Lycan Prince's Secret Baby E-Book

Laura Dutton

• Herausgeber: BookRix
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2026

Beschreibung

He treated me like his prisoner. His plaything. His to use and discard.
I was nothing to Prince Kieran. Just a servant girl paying off her father's debt. When he noticed me, I thought I was special. I thought a prince had seen something in me worth keeping.
I was wrong.
For months, I endured his cruelty. His coldness. The way he'd hold me close one night and pretend I didn't exist the next. I told myself I'd leave. Tomorrow. Next week. After the next season.
Then I found out I was pregnant.
Carrying the Lycan Prince's child changed everything. I couldn't stay. Couldn't let him know. Couldn't risk what he'd do to me or the baby growing inside me.
So I ran.
I disappeared into the forests, alone and terrified, swearing he'd never find us. I'd give my child the life I never had. Safety. Freedom. A future that didn't include a monster wearing a crown.
But Prince Kieran doesn't let go of what belongs to him.
And the mate bond I tried to ignore? It's real. It's burning. And it's pulling me back to the one man I swore I'd never forgive.
Now I have a choice: keep running and raise my son in the shadows, or return to the palace and fight for the life we both deserve.
Either way, the Lycan Prince is about to learn that the girl he broke has teeth now.
And this time, I'm not backing down.

Leseprobe

Lycan Prince's Secret Baby

His Lost Luna Romance

Laura Dutton

Copyright © 2026 LAURA DUTTONAll rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the author, except for brief quotations used in reviews or other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE

Chapter 1: The Prince's Prisoner

Chapter 2: Blood Moon Chains

Chapter 3: His Wicked Games

Chapter 4: Marked by the Beast

Chapter 5: The Reckoning Within

Chapter 6: Moonlit Revelation

Chapter 7: The Breaking Point

Chapter 8: Flight Through Shadow Pines

Chapter 9: Refuge in the Forgotten Hollow

Chapter 10: New Name, Old Scars

Chapter 11: The Cub Quickens

Chapter 12: Sanctuary's Illusion

Chapter 13: The Alpha's Hunt Begins

Chapter 14: Tracked by Starlight

Chapter 15: When Wolves Collide

Chapter 16: Truth's Bitter Howl

Chapter 17: The Prince and His Heir

Chapter 18: Claws and Consequences

Chapter 19: The Mate Bond Awakens

Chapter 20: Crown of Blood and Moonfire

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

PROLOGUE

I should have known better than to fall for a monster.

But that's the thing about monsters—they don't always look like what the old tales say. They don't always have fangs dripping with blood or eyes that glow in the dark. Sometimes they wear a crown. Sometimes they smile at you like you matter, right before they remind you that you don't.

Prince Kieran was both. The beast and the lie.

I still remember the night they brought me to the palace. My father owed a debt—money, land, something I never fully understood because he never bothered to explain it to me. Just said I had to go, had to serve the Lycan Court for a season. Said it was an honor. That girls from our village never got chances like this.

He looked me in the eye when he said it. Never flinched. Never apologized.

I was seventeen. Stupid enough to believe him.

The first month wasn't so bad. I cleaned floors, polished silver, kept my head down like the older women told me to. The palace was bigger than anything I'd ever seen—stone walls thick as tree trunks, halls that went on forever, fireplaces you could stand inside without crouching. At night, I'd hear the wolves howling from the north tower. Sometimes it sounded like singing. Sometimes it sounded like screaming.

I learned quick not to ask questions.

Prince Kieran noticed me on a Tuesday. I remember because it was washing day, and my hands were raw from the lye soap. He walked past me in the corridor, boots clicking on the marble, and he stopped. Just stopped and stared.

"You," he said. His voice was low, smooth. The kind of voice that made you want to listen. "What's your name?"

"Elsie, Your Highness." I dropped into a curtsy like I'd been taught. Kept my eyes down.

"Look at me."

I did. And that was my first mistake.

His eyes were amber. Not brown, not gold—amber, like the stones the traders sold at the autumn markets. They caught the light from the torches and held it. He was beautiful in the way that sharp things are beautiful. Clean lines, strong jaw, dark hair that fell just past his collar. He looked at me the way you look at something you're deciding whether or not to buy.

"Come with me," he said.

I followed. What else could I do?

That night, he poured me wine in his chambers. Real wine, not the watered-down slop we got in the servants' quarters. He asked me about my village, my family, what I wanted from life. He listened when I talked. Laughed at things I said that weren't even funny. Touched my hand across the table like it was natural, like we were equals.

I was stupid enough to think it meant something.

He kissed me before I left. Soft at first, then harder, his hand tangled in my hair. My first kiss. I floated back to my room that night, heart pounding, skin buzzing. I thought about him until dawn.

The next night, he sent for me again.

And the night after that.

And the one after that.

For three weeks, I believed I was special. That a prince had looked at a nobody like me and seen something worth keeping. He'd hold me after, sometimes. Run his fingers through my hair and tell me I was beautiful. That I was different from the others.

I never asked who the others were.

It changed on the fourth week. I don't know what shifted—maybe I said something wrong, maybe he just got bored—but his eyes went cold. When I reached for him, he pushed my hand away.

"Don't touch me unless I tell you to," he said.

I laughed. Thought he was joking.

He wasn't.

The slap came so fast I didn't see it. Just felt the sting, the shock, the way my head snapped to the side. I touched my cheek, fingers shaking, and looked at him.

He stared back. No apology. No explanation.

"You're here because I allow it," he said. "Don't forget that."

I should have run then. Should have packed my things and walked out of that palace and never looked back.

But I didn't.

Because part of me thought I deserved it. Part of me thought if I just tried harder, was better, quieter, more of whatever he wanted—he'd go back to being the man who'd listened to me talk about nothing for hours.

That man never existed. I know that now.

The months after were a blur of trying to be invisible and failing. He'd call for me when he wanted me. Ignore me when he didn't. Some nights he'd be gentle, almost kind, and I'd let myself hope. Other nights he'd grip my wrists so hard they bruised, and I'd bite my tongue to keep from crying.

"You're mine," he'd say. Sometimes like a promise. Sometimes like a threat.

The other servants started avoiding me. I'd walk into a room and conversations would stop. They knew what I was. What he'd made me.

His plaything. His whore.

I told myself I'd leave after the winter. After the spring. After the summer festival. There was always a reason to stay just a little longer. Always a small piece of hope I couldn't quite kill.

Then I missed my blood.

I didn't think much of it at first. Stress did strange things to a body, and I hadn't been eating right. But when the second month came and went, when I started waking up sick, when my breasts got so tender I couldn't stand to touch them—I knew.

I knew, and I wanted to die.

I couldn't tell him. The thought of it made my throat close up. He'd be furious. Or worse—he wouldn't care. He'd send me away, or keep me locked up, or do something I couldn't even imagine. Nothing good could come from a prince knowing his prisoner was carrying his child.

So I kept quiet. Wore looser dresses. Stopped eating in front of people so they wouldn't see me retch. Counted the days and tried not to think about what was growing inside me.

I lasted another month before I broke.

It was late. He'd called for me, used me, then rolled over and gone to sleep like I wasn't even there. I lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, one hand pressed against my stomach.

There was something alive in there. Something that was half me and half him. Something that didn't ask to exist.

I thought about my mother. She died when I was twelve, fever took her in three days. But I remembered things she'd said. How she'd loved me from the moment she knew I was coming. How she'd sung to me before I was even born.

I couldn't do that. Couldn't love something that came from this—from him, from what we were. But I couldn't hate it either. It wasn't the baby's fault.

I slipped out of bed. Got dressed quiet as I could. Kieran didn't stir.

I went back to my room and started packing. I didn't have much—a few dresses, some coins I'd saved, a comb my mother gave me. I wrapped them in a shawl and tied it tight.

Then I wrote a letter to my father. Told him I was sorry. That I'd failed. That I wouldn't be coming home.

I left it on my bed and walked out.

The palace was quiet at night. Most of the wolves were in the north tower, sleeping off their hunts. The human servants were in their quarters. Guards stood at the main gates, but there were other ways out if you knew where to look.

I did.

The cook's entrance led to a service tunnel that came out near the stables. I'd snuck through it before, back when I thought I was just a girl in love, meeting a boy in secret. Seemed like a lifetime ago.

The tunnel smelled like earth and old stone. I felt my way through the dark, one hand on the wall, the other pressed to my belly.

"I'll keep you safe," I whispered. Don't know why. The baby couldn't hear me yet. But I needed to say it. Needed to believe I could do this one thing right.

The tunnel opened onto the eastern woods. I could see the palace behind me, towers black against the stars. Smoke rose from the chimneys. Somewhere inside, Kieran was sleeping. Tomorrow he'd wake up and I'd be gone.

Would he care? Would he even notice?

I turned away and started walking.

The forest was thick here, old growth that predated the palace. Trees so tall you couldn't see their tops in the dark. Roots that twisted across the path like they were trying to trip you. I'd heard stories about these woods. Things that lived here. Things that hunted.

I kept walking anyway.

My legs ached. My feet were bleeding—I'd worn my house slippers instead of boots because boots would have made noise. Stupid. But it was too late to go back now.

I walked until the sun came up. Until I couldn't see the palace anymore. Until my whole body was shaking and I had to stop or I'd collapse.

There was a stream. I knelt beside it and drank, water so cold it hurt my teeth. Splashed my face. Looked at my reflection in the surface.

I looked like hell. Hair tangled, face pale, eyes too big. But I was out. I was free.

For now.

I found a hollow tree and crawled inside. It smelled like rot and animals, but it was shelter. I pulled my shawl around me and closed my eyes.

Sleep didn't come easy. Every sound made me jump—branches breaking, birds calling, the wind through the leaves. I kept thinking I heard footsteps. Wolves. Him.

But nothing came.

When I woke, it was dark again. I'd slept the whole day. My stomach was cramping, empty and angry. I had some bread in my pack, hard and stale. I ate it slow, forced it down even though it wanted to come back up.

Then I started walking again.

I didn't have a plan. Didn't know where I was going. Just knew I had to get far away. Had to disappear so completely that he'd never find me.

Because he would look. Eventually. When he got bored of whatever new girl took my place and remembered he liked breaking me. He'd send his wolves. His hunters.

And if they found me—if they found out about the baby—

No. I couldn't think about that.

I walked for days. Weeks, maybe. Time stopped meaning much. I slept when I was too tired to move. Ate what I could find—berries, roots, once a bird's egg I stole from a nest. My body changed. My belly got harder, rounder. The baby started moving. Little flutters at first, then real kicks that took my breath away.

I talked to it sometimes. When I was alone and scared and had nobody else.

"We're gonna be okay," I'd say. "We're gonna find somewhere safe. Somewhere he'll never find us."

I don't know if I believed it.

But I had to try.

Because this baby—this tiny thing that didn't ask to be born, didn't ask to be part of something so broken—deserved better than what I got.

Deserved a mother who'd fight for it.

So I kept walking. Kept running. Kept surviving.

And I swore, on everything I had left, that Kieran would never know.

He'd used me. Hurt me. Treated me like I was nothing.

But this baby was mine.

And I'd die before I let him take that too.

Chapter 1: The Prince's Prisoner

CHAPTER 1: THE PRINCE'S PRISONER

The palace gates closed behind me with a sound like a coffin lid slamming shut.

I stood in the courtyard, one hand gripping my worn travel bag, the other twisting the fabric of my skirt. The stone walls rose up on all sides—gray, massive, cold. They blocked out the sky. Made the world feel smaller.

A woman in black approached. She was older, fifties maybe, with silver streaking through her pulled-back hair. Her face had the kind of hardness that comes from years of not smiling.

"You the debt girl?" she asked.

I nodded. My voice had disappeared somewhere on the road here.

"Name?"

"Elsie. Elsie Thorne."

She looked me up and down like she was checking livestock. "You know why you're here?"

"My father—" The words stuck. I swallowed and tried again. "He owed something. They said I could work it off."

"Owed the crown, you mean. Owed Prince Kieran." She sniffed. "Well. You're here now. Come on."

She turned and walked toward a side entrance. I followed because there was nowhere else to go.

The palace swallowed us. Hallways stretched in every direction, torches burning in iron brackets along the walls. The stone under my feet was worn smooth from centuries of boots. Everything smelled like smoke and old meat and something else—something wild I couldn't name.

"Wolves," the woman said, like she'd heard my thoughts. "They keep them in the north tower. You'll hear them at night. Get used to it."

We passed servants carrying linens, guards in dark leather armor, a man in fine clothes who didn't even glance our way. Nobody looked at me. I was already invisible.

The woman—she said her name was Marta—took me to the servants' wing. A long room with narrow beds lined up against the walls. Maybe twenty of them. Most were empty this time of day.

"You sleep here. Wake at dawn. Work until dark. Keep your head down and your mouth shut." She dropped a folded uniform on one of the beds. "Change. I'll show you your duties."

The uniform was rough gray wool. It scratched when I put it on. The skirt hung too long and the sleeves were too short. I looked like a child playing dress-up in her mother's clothes.

When I came out, Marta was waiting. She led me through more hallways, down stone steps, into the belly of the palace.

"You'll start in the kitchens. Washing, mostly. Scrubbing pots. Easy work if you don't complain." She stopped at a doorway. Heat and noise poured out—fire roaring, metal clanging, voices shouting. "The head cook is Bess. Do what she says. Don't ask stupid questions."

She left me there.

I stepped inside. The kitchen was chaos. Huge fireplaces along one wall, flames leaping up to lick the blackened stone. Women moved between wooden tables, chopping, stirring, kneading. The air was thick with grease and sweat.

A large woman near the fire turned. She had arms like ham hocks and a face red from the heat.

"You the new girl?" she bellowed over the noise.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm—"

"Don't care. See those?" She pointed to a mountain of pots and pans piled near a stone sink. "Get them clean. Water's in the barrel. Soap's on the shelf. Move."

I moved.

The water was cold. The soap was harsh lye that burned my hands. The pots were crusted with food that had been baked on until it was practically stone. I scrubbed until my fingers went numb, until my back screamed, until I thought I might collapse.

Nobody spoke to me. The other servants worked around me like I wasn't there. When I finally finished the pots, someone pointed me to the floors. Then the tables. Then more pots.

By the time they let me stop, the sky outside the high windows was black. My hands were raw and bleeding. My whole body ached.

"Eat," Bess said, shoving a bowl at me.

It was some kind of stew. Thin, greasy, with chunks of gristle floating in it. I was so hungry I didn't care. I ate it standing up, too tired to find a place to sit.

"You'll get used to it," a voice said.

I turned. A girl about my age stood there, wiping her hands on her apron. She had brown hair and a kind face. The first kind face I'd seen all day.

"I'm Rosie," she said.

"Elsie."

"First day?"

I nodded.

"It gets easier. Sort of." She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Come on. I'll show you where we sleep."

The servants' quarters were fuller now. Girls and women scattered across the beds, some already asleep, some talking in low voices. The conversations stopped when I walked in.

Rosie led me to an empty bed near the back. "This one's free. Used to be Clara's, but she left last month."

"Left?"

"Got married. Lucky girl." Rosie sat on the bed next to mine. "Most of us don't get out. We work here until we're too old, then they send us away with nothing."

"How long have you been here?"

"Three years. Came when I was fifteen. My family couldn't feed me." She shrugged. "Could be worse, I guess."

I wanted to ask how, but I was too tired.

That night I lay on the thin mattress and stared at the ceiling. Through the walls, I could hear it—wolves howling. Long, mournful sounds that made my skin crawl.

I thought about home. My father's face when he told me I had to go. How he wouldn't look at me.

I thought about the debt. What he'd done to owe them. Why I was the one paying for it.

I didn't sleep much.

The days blurred together after that. Wake before dawn. Work until my hands bled. Eat whatever scraps they gave us. Sleep. Repeat.

I learned the rhythms of the palace. Where to walk, where to avoid. Which guards would look through you and which would stare too long. Which servants might speak to you and which would sooner spit.

I learned that the wolves in the north tower weren't just animals. They were the lycans. The shifters. The ones who ruled this place.

"Don't ever go up there," Rosie warned me one night. "Bad things happen to girls who wander."

I didn't ask what kind of bad things.

Three weeks in, everything changed.

I was polishing silver in one of the sitting rooms. Candlesticks, plates, serving trays. Mindless work. My hands moved on their own while my thoughts drifted.

Footsteps in the hallway. Heavy boots on marble.

I kept working. Servants were supposed to be invisible. That's what Marta said.

The footsteps stopped.

"You."

The voice was smooth. Deep. The kind of voice that expected to be obeyed.

I looked up.

He stood in the doorway. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in black. Dark hair fell just past his collar. His face could have been carved from stone—all sharp angles and clean lines. Beautiful in a way that made you forget to breathe.

His eyes were what caught me. Amber. Like firelight trapped in glass.

Prince Kieran.

I'd heard the servants talk about him. The second son. The wild one. The one you didn't cross.

I dropped into a curtsy, nearly knocked over the candlestick I'd been polishing. "Your Highness."

"Look at me."

I raised my head. Met those amber eyes. Felt something shift in my chest. Something that might have been fear or might have been something worse.

He studied me. Didn't blink. Didn't smile.

"What's your name?"

"Elsie, Your Highness."

"How long have you been here, Elsie?"

"Three weeks, Your Highness."

"Mm." He stepped into the room. Closer. I could smell him now—leather and smoke and something wild. "And how are you finding palace life?"

What was I supposed to say to that? That my hands were constantly bleeding? That I cried myself to sleep most nights? That I felt like a trapped animal?

"It's fine, Your Highness."

"Liar." But he said it almost gently. Like it amused him. "You're miserable. I can see it."

He could see it. Of course he could. I probably looked as broken as I felt.

"I'm sorry, Your Highness. I'll work harder."

"I don't want you to work harder." He moved closer still. Close enough to touch. "I want you to be honest with me."

My throat closed up. This felt like a trap. Everything about him felt dangerous.

"I miss home," I whispered. The truth, small and pathetic.

"Where's home?"

"Millbrook. It's a village, south of—"

"I know where Millbrook is." His lips curved. Almost a smile. "Small place. Lots of sheep."

"Yes, Your Highness."