The Mind-Reading Mate: Why Is the Lycan King So Obsessed With Me? Chapter 253: The Things We Don’t Forget

Wasn’t he supposed to be a honey badger?

Why would soone like him even waste his ti talking to a bunch of skunks?

But Primrose figured that wasn’t the most important question right now.

"If I had been there," Salem finally said, his voice low but steady, "maybe you wouldn’t have had to go through that awful experience."

He looked her straight in the eyes, and for once, there was no teasing, no sarcasm. "I’m sorry, Your Majesty. I should’ve been by your side."

Primrose held her breath. She could hear the sincerity in his voice, see the guilt written across his usually smug expression.

Salem wasn’t pretending. He wasn’t saying those words to save face or play the part of a loyal knight.

He genuinely ant it.

For the first ti, it felt like she truly mattered to him, not just as a business partner, but as soone he genuinely cared about.

But hadn’t he once said they weren’t even friends?

Did she really have to go through sothing that horrible just to earn a friend like him?

And yet, as she thought about it more, Primrose realized Salem had never been completely heartless toward her.

Sure, he acted cold. He said things that made him seem detached, like he didn’t care, but when it really mattered, especially when she asked him directly, he always helped her.

More than that, if he hadn’t told Edmund where to find her, her husband might not have arrived in ti.

So maybe ... maybe Salem had already seen her as a friend, even if he’d never admit it. Because if he truly didn’t care, he wouldn’t be standing here full of regret.

He wouldn’t look so sad, and he definitely wouldn’t be looking at her the way he is now, like what happened to her had left a scar on him too.

"It’s alright," Primrose said softly, finally offering him a small, fragile smile. "Don’t worry about it."

Just like that, the bitterness she’d been carrying for so long—the frustration, the anger, the disappointnt—it all lted the mont she saw his sincerity. "He didn’t ... get the chance to do anything like that, so ..." She swallowed. "I’m fine."

Salem lowered his gaze. His eyes drifted to her trembling hands as she ntioned her dark experience.

When she noticed, she quickly balled her hands into fists and tucked them under the pillow, as if hiding the shaking would hide the mory too.

"That kind of thing ..." Salem said quietly, almost a whisper, "isn’t sothing you just forget."

"People love saying stuff like, ’It’s in the past, just move on,’ or, ’Maybe it was a test from the gods.’ Or worse ..." His voice darkened. "So asshole might say, ’It was your fault. If you had fought harder, maybe it wouldn’t have happened.’"

"But if anyone ever says that to you ..." His tone grew sharper, more serious. "Punch them. Or better yet, poison them."

Primrose blinked, unsure if she heard him right.

Salem tilted his head, completely serious. "Don’t worry. I can make an undetectable poison just for you."

She stared at him, unsure if he was joking or being completely serious.

But then she saw the slight curve of his lips. It wasn’t quite a smirk, but it wasn’t a full smile either. It was that rare expression Salem wore when he ant every word, sowhere between deadly serious and strangely comforting.

"I’m not saying you should kill anyone," he added casually with a shrug. "Just ... rember, no one has the right to make you feel like it was your fault. Ever."

Primrose lowered her gaze, her heart tightening.

Even though his words were blunt—maybe even a little violent—they ward sothing inside her, sothing she didn’t even realize needed it.

He didn’t offer soft, pity-filled condolences like everyone else.

He didn’t sugarcoat.

He didn’t speak like a priest offering blessings.

He gave her honesty that felt fierce, raw, and slightly unhinged.

In a low, quiet voice, Primrose replied, "I ... killed him."

She paused for a mont, as if letting the weight of those words settle in the air. "I killed Thevan," she repeated, more firmly this ti, like she needed to say it twice to make it feel real.

Salem didn’t even blink. He didn’t look shocked or disturbed. Instead, he looked at her with sothing that almost resembled pride. "Good," he said simply.

Primrose blinked, slightly caught off guard.

"No one who hurts you deserves to keep breathing," he added, his voice calm and steady. "You did what needed to be done."

"Was it painful?" Salem asked, almost too casually, like he was talking about the weather. "Did he beg?"

Primrose hesitated for a mont before replying, "Yes ... and yes."

"Perfect." He leaned back, a quiet hum of satisfaction slipping from his lips. "Let know if there are any others. I’m free next week."

Primrose let out a soft laugh under her breath.

Only Salem could turn a conversation about killing an abuser into sothing oddly comforting.

But just as she was about to tease him back, she noticed sothing flicker in his eyes, sothing darker, sothing heavier.

Not long after that, she heard his voice echo in her mind.

[I killed mine too, Salem said silently.] His ntal voice was calm, too calm actually. [I still rember their terrified faces ... when I slipped poison into their food.]

Primrose’s smile slowly faded as those words sank in.

He said "they"? More than one?

[I was prepared to kill Her Majesty’s abuser,] Salem continued in her mind, his tone now edged with sothing bitter, [but it seems like she handled it well herself.]

[She has a loving husband, after all. ? My parents just abandoned after I told them about it.]

[They looked at like I was broken, dirty, and a disgrace.]

[What a joke.]

Primrose suddenly didn’t know what to say. She had always seen Salem as an arrogant person, soone who walked through life with his head high, stepping over anyone he didn’t think was worth his ti or respect.

She never imagined that behind all that pride and sarcasm was a past darker than the night sky.

Now that she thought about it, it made sense why he had looked so furious when she told him what the Marquess had done to those poor children.

That rage in his eyes, it wasn’t just sympathy.

Maybe ... he had lived through sothing like that too.