Deviant Kings: Claimed by The Four Lycan Kings

Adeline’s pov~

Before I could scream, Raven’s large, calloused hand shot out, wrapping gently but completely unyieldingly around the back of my neck. He tilted my head back, pinning me in place.

The sheer dominance in his grip paralysed me, my breath hitching in my throat. He pressed his bleeding left palm firmly against my lips.

The metallic taste hit my tongue, hot and thick.

"Swallow," he commanded, his voice dropping into a low, hypnotic whisper. "Drink it, Adeline. Let me heal you. Please."

The sudden change in his tone—from furious demand to that desperate, raw plea—shattered the last of my resistance. My mind spun, my body aching for relief, and against every ounce of my logic, I swallowed.

The fire raced through my veins, hot and blinding. It felt like liquid starlight flooding the dark, broken corners of my body.

The agonising pressure against my ribs suddenly eased as the torn muscles began to knit back together under the sheer force of his royal magic. The throbbing in my face faded into a dull, distant hum.

I gasped against his palm, my hands instantly flying up to grip his wrist, trying to pull away from the overwhelming rush of it.

The fire rushed through my veins like molten lava, burning away the agonising, dull ache in my torso. I could feel the torn muscle fibres knitting themselves back together under my hoodie, the bruised skin on my face cooling down instantly as the ancient, powerful Lycan magic forced my wolfless body to repair itself.

It was too much power for a wolfless girl.

I gasped, choking on the raw heat of it as Raven slowly pulled his hand away. A single dark tear of his blood tracked down my chin, and he reached up with his thumb, gently wiping it away.

His rough, calloused hand moved up to my hair. His long fingers carefully stroked my hair, patting my head with a quiet, heavy tenderness that terrified me far more than his anger ever could.

"Rest," he rasped, his pitch-black eyes searching my face, searching for any sign of pain left in my eyes.

I shoved his hand away with all the strength returning to my arms and shoved myself up off the bed. I stood on my own two feet, the room tilting for a fraction of a second before my balance settled, completely healed, completely whole, and completely furious.

I wiped the corner of my mouth with the back of my sleeve, my eyes wide and trembling as I stared at him.

The deep gash on his palm was already sealing itself shut, leaving nothing but a dark smudge of drying blood.

"Get out," I said, my voice cold, sharp, and steady.

Raven stayed on one knee for a long second, looking up at me.

"I mean it, Raven. Get out of my room," I spat, my jaw locked tight as I stared down at the most feared prince in the territories. "I don’t want your pity, and I damn sure don’t want your protection from now on. Just stay away from me."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Raven didn’t yell. He didn’t bare his fangs or command me to sit back down. He just stared at me, his dark eyes unreadable, absorbing every single bitter word I threw at him.

Slowly, he stood up and he looked down at me one last time, his chest rising and falling in a silent, heavy breath.

Without saying a single word, he turned his back on me.

The heavy wooden door swung shut with a quiet, final click, leaving me entirely alone in the dim room.

The silence rushed back in, heavy and thick.

My knees finally gave out, not just from physical weakness, but from the overwhelming, exhausting tide of emotions crashing through my chest. I dragged myself toward the bed and slowly lay down on top of the covers.

I curled onto my side, clutching my pillow tightly against my chest. The ribs beneath my hands were solid, unyielding, and completely healed.

I crawled under the covers, curling into a tight, defensive ball, clutching the pillow to my chest. My mind reeled, trying to reconcile the terrifying force of Raven’s dominance with the lingering, impossibly soft pat he had left on my hair before vanishing.

Then, without warning, a violent, sickening contraction twisted deep inside my stomach.

My eyes snapped open. The heat that had felt like liquid starlight moments ago turned razor-sharp, churning into a toxic, boiling wave in my gut. Nausea hit me so hard my vision blurred.

I threw off the blanket, scrambled off the bed, and stumbled wildly into the adjoining bathroom. I barely made it to the porcelain basin before my throat constricted, and I gagged, coughing violently into the sink.

Dark, thick crimson splashed against the white porcelain.

Blood.

My whole body shook as another harsh cough tore through my chest, spatters of lingering royal blood mixing with the cold water pooling in the drain. Panic flared white-hot in my mind.

Shifter blood was volatile magic, pure power— maybe it wasn’t meant for a wolfless stomach.

"I’m a wolfless nobody," I choked out, my voice raspy and echoing off the bathroom tiles as I gripped the edges of the sink, my knuckles turning white. "No wonder my body can’t handle a Lycan’s blood..."

I turned on the faucet, watching the dark crimson wash down the drain until the water ran clear again. Trembling from head to toe, total exhaustion finally caught up with me.

I splashed cold water over my face, scrubbing away the cold sweat and the bitter, copper taste lingering on my tongue.

Slowly, hesitantly, I wiped my eyes and looked up into the mirror.

I froze.

The girl staring back at me didn’t look like someone who had just been beaten within an inch of her life by rogue omegas.

The ugly, deep purple swelling on the left side of my face was completely gone. My split lip was smooth, pink, and unbroken, as if it had never been torn at all.

My breath hitched. I reached down with trembling fingers, grabbed the hem of my hoodie with the black tank top, and pulled it up over my midriff.

The violent canvas of dark black, purple, and yellow boot prints stamped across my ribs had vanished. My skin was flawless, pale, and entirely whole. Not a single trace of trauma remained.

A hollow, bewildered laugh escaped my lips.

"If my body can’t accept his blood... then why and how did I heal?" I whispered into the quiet room.

It defied every piece of shifter logic I knew.

If a wolfless human rejected a Lycan’s volatile blood, it was supposed to burn through their organs like acid, leaving them crippled or dead. It shouldn’t have purged the excess power while perfectly knitting every broken bone and torn muscle back together.

This isn’t how it works... is it?

I squeezed my eyes shut. I didn’t know.

I had spent my entire life trying to survive as an outcast; I had never experienced highborn magic firsthand, and certainly no one had ever pinned me down to force-feed me royal blood to heal my wounds.

A bitter, humourless scoff escaped my throat as the memory of my tragic past flickered through my mind—the rejections, the beatings, the endless nights bleeding out on cold dirt without a single soul reaching out to help.

Now, the most dangerous prince in the territory was barging into my room, bleeding for me, and refusing to let me die.

I let go of my top, the fabric falling back over my waist, and walked back out into the dim dorm room.

My body was healed, but my soul felt entirely spent. As soon as my head hit the soft pillow, the heavy curtain of exhaustion slammed down over my mind, pulling me into a deep, dreamless sleep.

~

A simple nap dragged me down into a dead, suffocating blackout.

I blinked my eyes open to the sharp, insistent sound of a knock at the door. Shadows flooded the room—it was already past evening.

A sharp, heavy rap echoed against the wooden door.

I blinked through the thick haze of sleep, glancing across the room to see Miya lounging on her mattress, her sharp eyes darting toward me with a silent, demanding glare that clearly meant get the door.

I dragged my legs over the edge of the bed, the fully healed muscles sliding smoothly beneath my skin, and took a single step forward.

"Wait," Miya hissed, sucking in a sharp breath.

I frowned, my voice still thick, sleepy, and half-mumbled against my throat. "Someone is at the door..."

"I said stop!" she yelled, springing off the sheets like she had been electrocuted.

In a frantic, trembling blur, she smoothed down her dress, swept her fingers through her hair, and marched to the deadbolt, twisting it open with a sharp click.

That was when the cold, pathetic truth hit me, pulling a dry, bitter scoff straight from my chest.

She didn’t want the scentless, bruised nobody answering the threshold because she wanted whatever highborn predator was standing out there looking only at her.

The heavy oak door swung wide, revealing a towering, massive silhouette blocking the dim corridor. Miya instantly threw her shoulders back, slithering into the opening and blocking the view as she pitched her voice into an obnoxious, sickeningly sweet coo.

"Lord—" she purred, her eyes wide with desperate invitation.

A lethal, gravelly voice sliced through the air like a butcher’s blade, cold and absolute.

"Back off!"

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