Page 13 of Dragon King’s Bullied Mate

The screen showed sweeping aerial shots of mountain ridges swallowed in white, then the severe face of an anchor speaking with sharpened urgency. Guards in dark uniforms stood in organized lines while banners snapped in the wind outside the castle.

King Mikael has been missing for days following his disappearance during a hunting expedition. The search efforts intensify with an organized search party making ready to leave the castle. Royal officials have declined to comment.

Lyra stared at the image that followed, a formal portrait of Mikael in black and silver with the eyes of authority that expected obedience simply because he existed. She remembered feeling that way when they unveiled the portrait, and it had fit based on the person she had known.

She looked across the room to where the same man lay unconscious beneath one of her patched blankets, hair damp from her sponge bath and his jaw shadowed because she didn’t dare shave him. One of his hands curled loosely near the edge of the sofa. He seemed very sweet and looked nothing like the royalty he had portrayed on the television.

Her heart flipflopped and she struggled to control it. Attraction was not what she needed.

“But which side of you will you be when you recover,” she muttered as she reached over to click the television silent.

She should report him. The thought had played on a loop the moment the broadcast began and had not left since.

She should call the authorities and tell them their missing king was alive and occupying her sitting room. She should step cleanly out of this disaster before it rooted itself any deeper into her life.

Instead, she ladled oatmeal into a bowl for Beckett’s breakfast.

Because reporting him meant officials, questions, and names dragged into light, not to mention the fact that someone had poisoned him. She didn’t want to explain how she knew that and then get accused of being a witch for using simple botany knowledge. She had no desire for any of that, not when Beckett’s future already trembled on decisions made by people who had never once needed to comfort a shaking child in the dark.

And she certainly didn’t want Beckett’s father finding out where they lived. The better plan was to let Mikael wake up, mend enough to stand, and remove himself from her cottage under his own power.

The best plan was that he left no trace that she had ever been involved. He at least owed her that much.

She crossed to the sofa and folded her arms. She looked down at him with the irritation one reserved for problems that had become too complicated to resent.

“You need to recover quickly,” she informed the unconscious king, “and then you are going to march yourself back to your castle without mentioning me to anyone.”

His breathing remained deep and even, though less ragged than yesterday.

She narrowed her eyes. “I’m serious.”

Still nothing.

Lyra sighed, then sat on the chair beside him, elbows on knees, studying the face she knew too well in ways she preferred not to examine.

“In case you can hear me,” she said after a moment, “my name is Lyra. Have I ever told you that, or will you even remember me?”

Part of her hoped he had no idea who she was but the other half hoped that he did so he could make amends for his past cruelty. She huffed out her cheeks. Did it even really matter?

She was standing there talking to an unconscious king who may or may not even be able to hear her while smelling faintly of medicinal herbs and poultices.

“And the little boy you keep hearing is Beckett, whom I hope will be my son one day,” she continued. “He likes honey on his bread, hates loud voices, and trusts almost no one, which frankly suggests better judgment than most adults.”

Mikael’s fingers twitched faintly against the blanket which caused her to freeze. Then… nothing.

“Wonderful, you can be dramatic in your sleep as well.”

Beckett appeared beside her, solemn and watchful. He had approached so silently that he made her jump.

“Is he still okay?”

“Yep, he’s still sleeping.”

Beckett climbed onto the stool beside her and leaned lightly into her arm with the absent trust of a child who had long ago learned to seek comfort when he could.

He looked at Mikael, then at the silent television.

“Did the phone ring again?”