Unwanted Mate Of The Lycan Kings (by jessica hall)

Chapter 8

~Zeke~

“Was that necessary, Malachi, really?” Uncle James scolds while my father peels his body from the

wall, that now needs fixing.

“Made me feel better,” Malachi shrugs, holding out his hand. James shakes his head, grabs his hand,

pulling him to his feet with a click of his tongue.

“You jealous little scab mongrel, after everything I have done for you! I took you in! I didn’t have to!” my

father starts again. He hates being at the losing end of an argument, even when he is wrong.

“To rub your fucking throne in my face, don’t pretend you did that for me!” Malachi snarls back at him.

“Oh, bullshit, Mal, and you know it. Father wanted you dead. Had I not taken you as my Beta, he would

have killed you, along with your mother. I fucking raised you, you little mutt,” my father sneers.

“I’m sure out of the goodness of your black fucking heart, you swine!”

James sighs and rolls his eyes while wandering over to us. “This is why I am the black sheep, who

wants to put up with this shit daily,” James says, as he stops next to us and lets them carry on.

“No, you’re the black sheep because you're half bloodsucker, gotta keep up appearances. What would

the people think if they knew you were another brother of the King?”

“I wouldn’t laugh. Malachi is right. You probably got brothers and sisters you don’t know about, secretly

hunting your throne,” he chuckles.

“Don’t you start picking sides, James!” my father spits at him, overhearing him.

“Of course not, Theo. I don’t pick sides, not until the end, so I can ensure I pick the winning one. Now

carry on as you were. Maybe he can beat some sense into you,” James retorts. Malachi seems to take

that as permission because he doesn’t hold back, launching at my father.

By the time they are done, the room is all but demolished, but I saved two bottles from the bar, and I

am keeping them safe.

“I bet on you, and you never took part,” I grumble when I see my father has had enough, and Malachi is

winning. “Play smarter, not harder, son,” James says, patting my knee and hopping up.

“Huh?” Lyon slurs drunkenly; I wish I could get as drunk as easily as him.

Their fight seems never to end, and the morning sun starts to filter in through the heavy, torn drapes. I

yawn. James wanders over casually to them. Obviously sick of playing referee as they both start to tire,

throwing half-assed swings at each other. It's like watching geriatrics fight, everything in slow motion.

My eyes move to the clock above the entrance. Well, I suppose they’ve been punching on for three

hours now. Even so, I thought the old man would have lasted longer. Disappointing.

Malachi throws a punch, and both are so exhausted they don’t even block or dodge. His hand is caught

in James,’ and my father huffs like he won until James grabs his ear like he is a five-year-old.

“James!” my father screeches. He drags one to the corner of the room. “You stay,” he growls at

Malachi. Malachi glares daggers but is too exhausted to fight James now. My father, however, sways.

“Ungrateful little Sod you are, aren’t you? Give you my life juice, and you waste it getting your ass

beat,” James scolds my father.

“Keep your voice down! You know it's taboo!”

“Wasn’t so taboo when you were lapping at my damn neck like a cat does milk!” James huffs, shoving

my father into the busted armchair.

“You know I am a king. You have no right,”

“King of the kids, grow up, Theron, you never take responsibility for anything. Malachi is right. Twice

you have taken from him.”

“Electra was my mate!” he argues. All content © N/.ôvel/Dr/ama.Org.

“Maybe so, but Shelley was not,” James tells him, and my father grumbles, folding his arms across his

chest.

“Now the question remains, how do we fix this?” he glances between them, and I sit up to see if Uncle

James has an idea.

“We can’t, I am as good as dead. She isn’t going to choose them. I am living off borrowed time,” my

father answers, and my brows pinch. Glancing at Lyon, he is snoring softly, I nudge him, and he jolts

awake.

“Damn it, who won?” he asks immediately.

“James. You owe me a year of wheat. He’s the only one still standing,” Lyon huffs, annoyed. Well, it

isn’t a complete lie.

“We don’t know that. You just need to convince her, and these two—” James’ gaze moves to us.

“Where is Regan?” he questions suddenly, only just realizing Regan isn’t here.

“With Zirah,” I answer.

“Well, it seems one of you is smart; while you two are drowning your sorrows, he is burying his inside

her,” James snickers, and I growl at him.

“Convince her to what?” Lyon asks.

“To accept you both,” Lyon scoffs, and so do I.

“Yeah, right, we are as good as dead,” I tell him, downing the remnants of my bottle.

“Keep drinking this shit, and you will be,” he snarls. Snatching the bottle from me, he tosses it into the

fireplace and the glass explodes.

“She might as well kill me right now and get it over with if my life is in their incapable hands,” my father

growls, shooting a glare at us.

“What nonsense are you spouting about now, old man?” I question.

“The curse, Zeke. Why do you think I needed to name an heir? Find a way to break the curse!” my

father snarls. “I’m fucking dying. You three were cursed, but so was I!”

“What do you mean?” Lyon asks.

“I was cursed to die if the curse wasn’t broken. Litha gave me 21 years to break it, or I die.” my father

explains, and I look at Lyon, who is suddenly fully alert.

“Wait, this is why you made us take part in the maze trials?” I ask.

“Yes, my time is running out!”

“How much time do you have left?”

“Until the next full moon, when Zirah shifts on her 21st birthday, if you three haven’t marked her, I die.”

“So you have two weeks?” Lyon asks, my father sighs and nods.

“Yep, you are definitely dead, then. We can go casket shopping tomorrow if you like. We’ll pick you out

a real cushy one,” I tell him, and he growls.

“Maybe we can paint a sloth on it?” Lyon suggests. I snicker at his words and my father’s horrified face.

“Do you really care so little for me?” he asks.

“You made your bed,” I start, but I am cut off by Lyon.

“Casket!” Lyon corrects.

“You made your casket. Now you lie in it,” I tell him with a shrug, just as I see Hunter walk into the

room. We all turn our attention to the door, and moments later, Zirah walks in, stopping in her tracks.