Defying the Lycan King (Kira and Derek) novel Chapter 92

Chapter 92: Dear Overworked Tyrant

Derek pushed through the front door of the mansion at half past eleven, his suit jacket over one arm and his patience thoroughly depleted.

The council had gone two hours over what was supposed to be a final review session, largely because three of the senior advisors had strong and conflicting opinions about the borders and absolutely no interest in keeping those opinions brief.

He went to the kitchen first, as he usually did, to confirm Kira had eaten. It was a habit he had developed without particularly deciding to.

Ishita was still in the kitchen, wiping down the counter with the posture of someone bracing for impact.

"What did the Queen eat this evening?" he asked, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Ishita jumped, nearly dropping a dish. "Oh! Your Grace." She bowed.

Derek frowned, tilting his head, staring at her quizzically.

"The Queen... she... ah... she refused to eat what I prepared."

Derek’s eyes snapped to hers, his weariness replaced by an instant concern. "What do you mean she refused? Is she ill? Did she say she felt sick?"

"No, Your Grace!" Ishita kept her eyes on a neutral point slightly to the left of his face. "She... she insisted on cooking herself. I assisted her as best I could, but she was quite determined, and I did not feel it was appropriate to physically prevent the Queen from using her own kitchen."

Derek was flabbergasted. "You allowed her to cook? In her condit—" He stopped himself, clearing his throat. "How could you let her stand over a hot stove for hours?"

"I could not disobey Her Highness, Your Grace," Ishita said softly, looking at her feet.

He turned and left the kitchen without another word, already heading for the bedroom. The suite was empty. The balcony was dark. He checked the connecting bedroom out of habit, then stood in the centre of the room for a moment, that particular alertness that never fully left him sharpening quietly.

Finally, he headed toward his study. The light was off. He turned it on and found her curled on the couch with her head resting on the armrest, breathing evenly, entirely unconscious. She had waited long enough to fall asleep waiting. Something about that sat oddly in his chest.

He looked at the coffee table. A tray sat there with covered dishes, still faintly warm. On top of the nearest dish was a folded napkin. He picked it up and opened it.

Dear Overworked Tyrant,

In case you’ve forgotten what I look like, I’m the one who lives in your house. I also cook now, apparently. You should feel honoured. So I made this. Not because I like you or anything dramatic like that. Just... don’t collapse on my watch. It would be inconvenient.

Also, if you ignore this, I’ll take it personally. And you don’t want that problem.

— Your very neglected Queen

He read it once. Then he read it again.

The thing in his chest did something he had no name for.

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