CHAPTER 220: I WON’T FAIL AND KISSES

Chapter 220

Felix

I speak with the king for an hour, and somewhere between the silences and the small talk, I notice something.

He’s not just the king. He’s a lonely old man.

His wife died decades ago. His only son—my father—died too. And now, here I am, the reminder of both. I can’t quite bring myself to hate him.

"How are your lessons going?" he asks at last, probably meaning the endless noble etiquette drills, political lectures, and inheritance laws shoved down my throat these past few months.

"Not bad," I say, trying to sound casual. "It’s... a bit much."

He chuckles. "Yes, it must be, given how late you’ve started. But remember—" his eyes sharpen, gold glinting through the weariness, "—the other factions are watching. They’ll seize on any fault you show."

I know exactly who he means.

His younger brother. My great-uncle.

For years, he was the only surviving direct descendant of the royal line. Naturally, everyone assumed he’d inherit. One problem: he isn’t a lion shifter. He’s a tiger.

And the law is clear. Only a lion can sit the throne.

He’s spent decades trying to twist fate in his favor—siring children with women from every bloodline imaginable. Twenty known children. Probably more hidden away. And yet, not a single lion among them.

Then I showed up.

The bastard grandson no one knew existed. A lion shifter. The rightful heir, whether he likes it or not.

And he hates me for it.

I can’t even blame him. If Leonhart must be a lion, then it must be me. There’s no undoing that.

And the way the king looks at me now—like both a grandson and a weapon—reminds me just how dangerous that truth is.

The king begins speaking of court politics. Of dukes and their houses. Of shifting alliances and old grudges that never truly die. I listen attentively, committing every word to memory, because I know one day it won’t just be theory.

That’s when I notice something.

He hasn’t mentioned the Panthers. Not once.

"What about the Panthers?" I ask.

The question makes him pause. His eyes narrow, and then he exhales slowly, setting his teacup down with deliberate care.

"They have no interest in court politics," he says.

"But that does not make them weak. In fact, I’m glad they remain disinterested."

I frown. "Why?"

He leans back, gaze distant, voice low and grave. "Because Panthers are... more in tune with their animal nature than any other race. They are ruthless, fickle, and impossible to predict. As long as they keep to themselves, the kingdom is safe. But once provoked..." His jaw tightens.

"It never ends well."

My brows furrow. "What do you mean?"

"They are the only noble house that still practices succession the way their ancestors did centuries ago. Ruthless challenges. Blood duels. To them, the throne of Nyxclaw is earned in fangs and claws, not signatures or laws." He pauses, eyes locking with mine.

"And sometimes—once in a long while—a king forgets. A king believes he can step on a panther’s tail and leash it." His voice hardens. "Those kings are remembered only by their tombs."

A chill creeps up my spine.

"I’ve never heard of that," I say quietly.

"Of course not," he answers. "History erases defeats. It wouldn’t do for the people to know their mighty lion kings bled under the shadows of panthers."

My mind flashes—her hand on my throat, her fangs bared, the effortless way she hurled me to the ground like I was nothing.

Daphne Nyxclaw.

I grit my teeth.

Still, Leonhart is the heart of this kingdom. I will let this go. For now.

But if Daphne Nyxclaw dares get in my way again, if she dares push me past the line—then I won’t let it go.

And unlike the kings before me, I won’t fail.

***

Daphne

"Come, little bunny." I say, tapping my lap.

She hesitates—of course she does—ears twitching, eyes darting toward the door like she’s calculating escape routes. But in the end, she comes. Slowly, reluctantly, straddling me. Her knees press into the bed on either side of me, and I can feel the tremor in her thighs.

Good girl.

I’m glad she’s learning—learning that fighting me is pointless. But a part of me aches for it anyway. I want her to fight. To claw at me, to snarl, to bare her teeth just to prove she still has them. I want her to hate how much she wants this.

My hands slide around her waist, possessive, pulling her just a little closer. She stiffens, but doesn’t move away. My lips curl.

"See?" I murmur, my thumb stroking her side, just above the curve of her hip.

"You fit here perfectly."

She looks away, ears twitching, and I take the opportunity to press a kiss against her jaw. Her skin is warm beneath my lips, delicate, trembling.

"You know what I want," I whisper against her, voice low enough to make her shiver, "and if you give it to me, I’ll leave you alone all day."

That gets her. She turns toward me, hesitant—then leans in and brushes her mouth against mine. A peck, fleeting, gone before I can even enjoy it.

My laugh rumbles against her lips. "Why are you still so shy? I’ve seen you naked..." My fingers squeeze her waist pointedly. "And we do this every morning."

Her eyes flicker with something—indignation, embarrassment—and she looks almost aggrieved, like I’ve wronged her somehow. Then, before I can tease her again, she leans down and kisses me properly.

Hesitant. Sweet. Her hands grip my shoulders like she’s anchoring herself, and she nibbles at my bottom lip in the clumsiest little bite.

I smirk against her. Of course. My little bunny even kisses like a bunny.

The cuteness kills me. It kills me so much I lose my patience entirely. My arms tighten around her waist, pulling her flush against me as I claim her mouth with a deeper kiss. No hesitation, no restraint.

She gasps, and I take the opening, my tongue brushing hers. She melts, just a little, and then her arms slide up, wrapping around my neck like she’s afraid I’ll pull away too soon.

Perfect.