Babysitting The Amnesiac Lycan King novel Chapter 107

Chapter 107 

Chapter 107 

My eyes crack open to cold fingers pressing against my skin. 

No, not cold. Wet. 

Someone’s wiping my thigh. 

My lashes flutter open. Everything’s too white. The ceiling blurs before it snaps into focus–gold moldings, high walls, steril and silent. 

I jolt, or at least try to, but my limbs are jelly. Disconnected and floppy like I got hit by a truck made of regret. 

There’s a dull throb at the base of my skull, pounding in rhythm with my heartbeat. I blink up into the dim gold light bleeding through the windows and- 

“Oh–fuck.” 

I’m not dreaming. There are actual maids hovering over me. Dabbing my forehead and arms with damp towels like I’m some feverish princess instead of the walking crime scene I feel like. 

“What—what the hell is happening?” My voice sounds like I’ve been gargling sandpaper. 

One of them gasps and fumbles the towel like I just came back from the dead. Maybe I did. Another maid mutters something in a rush–something about a sedative, fainting spell, exhaustion. None of it lands. All I hear is static. “Miss–please don’t move-” 

I shove the towel away, chest heaving. “Why the hell are you bathing me like I’m a damn 

corpse?” 

The maid flinches, towel clutched in her hands like a goddamn weapon. “Hi sMajesty–his majesty ordered for you to 

It slams into me like a train. 

Brooke. 

The stairs. Her scream. Her blood. My shaking hands. 

My breath cuts out. I can still feel her collar in my grip. The way her feet dangled before she slipped. 

I sit up too fast. The world spins on its axis and I sway, gripping the edge of the mattress like it might stop me from hurling. “Where is he?” I croak. 

The maids exchange panicked glances. 

I throw the blanket off. My feet hit the floor with a hard slap. “Where’s Enoch?” 

“Miss, please, you shouldn’t move-” 

“Fuck that.” I swipe their hands away, more flailing than anything else, but it does the job. I stagger to my feet in my oversized T–shirt and shorts, legs wobbly like a newborn deer on a sugar crash. 

The maid tries to stop me, but she’s barely five feet and trembling. She’s not holding me back. I rip my arm away like her fingers burned me. “I said where the fuck is he?” 

“You need rest- 

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I don’t need shit. I need to know what the hell he did to Brooke. If he snapped her neck like I was about to. If I’ve got blond 

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on my hands or if he cleaned it up for me. I need answers, and I need them now. 

I stagger toward the door, legs wobbly like I’ve been doing tequila shots since dawn. The whole hallway tilts as I push it open, stumbling like some drunk idiot, grabbing the wall for support. 

1. Need. Enoch.. 

Because that’s what this was. 

He drugged me. The asshole drugged me. 

“He drugged me,” I mutter under my breath. “The bastard fucking drugged me.” 

And if he thought that would stop me, he’s about to get smacked so hard his damn wolf will feel it in his balls. 

“Is the King here?” I bark at the guard outside the door. My voice doesn’t even sound like mine. It’s raspy. Ragged. Drunk- but–pissed–off energy. 

The guy blinks, clearly not prepared for a half–dead Omega to storm the palace halls barefoot and looking like an undercooked pancake. 

“Who the fuck are you? You can’t enter.” The pack warrior mutters. I didn’t take long before the other guy beside him takes a second look at me before he elbows the other one who cursed me. 

What, what is it? 

“You idiot! That’s the King’s woman. You fucker. I don’t wanna lose my head.” He murmurs and my brows propped up. The King’s woman? That’s new, but if that’s what’s get me in, I guess. 

The guy’s eyes snap as he looks up again. His face pales, then he bows so fast his neck might crack. “Yes, my Lady, but he’s currently in a—” 

Too late. I’ve already pushed past him. 

I nearly face–plant into a damn marble pillar, and keep moving. The hallway spins. My legs aren’t working right. This is worse than when Zoe spiked my lemonade in the Luau in Maldives and when I almost told Kallias I loved him. Ugh. Shut up, brain. Not now. 

I hear my name somewhere. One of the maids, maybe. Too bad. I’ve got tunnel vision now. I want answers, and I want to slap that smug bastard across the face for pumping me full of sleepy juice. 

He thinks that’ll stop me? 

Cute. 

The next door I barrel into is wide and polished and smells expensive. It’s massive. Mahogany, gold handles, sealed tight. So yeah, I probably should’ve stopped. I definitely should’ve knocked. 

But I don’t. 

Probably because I’m still kinda drunk on sedative and grief and fury, and I’ve lost the last shred of fucks I had to give. “…and as for the reinforcements being sent to the Eastern perimeter-” 

The voice cuts off. 

Dozens of heads swivel. 

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The room goes dead silent. 

Twelve–no, fifteen?-men in suits. A curved conference table. My brain registers the crown emblem on a parchment, the awkward silence, the way one old guy’s monocle nearly falls off his wrinkly face. 

And at the head of the table? 

Him. 

Enoch. 

Looking sinfully gorgeous in a tailored black shirt, sleeves rolled up, expression unreadable–until his eyes meet mine. Everyone’s staring at me. 

I’m standing there in a thin satin nightgown. Hair a fucking mess. No shoes. No shame. I look like I just crawled out of a psych ward and then crash–landed into Parliament. 

Someone coughs. 

Another guy mutters, “What in the goddess’s name-“A low growl stops that before it could continue and I look where it comes from. 

Enoch’s jaw ticks. His eyes lock on mine. 

And I’m not letting him look away. 

“You,” I say, stabbing my finger toward him. “Did you drug me?” 

Silence. 

Enoch lifts one brow. The corners of his lips twitch. 

Oh, he thinks this is funny? 

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“I swear to all that is holy, if I find out you shoved some bullshit tranquilizer in my 

veins-” 

Everyone freezes. Someone gasps. Someone else chokes on their tea. 

I don’t even flinch. I just point at him accusingly like an unhinged lunatic. “You sedated me, didn’t you? So I wouldn’t go feral again?” 

Enoch leans back in his chair, amused as hell, arms folding as he rests his chin on one hand like this is some kind of Netflix special and not a full–blown catastrophe. 

“Baby, come here.” 

Some bastard near the corner huffs. “This is highly inappropriate-” 

“I said, come here.” 

Fuck. 

My feet move before my brain catches up. I wobble around the table like a sleep–deprived zombie. Everyone’s watching. Their disgust hangs in the air like smoke. Some of them eye me like I’m a fucking striptease. I hear someone whisper something about “unladylike” and “poor reflection.” 

“I’m not trying to strip the damn monarchy, relax,” I mutter, dragging my half–dead body forward. “He drugged me. I’m walking like a drunk, not a whore, thank you.” 

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