Betrayed and Claimed by the Lycan King Chapter 83

Isolde's POV

The soft hum of the elevator ascending to the penthouse floor was the only sound breaking the silence between Una and me.

"We've arrived, Ms. Blackwood," Una announced as the elevator doors slid open silently.

The penthouse was exactly what you'd expect from someone like Ezra—spacious, elegant, and exuding power. The late afternoon sun casting a golden glow across the minimalist furniture.

"And now," Una said, stopping before a door, "the master bathroom. I've prepared a special herbal bath for you. It will help heal the bruises from your... encounter with Ms. Hawthorne."

The bathroom was larger than my entire bedroom at the compound. In the center sat a sunken tub already filled with steaming water, its surface covered with flower petals and emitting an earthy, healing scent.

"The herbs are from Mr. Silverwood's private collection," Una explained. "They're specifically formulated for werewolf healing. I'll leave you to enjoy it."

After my bath, which had indeed soothed my aching muscles and faded the bruises to barely-visible marks, Una presented me with several outfit options—all designer pieces I wouldn't have been able to afford in a lifetime.

"These are all from the Silver Moon executive collection," she explained. "Only the highest-ranking pack members have access to these designs."

I chose the simplest option—dark jeans and a soft blue cashmere sweater that felt like a cloud against my skin. Una nodded approvingly before guiding me to the dining room, where a meal awaited.

The food was exquisite—perfectly cooked steak, roasted vegetables, and a chocolate dessert that melted in my mouth. Throughout the meal, I was treated like royalty, with Una ensuring my every need was met.

After dinner, exhaustion hit me like a wave. Una must have noticed, as she led me to a guest room with a bed that looked more comfortable than anything I'd ever slept on.

"Rest a while, Ms. Blackwood. Mr. Silverwood will be home soon."

I barely remembered my head hitting the pillow.

---

A gentle touch on my cheek roused me from sleep. My eyes fluttered open, disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. The room was dimly lit, but I could make out luxurious furnishings that definitely weren't from the guest room I'd fallen asleep in.

As awareness returned, I realized with a jolt that I was lying in an enormous bed with black silk sheets. Ezra's bed. In his master bedroom.

And Ezra himself was sitting on the edge of the mattress, his silver-gray eyes watching me intently.

"Welcome to my private sanctuary," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down my spine.

I sat up quickly, clutching the sheet to my chest though I was still fully dressed. "How did I get here?"

"I carried you," he replied simply, as if transporting unconscious women to his bedroom was perfectly normal. "You looked uncomfortable in the guest room."

He was still in his business attire—a charcoal suit that fit his broad shoulders perfectly, though his tie was loosened and the top buttons of his shirt undone.

"Did Una take good care of you?" he asked, his eyes scanning my face.

"They treated me like a princess," I admitted. "It was... unexpected."

Ezra nodded, seemingly satisfied. His fingers reached out, gently tracing the fading bruise on my cheekbone. The touch was feather-light, but it sent electricity coursing through my body.

"The bath helped," he observed, his thumb brushing over my skin. "But I can still see where she struck you."

I swallowed hard, trying to ignore how his proximity affected me. "It's healing quickly."

His eyes darkened slightly. "Evanthe will formally apologize to you by tomorrow evening."

The thought of facing Evanthe again made my stomach clench with anxiety. "She'll hate me even more after that."

"Evanthe has thirty hours to decide if she wants to apologize for her inappropriate behavior," Ezra stated coldly, a hint of gold flickering in his eyes. "If she refuses, she'll face consequences far more severe than wounded pride."

"But she's your public relations director," I countered. "And a Lycan. I'm just—"

"You are Alaric Blackwood's daughter," Ezra interrupted, his voice firm. "Former pack leader. Alpha lineage. Why would you cower before her when you could command respect through your own strength?"

His words hit me like a physical blow. I'd been so caught up in my status as a debt payment that I'd forgotten my heritage—my father had been a pack leader before his downfall. I wasn't just some random wolf thrown into the Moon Alliance program.

"I don't know what my place is here," I admitted quietly.

Ezra's expression softened slightly. "You'll figure it out. You're more resilient than you give yourself credit for."

I noticed how tired he looked despite his immaculate appearance. "You're still in your work clothes. Let me help you find something more comfortable."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by my offer, but nodded. "By all means."

I slipped out of bed and made my way to his closet. Opening the double doors revealed a walk-in wardrobe larger than most apartments. Rows of custom suits, designer shoes, and accessories lined the walls.

After browsing through his casual section, I selected gray lounge pants, a deep blue silk t-shirt, a black tank top, and two pairs of Italian-imported socks.

As I was arranging these items on a nearby dresser, the sound of the bathroom door opening made me turn.

My breath caught in my throat.

Ezra stood in the doorway, freshly showered, with only a towel wrapped low around his hips. Water droplets clung to his muscular chest and shoulders, and his dark hair was slicked back, still wet. The sight of his perfectly sculpted abs and the V-line disappearing beneath the towel made my mouth go dry.

"Found something suitable?" he asked, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as he caught me staring.

I nodded, unable to form words as heat rushed to my cheeks.

"I work out twice daily," he commented casually, walking closer. "Combat training in the morning, weights in the evening. Maintaining this physique requires discipline."

He was close enough now that I could smell his clean, masculine scent.

"Though I'm sure you're more interested in what's under the towel," he added, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper. "Just to satisfy your curiosity—what you glimpsed before? I wasn't even fully aroused. At full capacity, I'm well over eight inches."

My eyes widened involuntarily as I recalled the brief glimpse I'd had of him during our previous encounter. He had been impressive then—the thought of him being even larger was both terrifying and strangely exciting.

"That's... that's..." I stammered, backing away, my heart hammering in my chest.

"Intimidating?" he suggested, amusement dancing in his eyes.

Without waiting for my response, he reached for the clothes I'd selected. "Thank you for these. You have good taste."

I mumbled something incoherent and fled the closet, my mind racing with unbidden images of what eight inches would actually look like.

How the fuck could I even handle such a size?