Curves And Claws: The Lycan King's Relentless Claim novel Chapter 125

**Fireflies in Winter Rain — Neil A. Varma**
**Chapter 125**

Was it a mark left by Cassian? Or was it a sign from the father of the child?

The thought gnawed at me incessantly as I stood rooted to the spot, my eyes fixated on the doorway long after Elle’s figure had slipped from view. A bitter realization washed over me, one that tasted metallic and raw; Elle was a thousand times more radiant than I could ever hope to be. It wasn’t merely her physical beauty that struck me, not just the way her smile lit up a room or how her hair cascaded like silk, but something far more profound. Even the timbre of her voice lingered in the air, soft and deliberate, as if each word had been crafted with care. Everything about her seemed to radiate an aura of perfection, as if she had been sculpted by the hands of a master artist, while the rest of us were mere sketches, rough and unrefined.

It was no wonder Cassian remained entranced by her.

I inhaled deeply, forcing my feet to move, watching her graceful silhouette fade into the corridor. Only then did I truly become aware of my surroundings. The cold stone beneath my palms felt unyielding, the dampness clung to the walls like a shroud, and a faint metallic scent hung in the air, sharp and unsettling. I was certain now that I was ensnared in a dungeon somewhere in the Northern Region—a place designed not merely to confine bodies but to slowly erode the spirit, to extinguish hope with meticulous cruelty.

With a muted thud, the door closed behind Elle, sealing the silence around me like a tomb. The quiet pressed against my ears, amplifying my thoughts until they became sharp and impossible to escape.

Cassian would undoubtedly choose her.

The weight of that certainty settled heavily in my chest, a burden I could scarcely bear. It wasn’t a dramatic epiphany, not one that arrived with tears or gasps of despair. No, it was a quiet, steady realization, cruel in its calmness. Of course, he would choose Elle. How could he not? She embodied his past, his first love, and perhaps even his child. I was merely an inconvenient presence, an afterthought that had intruded upon a narrative already written.

I sank onto the narrow bench that hugged the wall, the cold stone biting into my skin through the thin fabric of my clothes. My hands trembled as they settled in my lap, and I fought to steady my breathing, but each inhale felt shallow, a hollow echo of what I needed.

I recalled the way Cassian had once looked at me—or at least, the way I had believed he did. There had been warmth in his gaze, a gentleness that had convinced me I mattered. Now, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had merely been a placeholder, a shadow cast in Elle’s absence, one that could be easily erased once she returned.

The image of the mark burned into my mind, a fleeting glimpse beneath Elle’s collar that had seared itself into my memory. It was a claim, a reminder of a bond that was far stronger than anything I could ever hope to share with Cassian.

If Cassian stood before me now, with Elle by his side, who would he reach for?

The answer was painfully clear.

My chest constricted, and for a fleeting moment, I thought I might be sick. The dungeon seemed to close in around me, the walls inching closer, the ceiling lowering as if mocking my despair. I bent forward, my elbows resting on my knees, staring at the cold stone floor as if it might offer me some semblance of comfort.

I told myself not to cry. Tears would change nothing. They wouldn’t make me more desirable, more worthy, or more unforgettable. All they would do was expose how fragile I truly was.

Yet, my vision blurred.

I wiped my face roughly with the back of my hand, anger igniting beneath the sorrow. Anger at myself for ever believing I could stand alongside someone like Cassian. Anger at him for never revealing the whole truth. Anger at Elle for existing so perfectly in a world that had never shown me kindness.

That was when I heard footsteps.

At first, I thought I was imagining it. This place had a way of distorting reality, amplifying every sound until it felt ominous. But the footsteps grew closer, heavier, more deliberate. Someone was approaching.

I straightened instinctively, hastily wiping my face again and lifting my chin. I would not be found crumpled and broken on this stone bench.

The door swung open, and Keane stepped inside.

He halted upon seeing me, his expression inscrutable. The torchlight behind him cast shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp angles of his jaw and the weariness etched beneath his eyes. He looked older than I remembered, as if the burden of too many secrets had finally begun to take its toll.

“You shouldn’t be here alone,” he said softly, his voice low and cautious.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. “That seems to be a recurring theme in my life. You did a fantastic job of placing me here.”

Keane closed the door behind him and leaned against it, arms crossed. For a moment, we both fell into a silence that felt thick and uncomfortable, stretching between us like a chasm.

“You knew,” I finally said, my voice steady yet laced with accusation. “Didn’t you?”

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