Holding the Lycan King Captive

I should never have captured Lycan King and put him in my basement.

The thought comes to me as I stand in the shadows, torchlight flickering over stone walls etched with wards older than my house. The air hums with magic-mine-thick and watchful, like it's holding its breath.

He's awake.

I can feel it before I hear him.

Iron chains glow faintly where they bite into his wrists and ankles, runes pulsing as he tests them with slow, deliberate strength. He's seated against the wall, broad shoulders bowed just enough to suggest patience-not surrender. Even bound, even stripped down to ruined clothing and raw muscle, he radiates command.

The Lycan King.

My prisoner

I swallow, forcing myself not to retreat as his head lifts. When his eyes open, they burn-red as fresh blood spilled under moonlight. Not wild. Not frantic.

Aware.

His gaze finds me instantly, sharp and knowing, and something dangerous coils low in my stomach.

"So," he rumbles, voice rough and deep enough to vibrate through bone, "this is where you hide me."

I don't answer right away. I let the silence stretch. Let him feel it.

"You're in no position to be speaking," I say finally, cool despite the way my pulse stutters. "Or moving."

He smiles.

It's slow. Predatory. Entirely unconcerned.

"You think chains make me helpless, witch?"

His eyes flicker-amusement, not denial.

"And yet," I continue, my gaze betraying me as it traces the breadth of his chest, the shifting tattoos that seem to breathe beneath his skin, "here you are."

Chained.

The chains rattle violently as he surges forward. The spell snaps tight, slamming him back into stone. Dust rains down. Power crackles.

Then he looks at me-not angry, not afraid-but hungry.

"When I break free," he says softly, eyes darkening to something endless and dangerous, "I'll make you regret every second you enjoyed this, while your beneath me."