Chosen By The Cursed Alpha King Chapter 149

Adele's POV

I pushed open the door to my room and stopped dead.

The scent hit me first—warm buttered toast, fresh strawberries, and the dark, smoky bite of coffee. A silver tray sat on the little table beside my bed, steam curling from the cup like it had only just been set down. And there, perched on the edge of the mattress like he belonged there, was Lucien.

My mate.

He was dressed in a black shirt with few buttons open, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, dark hair messy like he'd dragged his hands through it a hundred times. The morning light cut across his sharp cheekbones and made the brown in his eyes look almost violent.

He looked up when I stepped inside. For one heartbeat the room was perfectly still. Then his gaze dragged over me—slow, deliberate, like he was memorizing the way my dress clung to me—and something raw flashed across his face before he locked it down.

I folded my arms under my breasts and lifted my chin. "What are you doing here?"

His jaw flexed. "You didn't come down for breakfast."

A laugh scraped out of me, sharp and humorless. "Like you care."

He stood so fast the mattress springs groaned. Two long strides and he was close enough that I could feel the heat rolling off him, smell the cedar and storm that always clung to his skin. His voice dropped to that low, frustrated growl that made my knees want to fold.

"Adele."

Just my name. Nothing else. But the way he said it—like it hurt him—sent a shiver racing down my spine.

I lifted my brows. "What?"

His throat worked. The muscle in his cheek jumped. "I don't want you to get sick. Eat something. Please."

The please cracked something open inside my chest, but I refused to let him see it. I took one deliberate step closer until there was just a little space between us.

"I'm not a child, Lucien. You don't have to bring me breakfast in bed. Stop pretending you care when we both know you don't."

His eyes flared brightly. "What the hell are you talking about? You're my mate. Of course I care."

The words hit me like a slap and a caress at the same time. I laughed again, softer this time, and watched his pupils blow wide.

"Really?" I whispered.

I closed the last bit of space between us. My palms landed flat on his chest—Goddess, he was hot, skin burning through cotton—and I felt the frantic thud of his heart beneath my fingers. It was racing. For me.

"If you care," I said, voice low, "then prove it tonight."

His breath hitched.

I slid my hands up, over hard muscle and thudding pulse, until my thumbs brushed the hollow of his throat. "Claim me, Lucien. Make me forget how to walk. Make me yours in every way that matters." My voice cracked on the last word, but I didn't care. "I want to feel you inside me until the only thing I remember is your name."

His throat bobbed again. A low, broken sound rumbled in his chest—half growl, half groan. His hands lifted like he was going to touch me, then froze in mid-air, fingers curling into fists.

I wasn't finished.

I let one hand drift down—slow, deliberate—over the ridges of his stomach, lower, until my fingers closed around the thick, rigid length of him straining against his trousers. He was so hard it had to hurt. I squeezed once, gently, and his hips jerked like I'd burned him.

"Give me this," I breathed against his jaw, "if you really care about me."

For one endless second the world narrowed to the feel of him throbbing in my grip, the ragged sound of his breathing, the way his entire body locked tight like he was one heartbeat away from snapping.

Something wild and desperate flashed in his eyes—something that made heat flood between my thighs so fast I almost moaned. His lips parted. I swear he leaned into my touch.

Then it was gone.

He cleared his throat hard, stepped back so fast my hand fell away, and the distance felt like a canyon.

"Eat your breakfast," he rasped, voice shredded. "I've got work."

He turned toward the door.

But this time I didn't feel the familiar crush of rejection. This time I felt the crack in his armor—wide enough to slip a blade through. He hadn't pushed my hand away. He hadn't told me to stop. He'd let me touch him, let me feel exactly how much he wanted me, and then he'd run because he was terrified of what came next.

Victory—small, vicious, and sweet—bloomed hot in my chest.

He yanked the door open, shoulders rigid, every line of his body screaming control held together by fraying thread.

I smiled at his retreating back, slow and sharp.

"You can run, Lucien," I whispered to the empty room, "but you can't hide."

Tonight I was coming for him.

And when midnight struck, I was going to make my beautiful, broken wolf beg.