The Lycan King's Captive

THE LYCAN KING’S CAPTIVE AMY PENNZA The Lycan King’s Captive Copyright © 2023 by Amy Pennza No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Cover design by Miblart All rights reserved. CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Epilogue About the Author Also by Amy Pennza 1 ABBY Nerves fluttered in my stomach as I struggled to keep my ancient SUV on the road. Although “road” was a generous description of the dirt track that wound through the forest. Even after four years in Maine, I wasn’t used to the narrow, twisting trails that passed as highways. Growing up in Texas, everything was flat and smooth, and cities were laid out in grids. Here? The North Maine Woods didn’t have cities. It barely had roads. The land was owned by a mix of logging companies and the federal government, and neither of those entities were particularly welcoming to outsiders. The three-and-a-half million acres were populated by trees, not people. So I’d been surprised to get a call asking if I offered emergency veterinarian services. The man on the phone had been polite and kind and extremely worried about his dog. He’d also offered to Venmo five thousand dollars if I could come this afternoon. That was enough to keep the bank from taking my practice, so I’d thrown on a pair of old jeans and grabbed my house call bag. My phone had buzzed with the Venmo notification as I backed out of the driveway. The SUV hit a rut, and I squeezed the wheel as my pulse picked up. For a brief second, I allowed my gaze to dart to the glove compartment, where my dad’s service revolver was tucked among insurance paperwork and fast food napkins. Dad died before he could teach me how to use it, but I felt better having it with me. Or maybe I just liked the idea of having part of him with me. Because he would have been proud as hell calling his daughter Doctor Abigail Rowe. He would have loved watching me treat patients, and he wouldn’t have cared one bit that I chose to follow my heart instead of money. Dad loved dogs more than anyone, to the point where I used to laugh and call him Dog’s Best Friend. The only time I saw him weep was the day he buried his police dog, Max. A branch scraped the passenger window, and I jumped and let out a yelp just as headlights rounded the curve ahead. Mindful of logging trucks, I slowed and moved to the side of the road. A black Range Rover pulled alongside me, and its window lowered smoothly. Nerves prickling, I lowered mine and caught my breath at the sight of the most gorgeous man I’d ever seen. His dark hair was pushed back from a broad forehead, and his blue eyes were the color of a Texas summer sky. And he smelled amazing. Like leather and something dark and spicy I couldn’t identify. The blue eyes flicked over me, taking in my ponytail and T-shirt. “You’re the veterinarian?” He spoke in a deep rumble that seemed to resonate in my chest. “Y-Yes.” I swallowed against a suddenly dry throat. “Are you Roman? You called about a dog?” “That’s me. You have medical supplies?” “Yes, they’re—” “Bring them. I’ll drive the rest of the way.” “You want me to ride with you?” Understanding entered his gaze, and he offered a smile that took his features from smoldering to supernova. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t want to get in a car with a strange guy, either. It’s okay if you follow behind. Just stay close, because we’ve had a lot of fog rolling through. You don’t want to get lost out here.” Somehow, I managed to nod. My thoughts raced as he maneuvered around and started back up the road. What was a man like that doing out here? Was he a reclusive millionaire who longed for privacy? The wealthy owner of a logging operation who was just as comfortable in flannel as he was polo shirts? Dad’s gruff Texas drawl ran through my head. “Or a serial killer. Did you think of that one, Abby?” “Stop it, Dad,” I muttered. Serial killers didn’t wire their victims money just before murdering them. Ahead, the Range Rover’s taillights dimmed. At the same moment, fog rushed across the windshield. I squinted and applied the brakes. It would be just my luck to rear-end my first paying customer in months. The fog cleared, and a sprawling house appeared out of the purple dusk. It was lit up like a Christmas tree, its rows of windows gleaming a soft yellow. My nerves quieted as we pulled into a half circle drive and stopped at the double doors. The house—a mansion, really—was stunning, and Roman was clearly a rich man who loved his dog. He was out of his SUV and at my door as I reached for my bag. “This way,” he said, his voice clipped. I fell into step beside him and tried not to notice how his shirt strained across his broad shoulders. “Do you have any idea what’s wrong with your dog?” He hadn’t gone into details on the phone. “Most likely an infection.” He ran lightly up the steps and pulled open the door. A large foyer decorated in rich shades of brown and green greeted me, but I barely saw it as Roman ushered me past a grand staircase and down a hallway. We reached a pair of ornate double doors, and he