Unwanted Mate Of The Lycan Kings (by jessica hall) novel Chapter 122

~Zirah~

The inky blackness of unconsciousness ebbs away as I sluggishly claw my way back into the land of the living. Strands of consciousness intertwine, weaving a confusing web of reality and dreams. It’s like trying to catch a gust of wind with bare hands—passing and elusive. My body feels heavy, as if submerged in an ocean with weights around my ankles.

As my thoughts return and I cling to the remnants of earlier memory, my limbs respond with the speed and grace of driftwood in the undertow. I’m trapped within the confines of my body. Every attempt at movement is squashed by an unseen force. It’s like being a ghost in my own vessel.

When my eyes first open, I am confused by the gray paneling. It takes me a few moments to recognize my surroundings. I’m in the back of a van, and a chilly breeze sweeps across my feet, but I don’t feel movement or hear an engine.

My disoriented gaze peers around, capturing snapshots of the grim reality I have found myself in. Lyon is sprawled on the floor, unconscious. His chest heaves in a rhythmic pattern as he dances between life and death, walking on a blade’s edge. My stomach sinks at the sight of him.

Zeke is anything but himself at the moment. He leans heavily against the van wall, his eyes open but vacant. His limbs are pinned down by the cold shackle of chains that wrap around him and hold him against the wall of the van.

His hands are bound to the cold steel wall, while another chain loops tightly around his neck. It gnaws into his flesh, revealing a haunting truth—one wrong move, and he’ll strangle himself.

My head spins as I attempt to turn it. It feels as if an anvil rests upon it, transforming each small movement into a superhuman effort, while vertigo washes through me despite barely moving. However, the feeble attempt draws the attention of a guard, who heartlessly nudges me with his foot. The impact forces me onto my back, opening up a clear view of his demonic red eyes. A savage sense of satisfaction gleams in his crimson orbs, like a cat playing with a cornered mouse. His face stretches into a smug smirk as he declares.

“She’s awake,” he calls out, his voice a sinister sound in the silence. Footsteps approach, vibrating through the van’s metallic floor and resonating in my bones. Another figure clambers into the back of the van, his silhouette blotting out the little light filtering in. A wave of dread crashes over me as the conversation ensues.

Scattered pieces of conversation whirl around me. Their words dip and flow, leaving me to wade through the murky waters of my thoughts as my hearing rings and their words sound muffled. Yet, with each passing second, their voices grow clearer. The van’s open doors reveal a sight that propels my heart into my throat. My breath hitching, I recognize this place—Regan’s kingdom. The torture dungeons, their bricks blackened by the flames of when Regan burned those inside, stand hauntingly close.

“He can’t have gotten far?” the first guard muses. I strain to make sense of their disjointed talk while my mind races to unravel what the hell is going on. As if on cue, a new person steps into the back of the van. He towers over me, his eyes glinting ominously under the dim light. A cruel smile plays on his lips as he kicks Lyon in the ribs. “He still hasn’t woken?” the man asks, glancing at the two guards. They shake their heads, and the man sighs.

“He’s barely alive; leave him; he probably won’t last long,” he dismisses, his words laced with icy indifference.

The harsh reality of his words grips me—if Lyon succumbs, the others will follow suit, and so will I. The grim revelation is driven home by the new man.

“Not my issue; I don’t understand why he doesn’t just kill them and be done with it. Not that it will matter if we can’t figure out where Regan dropped.” His statement leaves a dreadful echo hanging in the silence.

Soon another man steps into the back of the van, the place feeling crowded. The mere shadow of this man, who drips authority and dominance, sends an icy shiver down my spine. King Slavic. The Vampire King.

“My King,” The guards say simultaneously, dipping their heads to him.

“Some of the city people said he left, that he tore out of the city late last night. How are our prisoners?” he jests his words in a twisted mockery. He crouches over me, his hands gripping my face, his fingers digging into my flesh. His chillingly familiar words ring in my ears. “Gosh, you look like your mother,” he states, turning my head from side to side, assessing me.

“Not as strong, though; your mother was a force to be reckoned with, but you just had to get yourself tied to the Lycan Kings,” he mocks.

“So we have no idea where he went, my king?” the vampire guard asks, and my eyes go to him; I can smell his fear; it perfumes the van, and my eyes go back to King Slavic, who was just addressed as the vampire king, confirming who I thought he was.

“They’re linked. Malachi said she marked them all, so wherever he is, as long as we keep these two down, we’ll have time to perform the ritual. He won’t be coming for anyone if these two are in this state.” The king says, and I can’t help but laugh, the noise sounding odd as it escapes my throat.