blinked up at him, my mind reeling, words failing me.

The smirk on his lips softened, though his confidence remained unshaken. "Better?" he asked, as if he hadn’t just done something completely inexplicable.

I nodded faintly, too drained to argue, the weight of exhaustion pulling at me again.

He withdrew his hand, leaning back in the chair beside me as though this was the most natural thing in the world. "Sabastine," he called, his tone sharp with authority.

The door creaked open almost immediately, and Sabastine stepped inside, bowing low. "Your Majesty."

The Lycan King gestured toward me, not even sparing him a glance. "Bring her something light to eat. She needs her strength."

Sabastine’s eyes flickered to me for a brief moment, concern evident beneath his composed demeanor. "At once, Your Majesty," he said, bowing again before disappearing from the room.

The silence returned, broken only by the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth.

I stared at the Lycan King, questions swirling in my mind, but my throat felt tight, the words caught somewhere deep inside.

"You’ll eat," he said, his voice softer but no less commanding. "And you’ll rest. That’s all you need to think about right now."

I swallowed hard, my throat raw from crying. "Why... why are you doing this?"

He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "Like I said before, you’re mine," he said simply, as though that explained everything.

And maybe, to him, it did.

I parted my lips to argue, but the door opened again before I could speak.

Sabastine returned, carrying a tray with a steaming bowl of broth and a small piece of bread. He set it on the table near the bed, bowing low. "Will there be anything else, Your Majesty?"

The Lycan King shook his head. "Leave us."

Sabastine hesitated for the briefest moment before nodding and slipping out of the room.

The Lycan King turned his sharp gaze back to me, his eyes unyielding. "Eat," he ordered, his tone softer now but no less resolute.

My stomach twisted at the thought of food, but I knew better than to argue.

With trembling hands, I reached for the spoon, every movement reminding me just how weak I had become.

He watched me in silence, his presence a constant reminder that I was far from alone, no matter how much I wished otherwise.

As the warm broth slid down my throat, settling uneasily in my stomach, I couldn’t help but wonder what truly motivated him to stay by my side.

I ate slowly. My hands shook slightly, not just from weakness, but from the thoughts swirling in my head, too many to make sense of. The Lycan King’s presence beside me was a constant weight, both heavy and undeniable. The way he simply watched me, as though nothing could rattle him, made me feel small, vulnerable in ways I didn’t want to be.

And yet, despite that gnawing discomfort, I found myself speaking, the words spilling out before I could even register them. "I saw my mother in my dream last night," I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper. The words felt foreign even to me, like a secret I wasn’t ready to admit. I wasn’t sure why I said it—perhaps because I needed someone to hear it, to share it with. Or maybe, just maybe, because it felt like the last piece of my broken heart needed to be laid bare in the hopes of something—someone—helping me hold the pieces together.

The spoon hovered midair, and I looked at the Lycan King, his gaze unwavering, expectant. His eyes were sharp, piercing like two dark stars, watching me carefully as if waiting for me to continue, but also analyzing every detail of my face. I wanted to pull away, to hide my rawness, but something in his presence kept me tethered, made it hard to break eye contact.

He tilted his head slightly, a glint of curiosity flickering in his eyes. "Do you have a deep bond with your mother?" His voice was low, calm, but there was an edge to it, a curiosity that matched his gaze.

I didn’t expect him to ask such a question. I didn’t expect any question at all, honestly. I thought he would just sit there, indifferent, the way he usually did, as if he could feel nothing but his own power. Yet here he was, asking about my mother. The Lycan King—the Lycan King—seemed... interested.

I nodded, slowly, unsure of how to explain. "Yes, I... I did. I loved her. She was everything to me. Even now, I feel that pull, like she’s still with me, guiding me, even though... she’s not." I could feel the sting of tears behind my eyes again, but I forced them back, not wanting to break down again in front of him.

I had learned long ago that showing vulnerability was a luxury few could afford—especially in front of someone like him. He was the kind of person who thrived on strength, the kind who could crush you under the weight of his indifference. And yet, there was something about the moment—about the silence between us—that made me want to speak, to share a piece of myself I usually kept locked away. It felt strange, even reckless, but oddly comforting in a way I couldn’t explain.

The words left my lips before I could second-guess them. "And you? What about you? Did you ever have a bond with your mother?" My voice was hesitant, but curiosity outweighed caution.

He let out a bitter laugh, short and sharp, breaking through the stillness of the room like shattering glass. The sound startled me, its harshness a stark contrast to the quiet warmth of the firelight dancing on the walls. "Mother?" he echoed, the word dripping with mockery. He scoffed, his eyes narrowing as if the mere mention of the word offended him. "I don’t have one."

His words hit me like a slap, the impact reverberating in my chest. I blinked, unsure if I had misheard him. "What?" I managed to whisper, my voice barely audible. "You... don’t have a mother?"

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze shifting to the fire for a brief moment before settling back on me. The flickering light cast shadows on his face, making his expression even harder to read. "I don’t," he said, his tone as flat and unyielding as stone. "Not in any meaningful sense."

I stared at him, waiting for more, some kind of explanation. His next words were colder, sharper, cutting through the air like a blade. "I wasn’t born, darling. I was created. There’s no mother to speak of. No bond to cherish. I never had the luxury of what you’ve described."

The finality in his tone made my stomach twist, a strange mix of disbelief and something I didn’t want to name—sympathy? I wasn’t sure what I had expected, but it wasn’t this. The revelation felt like a glimpse into a wound I hadn’t known existed, one he wore so seamlessly that I almost missed it.

The weight of his confession hung heavy between us, and for a moment, I forgot everything else—my illness, my weakness, even my own grief. All I could see was him, and the faintest trace of something raw, something vulnerable beneath the cold veneer he so carefully maintained.