Chapter 9 The Weight of a Tyrant’s Touch
9: The Weight of a Tyrant’s Touch
If anyone asks how my brilliant plan to “just die and wake up back in the 21st century” went, let me summarize: I met a the myth three-headed Cerberus straight from the ninth circle of hell, Lucian went full beast mode, and I realized—oops—I don’t actually want him to die. Or me. Or anyone, really.
The Cerberus lay sprawled across the clearing now, its three grotesque heads slack, eyes glassy. Its body steamed where Lucian’s claws had torn it open, the smell of iron-heavy blood thick in the night air.
And Lucian?
He wasn’t Lucian. Not the cloaked tyrant who brooded with a wine goblet at dawn. Not the sharp-tongued alpha who tracked my chewing like national policy.
He was something else—half man, half wolf, all monster.
Towering. Hulking. His fur was black streaked with silver, his hands elongated into claws, his jaw heavy with fangs. And his eyes—those impossible silver eyes—were the only familiar thing left, glowing like two moons in a storm.
He stood over the beast he’d slain, chest heaving, blood spattered across his claws. And he looked at me.
Correction: through me.
“Mine.” The word rolled out, guttural, fractured between beast and man.
My knees turned to pudding. Not the nice chocolate kind, either—the runny cafeteria kind.
And then, without ceremony, he scooped me up. Not bridal-style this time, more like a prize, and strode through the forest with terrifying ease.
I clung to him, trembling. Every step jostled me against muscle and fur. His body was hot—too hot, like the air itself bent around his rage.
“Uh,” I croaked, trying for humour because humour is my emotional life raft. “So, that happened. You killed a literal hellhound. Congratulations, I guess? Do you… get a badge? A coupon?”
Lucian said nothing. Just a low growl in his chest, vibrating through me.
Right. Not in the mood for banter.
We broke from the trees, the fortress of Dravenmoor looming like a black crown against the night. Gates swung open on command, guards stiffening as they caught sight of their alpha—half-shifted, blood-drenched, carrying me like some morbid prize of war.
The throne room doors slammed open.
Inside, torches flared. Shadows leapt across stone walls, illuminating the long hall, the black throne, the line of startled guards and Darius standing front and center.
Lucian stalked down the aisle, me still in his arms, his claws curled possessively at my side.
Darius’s eyes flicked from me to his alpha, widening. “My lord—”
Lucian cut him off with a roar that rattled the walls. He dropped me—gently, to my shock—onto the steps of the throne and wheeled on his men.
“You left her unguarded.” His voice was a growl wrapped in iron. “You let her wander into the forest. You failed.”
The guards dropped to their knees as one. Even Darius paled, bowing his head.
I froze. Because this wasn’t protective-boyfriend Lucian or overbearing-stalker Lucian. This was the tyrant. The one they whispered about. The one who ruled by fear in this novel. The villain.
“You endanger what is mine,” Lucian snarled, fangs flashing. His claws raked the stone floor, leaving gouges. “For that, you all shall bleed.”
The nearest guard flinched. Another actually whimpered.
Oh god. Oh no. He was going to kill them. Right here. In front of me.
My chest seized. My throat tightened. They hadn’t done anything—well, okay, they hadn’t done enough, but still. This was my screw-up. My runaway scheme. My death-wish plan.
Not theirs.
And suddenly, without thinking, I was moving.
“Lucian!” My voice cracked. I stumbled forward, flinging myself at him before my fear could veto the motion.
He froze as my arms wrapped around his chest.
Yes, chest. Fur. Blood. Heat. My cheek pressed to him, my arms trembling around his too-large frame. I smelled iron, sweat, pine. Felt the furious shudder of his lungs.
“Stop,” I whispered. My throat was tight, tears stinging my eyes. “Please. It’s not them. It’s me. I ran. I—I wanted to leave. Punish me if you want, but not them.”
For a terrifying heartbeat, I thought he’d push me away. Tear me off. Continue the carnage.
But instead… he stilled and back to his normal self.
The throne room went dead silent.
Every guard stared, wide-eyed, as the monster paused mid-rage, claws inches from drawing blood, because I—stupid little human mistake from another world—was holding him.
Lucian’s breath left him in a low growl, but softer now. Almost… questioning.
I pulled back just enough to look up at him, tears slipping hot down my cheeks. “Don’t be this. Please. Not in front of me.”
Something flickered in his eyes. A fracture.
And then, like some kind of suicidal maniac, I leaned up on my toes and kissed him.
Not a whisper this time. Not a brush. But a real kiss.
Hard. Messy. Desperate. My lips trembling against his fangs, my hands clutching fur and skin.
The room gasped collectively. I swear I heard someone drop a spear.
Lucian stilled—again—for one terrifying heartbeat. And then his hand curled into my cloak, dragging me flush against him.
He kissed me back.
Not gently. Not sweetly. But with heat, hunger, and possession so raw it stole the air from my lungs.
The guards were still there. Darius was definitely still there. My brain screamed about audience, audience, PUBLIC DISPLAY OF TONGUE, but Lucian didn’t care.
He growled into my mouth, breaking the kiss just long enough to snarl one command to the room:
“Leave.”
Every soldier scrambled out like their lives depended on it—because, to be fair, they did.
The doors slammed shut.
And then it was just us.
Breathing hard. Shaking. Lips swollen. My brain fried like a short-circuited toaster.
Lucian’s silver eyes locked on mine. And without breaking eye contact, he swept me up—again—and carried me out of the throne room.
Not toward the dungeon. Not toward the courtyard. Not in my room.
Toward his chambers.
And my pulse went wild.