Curves And Claws: The Lycan King's Relentless Claim novel Chapter 72

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

**Chapter 72**

**Roana,**

**55 Vouchers**

Nestled against the hospital pillows, I was on a quest for a position that wouldn’t send jolts of pain spiraling through my ribs. The dull throb in my chest felt as if a tiny drummer was enthusiastically hammering away, but I was resolute in my determination not to let it extinguish the flicker of my spirit. If there was one thing I could still wield while trapped in this hospital bed, it was the power of humor.

Sean sat beside me in a chair that looked as if it had been designed for a different era—one where comfort was a mere suggestion. His expression was a mix of worry and disbelief, akin to someone witnessing an impending disaster. Each line on his face seemed to deepen with concern, and his dark eyes darted toward me, watching with the intensity of a hawk surveying its prey. It was oddly flattering, yet undeniably unsettling.

“So,” I began, tilting my head in a grandiose manner, “do I come across as someone who elegantly tumbles off cliffs, or do I resemble a cartoon character who trips over their own shoelaces?”

Sean blinked, his brows knitting together as if he were attempting to unravel the riddle of my words. “Uh… you fell off a cliff?”

“Yes!” I exclaimed, my arms spreading wide as if I were about to take a bow on a stage. “A spectacular, cinematic, gravity-defying fall! I’m convinced that if someone had captured it on film, it would have gone viral. I’d be sitting on at least a million views by now.” I paused, savoring the look of bewilderment on his face. “But truly, thank you for your enthusiasm. Your shocked expression really adds to the performance.”

Despite the worry still etched on his features, Sean’s demeanor softened. “You’re hurt pretty badly. How did this happen?”

I waved a hand dismissively, as if swatting away a pesky fly. “Oh, you know, the usual. I was locked in a battle with a bear while juggling flaming swords. Just your classic Tuesday.” I made a vague flailing gesture, feigning nonchalance. “Alright, alright. Cliff. Bones. Very dramatic. But heroic, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sean shook his head, a small smile breaking through his concern. “You can’t keep doing reckless things like this. What if it had been worse?”

“Oh, Sean, you worry too much. My body is practically a temple of pain and resilience.” I struck a mock heroic pose, puffing out my chest and raising my chin high. “Look at me! I’m practically a superhero in a hospital gown.”

Despite himself, Sean let out a soft chuckle, the sound a balm to the tension in the room. “You do have a knack for making it sound heroic.”

“Heroic with a side of bruises, broken dignity, and a slightly irritable ribcage,” I added, wiggling my fingers toward my side with exaggerated flair. “But let’s not dwell on mundane details like mortality. Let’s focus on the vital matters—food. Speaking of which…”

Just as I was about to launch into a daydream about a mountain of fried chicken, Keane entered the room, carrying a brown paper bag as if it contained sacred treasure. He moved with purpose, a polite smile plastered on his face that barely concealed the tension radiating from him.

“I spoke to the nurse,” he announced, placing the bag on my bedside table with utmost care. “My mother insisted on preparing something for you. She claims it’s nourishing and will help you heal faster.”

I leaned forward, inhaling the aroma wafting from the bag like a wolf catching a whiff of its prey. “Oh, heavenly angels! Homemade food! Finally, my prayers have been answered. Keane, you, sir, are officially at the top of my gratitude list. Possibly even above chocolate, and that’s saying a lot.”

Keane shrugged modestly, his cheeks tinged with a hint of embarrassment. “She insisted. I thought you might appreciate it.”

“Appreciate it?” I gasped, clasping my hands together dramatically. “I adore it! I love it! I want to marry it!” I peeked inside the bag, and the aroma of fresh, homemade goodness enveloped me like a warm hug. “Yes, yes, yes. I am officially alive again.”

With reckless enthusiasm, I dove into the food, completely disregarding any semblance of hospital etiquette. Each bite was a glorious celebration in my mouth, a symphony of flavors that made life feel a little less painful, a little more wonderful, and infinitely more hilarious.

That’s when I noticed something peculiar. Sean and Keane were standing—or, in Sean’s case, sitting—near each other, their eyes locked in a peculiar, simmering intensity. Their brows were furrowed, and subtle shifts in their postures created a tension in the air that I could feel radiating off them like heat waves in a desert.

I paused mid-bite, squinting at them. “Hmm… what is this? A staring contest? An invisible wrestling match? Or are you two just auditioning for the award of ‘Angriest Silent Men’?”

Sean’s mouth pressed into a thin line, and Keane’s jaw tightened ever so slightly. Neither spoke, their eyes flicking to each other as if a spark might ignite at any moment. I didn’t understand a single thing, but it was highly entertaining.

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