Chapter 7 A Tyrant’s Routine

7: A Tyrant’s Routine

If anyone ever tells you being claimed by a tyrant alpha is glamorous, let me be the first to slap them gently with a raw fish.

Because here’s the thing: Lucian Drevane doesn’t just rule. He micromanages. Not just his army, not just his fortress, but apparently… me. My life. My day. My oxygen intake, probably.

I used to think alphas in novels were all about running through the forest bare-chested, leading hunts, occasionally flexing in moonlight. But no. Lucian is the kind of alpha who probably organizes his bookshelf by “number of enemies slaughtered while reading this volume.” Now, that I think about it again this is surely a hell of a experience to be transported in. Why of all novels I read, on this random one did I get transport?

And now? I’m apparently part of his catalog system.

I woke up to breakfast already set at the foot of my bed. Not just bread and jam—oh no. We’re talking a platter of roasted pheasant, glistening berries, some kind of porridge that smelled way too smug about itself, and a goblet of wine. Yes. Wine. At eight a.m.

Meanwhile, I haven’t brushed my teeth yet.

Lucian sat in a chair across the room, boots polished, cloak draped just-so, staring at me like my chewing technique was a matter of national security.

“You’re watching me eat again,” I mumbled around a berry.

“Yes,” he replied. No shame. No follow-up explanation. Just… yes.

I considered throwing a blueberry at him. Decided against it. Didn’t want to accidentally start a war before brushing my teeth.

When I finished, he rose, took my empty goblet, and set it aside with ridiculous solemnity. As if my leftovers belonged in a museum.

And here’s the kicker: later lunchtime, when Darius, his beta, came to report about border patrols, Lucian’s first question wasn’t “Are the scouts alive?” or “Are we at war?” It was:

“Did she finish her meal?”

Darius’s eyebrow nearly left his skull. Mine did too.

“Are you serious?” I demanded.

Lucian’s silver gaze flicked to me, sharp as moonlight on glass. “You are mine. Your strength is my strength. If you do not eat, you weaken us both.”

Romantic? Maybe. Terrifying? Absolutely. Imagine your boyfriend checking your calorie intake like it’s part of state policy.

I tried wandering once. Just once. Thought I could sneak down a quiet corridor, maybe find a nice tower window to breathe actual air by myself.

Five minutes later, wolves appeared. Real wolves. Silent, golden-eyed, blocking my path like furry bouncers.

Lucian arrived soon after, cloak swirling, expression darker than the bottom of my coffee mug.

“Did you think you could leave?” he asked. Calm. Too calm.

“I was just… walking,” I squeaked. “Vitamin D. Sunshine. You know, normal human stuff.”

His hand caught my chin, tilting my face up. His thumb brushed my lip, his gaze unreadable. “If you crave the sun, I will bring it to you.”

Sir, what?

Spoiler: he did not bring me the sun. But he did start escorting me personally on “approved strolls.” Which meant Lucian + two guards + four actual wolves pacing like shadows around me while I tried to pretend I was just on a very, very dramatic dog walk.

Correction: his royalty. I was just the human-shaped accessory he refused to let go of.

By then I started noticing patterns. Breakfast surveillance at eight. Reports with Darius (during which my nutritional status was apparently a priority) at ten. Training drills in the courtyard by noon.

And me? My job was… existing. Eating when told. Walking when escorted. Sleeping under constant guard.

It was absurd. I used to binge Netflix and eat instant ramen for dinner. Now I couldn’t sneeze without a wolf bristling in case my respiratory system was under attack.

Here’s the worst part: a tiny, traitorous part of me felt… safe. Smothered, yes. But safe. Like no harm could ever reach me here. Which was stupid. Because Lucian was the harm.

My brain: Run, he’s dangerous.

My heart: But have you seen his jawline?

By the time night rolled around, I was exhausted. Emotionally, mentally, spiritually. I plopped onto my bed, hoping for dreamless sleep.

Lucian had other plans.

“Come,” he said.

“Define ‘come,’” I muttered into the pillow.

“To the pond.”

I blinked. “What pond?”

“The one you’ve not yet seen.”

And just like that, he scooped me up bridal-style—because apparently walking like a normal person was beneath him—and carried me through winding corridors, out past the walls, into a part of Dravenmoor I hadn’t seen before. Then in one moment I thought I'd die when he suddenly jumped out of the window.

The f—ck!

The air shifted. The fortress gloom faded into moonlit quiet, where trees framed a small clearing. At its center lay a pond, dark and glassy, reflecting the stars. Fireflies drifted lazily above the water.

It was… beautiful. Shockingly so. Like the world had forgotten it belonged to a tyrant and decided to flirt with romance instead.

Lucian set me down at the edge, his hand never leaving mine. “Here. This place is for me alone. Now, it is yours also.”

I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry. Mostly, I wanted to not feel like my chest was going to explode.

“Lucian,” I said carefully, “you can’t just—share a secret pond with me and expect it not to feel like a date.”

His head tilted. “It is a date.”

Excuse me, WHAT?

We sat by the water, silence stretching, the night soft around us. For once, he wasn’t terrifying. He was… quiet. Thoughtful. Human, almost.

I picked up a flat stone, tried to skip it across the pond. It plunked straight down like a failure. “Not my talent,” I muttered.

Lucian reached over, plucked another stone, and flicked it effortlessly. It skipped seven times. Seven. Show-off.

He glanced at me, the faintest hint of smugness on his lips. “You will learn.”

“Yeah, yeah, add that to the list of things I’m failing at in this world.”

“You are not failing.” His voice was low, steady. “You are surviving.”

That shut me up. Because underneath the obsession, the control, the power—there it was. The truth. He knew I was out of place. He knew I didn’t belong here. And still… he wanted me anyway.

My chest ached with something I didn’t want to name.

I turned to make another sarcastic remark about fireflies around us being free while I was stuck on a leash like a puppy. Lucian leaned in—too close, too sudden—and his lips brushed mine.

Just a whisper of a kiss. Barely there. But it lit every nerve in my body like fireworks.

I froze. He didn’t push, didn’t deepen it. He just waited, his forehead resting against mine, breath mingling with mine.

“Say the word,” he murmured, voice softer than I’d ever heard. “And I will stop.”

My heart was a drumline. My brain was screaming. My mouth? Useless.

And in that silence, in that choice he left me, I realized something terrifying:

I didn’t want him to stop.