The Alpha King Marked Me. I Still Haven't Told Him I'm A Girl novel Chapter 85

Chapter 85: Eighty Five

Impossible, I think, but I’d pick it out anywhere, remember it like I remember what it felt like to kiss her the first time.

My gaze lands on the coronet on her head. It gleams in the room, a gold brighter than even mine, matching the one atop the monster’s head. I let my gaze drift lower. To a halo of unusually bright gold hair with a hue of summer red in them. And lower, to the small nose that might have been cute before, but was stronger now, noble, arrogant.

To those sensual lips curved into a small smirk.

"Is that..." Astrea utters breathlessly. "Valerian?" Her head snaps to me. "He is alive? He... is a woman."

But I can’t move. Can’t breathe. The hall collapses around me. The air turns thin. I can feel my pulse hammering behind my eyes, my own heartbeat screaming *no, no, no.*

Shit.

I would think I was hallucinating if she doesn’t breeze past me, her shoulder brushing my chest slightly. Real. She is real.

I killed her. I know I did. But here she stands, real as the air being sucked from my lungs.

She halts in front of me, her steps in tandem with the male whose hand rests on the small of her back, idly toying with the ends of her hair. But she doesn’t look at me.

No.

She doesn’t even notice my existence coming apart, my mind trying to reconcile this cultured, poise image of her dressed in a red dress that reveals her tanned skin that has grown paler since I last saw her. A low cut v neckline that dips so dangerously low, it stops just above her navel. A small necklace of blood red fits around her elegant neck, doing nothing to conceal the mark of crescent on her skin.

A madness stirs in my mind, a darkness rattled by the fact that I both find out that my mate is both alive and claimed by another in the same breath.

A part of me tries to process it. Tries to understand what I should feel at her being alive, while I was haunted by ghosts of her the entire time. But the only thing burning in me is rage.

Covered in the scent of another. Held by another. Possessed by another. And by the scent of it, touched by another.

"You have my many congratulations," the too-eager prince says as he halts in the center of the room, arms sweeping out to greet them like they’re old friends reunited once more.

And she doesn’t, still notice that I’m there as she stands on her toes and presses red lips to either sides of Prince Cyrus’s cheeks.

No, she doesn’t. She should feel me like I would her in a room full of thousands. Her eyes should look for me. She must know that I am here.

But it isn’t Valka Ironfang who notices my heated stare first. It is the king who looks half-bored as the prince prattles on, who tilts his head straight at me like he knew I was standing there all along.

He grins, lazy and taunting, but it is nothing at all like a grin. It is a flash of fangs and something so dark, even the beast inside me whimpers and quietens. And he pulls her tighter to his side, large hand resting on her bare waist in a show of territoriality.

He knew who I was, then. What I was once to her. He is the reason I am now nothing to her. Because he’s stolen her from me. Mine now, his eyes seem to say, and I’ve never wanted to tear a man’s hands off a woman fast enough.

Lyra? Who the fuck is Lyra?

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