Stolen by the Beastly Lycan King-Chapter 112: King Fenrir

Once upon a time, there lived a formidable Beast King named Fenrir.

A pure-blooded lycan, he exuded power and dominance, his terrifying aura palpable with every step he took.

Like most pure-blooded beasts, Fenrir held the purity of his lineage in the highest regard and harbored a deep disdain for half-bloods. To him, they were an affront to their race, tainted by the mingling of "filthy" human blood—blood he deemed poisonous to his own.

Yet, despite his staunch convictions, Fenrir was not immune to the whims of fate. For all his pride and prejudice, he fell victim to an unexpected twist of destiny.

He fell in love with a human.

Proud as he was, the king refused to acknowledge his feelings as love. Instead, he labeled them as mere lustful infatuation—an unexplainable obsession, the kind any man might experience when faced with a woman as captivating as her.

A traveler. A nomad. A gypsy. A witch.

She was not just beautiful; she was the very embodiment of beauty itself.

Tall, slender, and graceful, everything about her was mesmerizing, almost to the point of intimidation. fгeewebnovёl.com

Her ivory-hued skin was soft and smooth, the gentle curve of her body flawless, her long, brown hair cascading in soft curls, and her deep, hypnotic brown eyes holding secrets he could not resist.

Tanya. She gave him only one name—just Tanya. It was all she had, and it was all he needed.

She was everything Fenrir was not.

Where he was powerful, strong, and imposing, his muscular frame draped in dark skin and his long, straight black hair making him appear fearsome, she was delicate and alluring.

His rugged features were overshadowed by the honeyed glow of his narrow, predatory eyes, which burned with an uncontrollable desire every time they locked with hers.

Draped entirely in red, Tanya danced near the fire, the rhythmic sway of her body captivating everyone in her clan. Thin gold chains adorned her slender wrists and ankles, catching the firelight as they glimmered with every move she made. The flames seemed to mimic her steps, flickering and swaying in harmony with her.

Whenever her eyes met his, her pouty red lips would curve into a teasing, tempting smile. Her cheeks, flushed with warmth and excitement, glowed almost as brightly as her crimson dress fluttering around her.

Fenrir was maddened by her beauty, but it was her touch that utterly unraveled him.

The wolf within him growled and whined every time her intoxicating scent reached his senses, a fragrance that lingered in the air like a drug. Before he fully understood what was happening, Fenrir had taken her back to his palace—the mesmerizing gypsy witch now at his side.

It was a catastrophic affair.

The nights they spent together burned hotter than the fiercest fire.

Hour after hour, they made love with a passion so raw and unrelenting that it left them both scorched and trembling by dawn. Their bodies craved each other, their souls tethered by an unquenchable hunger. By the first light of day, they would lie entangled, dreading that their fervor would consume them entirely, leaving nothing behind but ashes.

They were addicts, lost in each other. But neither of them realized that what they craved most was also what would destroy them.

How could she be my mate?

Fenrir kept asking himself the same question over and over again, but his wolf refused to answer. The beast within him simply growled and paced, consumed by an insatiable desire for her.

He wanted her so desperately that he felt unhinged, craving her touch with the wild obsession of a man driven to madness.

The king was livid.

He was a pure-blooded wolf, one of the most powerful lycans to ever rule the Beast Kingdom. How could he stoop so low as to mate with a human—a mere mortal who would tarnish the purity of his lineage? The very thought was abhorrent to him, a mockery of everything he stood for.

Fenrir prided himself on being a purist. His life’s mission was to restore the Beast Kingdom’s glory, purging it of all the half-bloods he deemed unworthy. To him, these hybrids were a disgrace, a contamination of their once-mighty race. The beasts were meant to reign supreme, the strongest creatures in the world. How could he, their king, risk jeopardizing that future for his selfish desires?

It could not happen. No matter how captivated he was by the nomadic witch, no matter how her very presence set his soul ablaze, Fenrir knew he could not allow himself to fall further. He would not poison his bloodline by fathering children with her.

Even if it tore him apart, even if it condemned him to a lifetime of agony, he had to break the bond. He had to sever all ties with Tanya before it was too late.

But fate was cruel, and Tanya’s soft, steady voice shattered his resolve.

"What did you say?" Fenrir demanded, his eyebrows arched in disbelief. His fists trembled at his sides, the claws threatening to extend.

"I am with child, Your Majesty," Tanya repeated softly, her voice calm, almost serene. A gentle smile curved her luscious lips as she met his fiery gaze.

He hated that smile.

It was the same smile that had undone him time and again, the faintest curve of her plump lips enough to bring even a king like him to his knees. Her relentless charm rendered him powerless, a slave to the very thing he swore to resist.

See? She is already carrying your seed, Fenrir, the wolf inside him growled, its voice loud and relentless, tearing at his resolve. Marry her, King. Your pure lycan blood combined with the power of a witch... your child will be unstoppable.

Fenrir clenched his jaw, his hands curling into tighter fists. He knew the truth in those words. Pure-blooded beasts, no matter how powerful, were born without magical abilities. But this child—his child—could be different.

A child born of his mighty lycan strength and her formidable magical lineage. The mere thought sent a chill down his spine. It would be a being like no other, a creature capable of feats unimaginable. His child would be unstoppable.

She is a human, Fenrir growled back, his frustration spilling over as his narrowed eyes burned with inner conflict. He despised the war waging within him, the clash between desire and duty, instinct and conviction. But he had to remain strong, no matter the cost.

"This child cannot be born," Fenrir said at last, his voice low and cold, carrying the weight of his final decision. He fixed his piercing gaze on the assassins standing in formation before him, their heads bowed in obedience.

"Kill the mother," he ordered. "And the baby she carries. Leave no trace of her connection to me. Do it... beyond the border."

"As you wish, King Fenrir," the assassins replied in unison, their voices devoid of hesitation. Without delay, they turned and departed, vanishing into the shadows to carry out the grim command.

You will regret this, King, Fenrir’s wolf snarled, the beast’s rage reverberating through his mind. Its angry roar threatened to bubble to the surface. It will kill you.

Fenrir frowned, his sharp features hardening as his blood began to boil. The tension coiled inside him like a spring ready to snap.

Then I will kill it first.