Babysitting The Amnesiac Lycan King novel Chapter 94

 

Chapter 94 

Chapter 94 

I don’t blink. 

Can’t. 

His eyes are locked on me like I’ve crawled straight out of hell and dragged the devil’s pitchfork with me. 

And maybe I have. 

Because standing here, in the Grand Dowager’s room, her porcelain teacup halfway to her lips, while Enoch Blackwell- King of the fucking Lycans–glares at me like I just pissed in his holy water. 

Yeah. This might actually be hell. 

“Come in,” she repeats, deceptively warm. 

I step in. One foot, then the other. My heels click warning shots on the polished marble, all of last night still stitched into the seams of my blazer. The one I ironed this morning. As though I didn’t sob for twenty straight minutes before pulling on my pantyhose: 

But appearances, right? 

I keep my chin up. It’s not much, but it’s all I’ve got. 

“Grandmother,” Enoch says, low and flat. That voice. It doesn’t rumble anymore. It cuts. Cold and sharp, like winter air sliding down the back of your neck. 

“Taryn,” the Dowager croons, still smiling. “I’m so pleased you accepted my offer. The palace could use some fresh air, wouldn’t you say?” 

I don’t miss the way her eyes flick toward Enoch. She’s goading him. And I’m the bait she wrapped in satin and ribbon. 

“Thrilled to be here,” I say sweetly, glancing at the King as though he didn’t throw me out just days ago. “Can’t wait to get started.” 

Enoch’s jaw ticks. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” 

His voice is pure gravel. 

Okay, this is it. 

I turn to him slowly, savoring the venom. “Aw. Miss me already?” 

He takes one step forward. Big. Broad. Stupidly regal. Like the hallway bent itself to his will the moment he walked in. 

“Did you break in again,” he grits out, “or did someone finally lose their mind and let you through the front door?” 

I raise my brows, smiling like a cat with a dead mouse in its mouth. “Neither. Turns out saving your grandmother’s life buys you a seat at the palace table. Who knew?” 

He opens his mouth, and the Dowager cuts him off with a clap of her hands. 

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Enoch. She’s not here as a guest. I’ve decided she’ll be my personal aide.” 

I blink. 

 

Wait–what the fuck? 

“I’m sorry–what?” Enoch and I say at the same time. 

She just sips her tea like this is her goddamn telenovela and we’re her favorite characters. 

“She’ll assist me with my correspondence, join me in meetings, and accompany me to my treatments. After what she did for me, I want her close.” 

Close. 

Great. 

I feel Enoch’s stare boiling through my skin. 

“She’s a liar,” he snaps, turning fully to face her. His voice is low but lethal. “She’s not here for you. She’s here for information. For a story.” 

My throat burns, but I smile wider. 

“Oh, I’m sorry. Do you own your grandmother now too? Or are you just mad I’m still breathing the same air as your royal ego?” 

His nostrils flare. 

“Taryn,” the Dowager says, dabbing her lips with a napkin, “would you be a dear and take a short tour of the new wing? Your quarters have been prepared. Enoch will show you the way.” 

“What?” he growls. 

My jaw drops. “Wait, hold up–what?” 

She waves a dismissive hand. “You know it better than anyone, darling. And you could both use the time. I’m sure you’ve missed each other terribly.” 

I make a choking sound. Enoch just looks as though he’s seconds from calling in a hit. 

Still, when she stands and begins chatting with her head maid, I know better than to argue. 

She’s the Dowager. This is her game. And I just became her new pawn. 

Enoch walks toward the hallway as a man headed to execution. I follow, heels sharp, back straighter than ever, even if my lungs are burning. 

The maids lining the corridor stare as if I’m carrying a bomb strapped to my chest. 

Maybe I am. 

Neither of us says anything until we’re a good fifty paces from the room. I count every step just to stop myself from screaming. 

He turns a corner. I turn with him. 

“You could’ve just sent a guard, Your Majesty,” I say lightly. “But I get it. You’ve missed my charming company. It’s okay to admit it.” 

He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t even blink. 

I keep going. “This place is bigger than your ego, which is honestly impressive. I didn’t think that was possible.” 

 

Still nothing. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t spy through your keyhole or anything. I’m more of a wall–lean–and–listen kind of girl.” 

He stops so suddenly I almost slam into his back. 

When he turns, his face is inches from mine. 

“You think this is funny?” he asks, voice low and dangerous. “You think you can just waltz back in here like nothing happened?” 

I stare at him. At the man I’ve hated, loved, missed, resented. 

“No,” I whisper. “But I’m not walking away either.” 

His eyes narrow. And for a second, I thought he might say something. Something real. Something that burns. 

But then he turns and opens the door to my room. 

“This is it,” he mutters. 

I step inside. 

And the second I do, I realize something else. 

It’s right across from his. 

Of course it fucking is. 

 

We–I decided to go back after Enoch’s little tour back to the living room. 

But I’m not even seated two seconds on the absurdly plush couch before Brooke decides it’s her fucking cue to ruin the air again. 

The Dowager’s still perched as some majestic goblin queen on her throne–of–a–chair, sipping tea while chatting up her maid about gods know what, when the doors open–uninvited, of course. 

And in walks Brooke. 

No knock. No hesitation. Just… a smirk and her sharp–ass heels clicking on marble. 

“Oh,” she says, her voice like someone trying to sound sweet but choking on bile. “You’re still here? How resilient of you.” 

I smile, but it’s the kind you give someone right before kicking their ass off a cliff. 

“Still trying to make fetch happen, Brooke?” 

Her eyes narrow just slightly. But she recovers fast–too fast–and strolls in as though she’s got a permanent residency and Enoch’s cock on speed dial. 

I sure hope not. 

She goes straight for him. Claiming him. Marking her territory. 

He’s mine, you bitch. 

My fists clench, nails biting into my palms. 

But I don’t move. I don’t flinch. I just watch her like she’s a roach under a wineglass. 

“Is this really a wise appointment, Your Grace?” Brooke says, tilting her head toward the Dowager. Her hand stays on Enoch like it’s glued. “She’s… dangerous.” 

Dowager doesn’t even blink. Just lifts one brow, a glass of wine halfway to her lips. “So is my grandson. Yet here we all are.” 

Mic. Fucking. Drop. 

Brooke stiffens. I swear her eye twitches, but she’s too polished to let it break her composure. 

Enoch doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t even react. His face is stone, but his jaw ticks once, and I catch the subtle shift of his shoulders. 

He’s pissed. Good. Let him simmer. 

Brooke stays too long. Lingers as a fart in a sealed car before finally excusing herself with some made–up excuse about wardrobe arrangements and “diplomatic visitors.” 

My ass. 

I don’t miss the way she throws one last glance at me before walking out–like she just planted a bomb and is waiting for the explosion. 

I head down the corridor, muttering under my breath, when suddenly- 

A hand grabs my wrist and yanks me into a side hallway. 

The lights are dim. The air’s thick. My back hits the wall, and he’s there. Enoch. Way too close. 

My breath gets stuck halfway in my throat. His scent slams into me like a drug I swore I’d quit. Fuck. I hate that I still react this way to him. I hate it more that I don’t want to stop. 

His eyes are black. 

Not just dark–black. His wolf is awake. Watching. Waiting. 

“You want back in my palace,” he growls. Voice low. Controlled. Deadly. “Fine.” 

I swallow. My fingers twitch at my sides. 

He leans closer, not touching me, but close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him like a warning. “But I see you near my secrets–and I won’t care that you’re my mate. I’ll treat you like every other enemy I’ve buried.” 

 E 

I stare him dead in the eye. My chin lifts, my voice sharp. “You already buried me, Enoch. I’m just too fucking stubborn to stay down.” 

Something flickers in his eyes. Pain. Guilt. Rage. I don’t know. 

But he backs up as if I just slapped him. 

Good. 

*** 

Dinner is war. 

Not like yelling and throwing plates. 

Worse. 

It’s the kind of war where the cutlery’s too loud and the silence between bites screams louder than bombs. 

I’m sitting across from Enoch, who looks like he’s one snarky comment away from shifting into a rage monster. 

Brooke’s sitting beside him–of course. 

And the Dowager’s having the time of her life. 

“Isn’t it romantic?” she says, motioning between me and Enoch like we’re fucking Barbie and Ken. “Childhood sweethearts reunited by fate and scandal.” 

I smile through clenched teeth. 

Enoch stabs a piece of steak as if it insulted his bloodline. 

She keeps going. “Back in my day, we just ran away and eloped. These two prefer emotional trauma and palace espionage.” 

Enoch snaps his fork in half.