Curves And Claws: The Lycan King's Relentless Claim novel Chapter 117

**Title: Fireflies in Winter Rain — Neil A. Varma**
**Chapter 117**

Roana,

The evening breeze tousled my hair, cool strands grazing my cheeks like whispers of all the truths I longed to evade. Keane’s confession echoed in my mind, a haunting refrain I couldn’t shake off. He was in love with me? Keane, whom I had always regarded as a steadfast friend, harbored such deep feelings for me? It felt surreal, like a poorly timed jest that had gone awry.

A dull weight of guilt pressed against my chest, yet when he revealed his heart, I was met with an unsettling numbness. All those years, I had envisioned that if someone were to profess their love for me, I would soar with joy, elated and euphoric, for no one had ever offered me their affection so earnestly before. But in that moment, my heart remained unmoved, caught in a web of confusion.

Instead, I felt pity. A tight, uncomfortable pity that wrapped around me like a suffocating blanket. Why would someone like him ever be drawn to someone like me? At the end of the day, I was weary—exhausted from the constant yearning, tired of clinging to the hope that love could still find its way to me.

It was I who dared to dream again, foolishly reaching for fantasies that were far beyond my grasp. A small, humorless laugh escaped my lips, trembling with the absurdity of it all. I couldn’t possibly become the Luna of any pack, let alone aspire to be a Luna Queen? Daring to dream of being cherished by the King, a man surrounded by countless women who were infinitely more worthy than I?

How could I allow myself to be so selfish? How could I be so foolish?

Dragging my feet, I made my way back to bed, each step feeling as though I were wading through molasses. When I finally lay down, pulling the blanket over me, the sheets felt unnaturally cold, brushing against my skin like shards of ice. I felt adrift, lost in a sea of confusion, the absence of my phone a stark reminder of how disconnected I truly was.

“We are just weak, aren’t we? I mean, I don’t even know how many times we fainted! Lol!” Rye’s voice cut through my thoughts, a light-heartedness that felt out of place in the heaviness of the moment.

“Is fainting a bad thing?” I replied, staring blankly at the ceiling, my fingertips tracing the fabric beneath me with idle curiosity.

“Isn’t it? It’s the weakest thing ever. I feel ashamed!” he exclaimed, his voice tinged with self-deprecation.

“Aren’t you being a bit silly? Don’t people faint when they can’t endure pain?” I countered, my brow furrowing in confusion.

“Yeah. That makes people weak. I am weak. Pathetic, in one word!” His voice trembled slightly, a subtle crack in the facade of his forced humor that tugged at my heart.

A sudden heaviness settled between us, thickening the air. Yes, we were weak and pathetic. That was precisely why we were so foolish to let our guards down.

Just as exhaustion began to pull me under, a new weight enveloped the room—a presence that sent a chill skittering down my spine. My skin prickled, and the fine hairs on my arms stood on end. The air thickened, and a smoky scent invaded my senses, wrapping around me like a shroud.

I jolted awake.

A man lounged on the couch, casually flipping through a magazine as though he had been there all along. My heart raced, a violent thrum in my chest. My breath hitched, and every muscle in my body tensed as I took in the sight of him.

He was one of the Moritas. I forced myself to sit up, my pulse quickening with a mix of fear and disbelief. “How did you get in here? What the hell?” I snapped, my voice sharp with anxiety.

He closed the magazine with a soft thud, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that felt unnerving. “Draken Mortia,” he introduced himself, reclining back into the couch, his voice slicing through the silence like a knife.

“What?” I managed to mutter, my throat dry as dust, my tongue heavy with disbelief.

“I’m Draken Mortia, the youngest son of the Moritas, the third of six siblings.” His tone was devoid of warmth, as if he were reciting facts from a textbook, cold and detached.

“The reason we can visit you wherever you go is because of the Moon Blessing.” His voice sharpened, cutting through the tension in the room like steel.

I flinched, my heart racing as I felt the air around us grow heavy with unspoken truths.

“You have one, don’t you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes, his voice laced with certainty that made my skin crawl.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I retorted through clenched teeth, my jaw locking tight. My hands curled into the blanket beneath me, seeking some semblance of grounding.

He regarded me with the look of a stubborn child hiding a secret. Taking a slow breath, his shoulders rose and fell with a calmness that only heightened my unease. Then, without warning, he shifted his gaze toward the balcony door.

“Have you heard that Moritas are the blessed ones?” he murmured, almost conspiratorially. “We are six siblings. The man who has been visiting you and leaving flower bouquets is the eldest, Alistair Mortia. He possesses the strongest silver werewolf. Even our parents cannot stand against him.”

My breath quickened, despite my efforts to remain composed.

“Why are you telling me this? I am not—!” I protested, but he continued, ignoring my outburst.

“Next is Kaelen Mortia. He is the strongest and most intelligent healer, capable of mending anyone with just his presence.”

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