Curves And Claws: The Lycan King's Relentless Claim novel Chapter 106

**Fireflies in Winter Rain — Neil A. Varma**
**Chapter 106**

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Roana,

The tension radiating from the witch was palpable, a simmering anger that seemed to vibrate through the air like the faint hum of a taut string, ready to snap at any moment. Her jaw was clenched, eyes narrowed to slits, and her fingers twitched restlessly, as if she were grappling with the decision to unleash another spell or hurl another insult my way. I remained perfectly still, leaning back in my chair, crossing one leg over the other, allowing my posture to exude an air of deliberate nonchalance.

She loathed that. I could see her nostrils flare, her body trembling with restrained fury.

“Stop acting so calm,” she snapped, her voice low and dangerous, the darkness in her eyes deepening as she spoke.

I blinked slowly, deliberately. “Why? Should I scream?” I asked, my tone dripping with mockery.

A muscle in her cheek twitched violently, a clear indication that my taunts were hitting their mark.

For a heartbeat, silence enveloped us, thick and charged. Her aura—strange, sharp, tinged with a metallic edge—pressed against me, probing like a curious finger. It was as if she were testing the waters, measuring my resolve, trying to decipher the enigma that lay within me. Rye, my wolf, remained quiet yet vigilant, a coiled spring ready to react at any moment. I could sense her pacing restlessly within me, her tail stiff, ears perked forward, alert for any sign of danger.

The witch’s gaze swept over me again, this time with a more deliberate slowness. She was no longer merely probing; she was searching for something—an unknown, something she couldn’t categorize.

Her attention shifted to the flower resting on the table between us. It remained pristine, every petal vibrant and unblemished.

“That shouldn’t be possible,” she murmured, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. The confident facade she wore began to crack, revealing an inkling of doubt.

I took a leisurely sip of my coffee, relishing the warmth as it slid down my throat. “Maybe your spell wasn’t as effective as you believed,” I suggested, my tone casual.

Her head whipped around to face me, eyes blazing with indignation. “It was a blood-woven spell from the Crimson Thorn circle! No werewolf could withstand it. It burns them from the inside out!”

“Hmm.” I set my cup down, the porcelain making a soft clink against the table. “Sounds rather inconvenient.”

Her eyes flared with fury. “Stop mocking me!”

“I assure you, I’m not mocking you. I’m merely having breakfast. Care to join me?” I offered, my voice steady and even, tinged with boredom. The calmness in my tone seemed to unnerve her more than any display of aggression could have.

She stepped closer, her boots making almost no sound on the floor, the fabric of her cloak fluttering slightly as if attuned to her shifting magic.

“Why aren’t you reacting? I am a witch,” she leaned in, her eyes narrowing dangerously. “No wolf could do what you just did.”

“Good thing I’m not just ‘any wolf,'” I replied coolly.

Her brows knitted together in frustration. She scrutinized my face again, searching for any sign of weakness—a crack, a flinch, a fleeting expression she could seize upon.

I offered her nothing.

Her frustration rolled off her in waves, palpable and thick in the air.

Suddenly, she raised her hand, a faint glow blossoming around her fingertips—a dim violet light swirling like smoke. I watched her with calm detachment, even as Rye bristled within me, a warning echoing in my mind.

“Don’t,” Rye cautioned, her voice cool and steady.

The witch seemed to sense the shift, her eyes flickering as she focused deeper—beyond my skin, past my heartbeat—as if trying to reach Rye directly.

“There you are,” she whispered, her tone shifting to one of curiosity. “Your wolf is… unusually quiet for a threat.”

I shrugged nonchalantly. “Maybe she just doesn’t like you. She has a strong aversion to those who don’t respect their boundaries.” My eyes sharpened, emphasizing my point.

A small crackle of magic escaped her hand, hitting the air between us with a muted static pop. She was probing me, testing my resilience—not attacking, not yet. The pulse brushed against my cheek, and I didn’t even blink. Her expression flickered, a brief quiver of confusion crossing her features.

She wasn’t getting the response she anticipated. “Witch energy should make you flinch,” she muttered, almost to herself. “Even a Lycan feels its bite.”

“I suppose I’m just a disappointment,” I replied dryly.

Her eyes narrowed further. “You’re hiding something.”

“Am I?” I countered.

“Yes.” She circled my chair once, inspecting me as if I were a rare artifact she wasn’t sure was genuine. “Your aura… it doesn’t recoil. It doesn’t absorb my magic. It doesn’t fight it either. It just…” Her voice trailed off, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “…ignores it.”

I tilted my head slightly, a hint of amusement dancing in my eyes. “Or perhaps I’m simply uninterested in your little magic display.”

Her lips pressed into a tight line, clearly irritated by being treated like a street performer with cheap tricks.

With a swift, precise motion, she snapped her fingers again. This time, a faint grey shimmer filled the air, curling toward me like tendrils of mist.

Rye growled softly within me, her warning sharp and clear.

The witch observed closely as the mist brushed against my sleeve. It should have burned, should have stung, should have forced even the strongest wolf to bare their teeth in pain.

But I felt nothing.

The grey mist dissipated upon contact, fading into nothingness.

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