Draven's Banshee

Maeveen had always known there was something very wrong with her. Felt it like an ache deep in her bones for as long as she could remember. She knew it had to be something more than her hair turning silver and falling in tufts from her scalp. More than the cancer that was deteriorating her flesh and twisting her insides with sharp stabs.

Not that it mattered. With only a few weeks left to live, she'd shoved the madness to the furthest recesses of her mind and made her peace with death. She didn't need saving, didn't particularly want it either. Especially not from an oversized brute with an Alpha complex.

She was dying, damn it, and she wasn't going to waste what little time she had left with this 'Me Tarzan, you Jane' bullshit.

Draven was a lycan, a bitten, and although human males cowered from his presence and females swooned at his feet, there was no lower ranking in lycan hierarchy to be had. The bitten were a blight on the pureblood royal name and had been cast in shadow since the rule of the Barbaric King. He had no place among those born to his kind and was finally starting to come to terms with his solitary city existence.

That is, until a cruel twist of fate gifts him a dying female and a bond that could crush his mind with its loss. But he was nothing if not adamant. He would gather her close and fight her demons right alongside her. She had a stubborn mouth and a wail so piercing it could shatter glass, but she was his and he'd be damned if he'd let her die after so long of having no one to call his own.