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Seventy eight: unraveling
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2025-07-19 21:06:39
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A DEAL WITH THE ALPHA DEVIL Seventy four: chose me
Fiona's pov I found her in the garden, just as I knew I would.It was a place she’d always loved—the stone archways overgrown with creeping ivy, the scent of wild roses barely blooming in the heat of mid-summer. Even after everything, part of me hoped I’d be wrong.That she wouldn’t be sitting there with that familiar curve to her spine, like the weight of secrets had shaped her body. But there she was, perched on the edge of the old fountain like she owned the dawn.I didn’t move closer yet. I watched her from the shadowed threshold.“You never were subtle,” I said.She didn’t look at me. Her fingers skimmed the surface of the water, disturbing the glassy reflection. “And you always mistake silence for peace.”My boots scraped the stone as I stepped forward. “You know why I’m here.”“I know why you think you are.” She finally turned to face me, her expression unreadable—equal parts wistful and wicked. “But you’re wrong.”My magic stirred beneath my skin, coiling tighter. I kept it l
A DEAL WITH THE ALPHA DEVIL Seventy three: awakening
Fiona's pov I sat beside Logan’s bed long after the torches burned low and the halls outside fell silent.He slept, but not peacefully. His body twitched, his brow furrowed, and every so often he would mutter something, words I didn’t understand, but felt like knives against the inside of my chest.Words older than this world. Words my blood reacted to like they were written into me before I was born.I wanted to hold his hand, but sometimes even my touch made his body convulse. So I sat close enough to hear his breath, uneven and shallow, and I whispered things I hoped he could still hear.“You’re still you,” I said quietly, though I wasn’t sure if I believed it. “You’re still mine. I don’t care what’s waking up inside you.”Outside, Blackridge felt like it was holding its breath. Elandra had warded the tower, posted loyal guards, and made it clear no one was to disturb us. The whispers had started anyway.They feared him. My pack. Our people. Even the ones who had once called him A
A DEAL WITH THE ALPHA DEVIL Seventy two: never had the power to end me
Logan's pov "Don’t touch him!" Fiona’s voice cracked like thunder across the chamber as the masked figure reached out.But it was too late.Logan’s eyes rolled back. The tips of his fingers brushed the ancient soul’s skin—and the moment they did, his body seized.He dropped to one knee, breath shuddering, arms trembling as something ancient surged through his veins. Magic pulsed out of him in a jagged wave, light and shadow warring beneath his skin.Fiona ran for him.Mia stepped between them, blade drawn, eyes glittering with something too cold to be regret."Step aside," Fiona growled.Mia gave her a look she remembered from childhood. That mocking tilt of the head. The I know something you don't expression."You're still chasing fairy tales, Fiona," she said. "Still thinking love is enough to anchor a soul this fractured."“Anchor?” Fiona spat. “He’s mine."Mia’s smile sharpened. “No. He never was.”Fiona struck first.Her blade met Mia’s with a screech of metal and flash of fury.
A DEAL WITH THE ALPHA DEVIL Seventy one: Cost of touch
Logan's pov That night, I didn’t sleep.Fiona did, barely curled beside me despite everything. Her breathing was shallow, her shoulders tense even in sleep, like her magic knew before she did that I wasn’t safe to touch.I watched her and counted the rise and fall of her chest. The small, unconscious movements—her fingers twitching toward mine, her brow furrowing like she was dreaming of something just out of reach.I didn’t know if it was love anymore.Or habit or hope but it wrecked me, the way she stayed.Even when I didn’t deserve it.Even when I wasn’t sure what would wake up in my body the next time I closed my eyes.At some point, I slipped from the bed and stepped barefoot onto the cold stone. I didn’t need light—my eyes had changed. I could see in the dark now, but not the way wolves do. This was Stranger.The shadows spoke when I walked past them.I don’t mean metaphorically. I mean they moved their mouths.Whispers in a language I didn’t know. Not in the waking world. But
A DEAL WITH THE ALPHA DEVIL Seventy: whispers beneath the stone
Fiona's povThe whisper came at dawn.Not a voice exactly but more like a horn. A thread beneath her ribs, familiar and ancient, tugging her toward something buried, something waiting. She left before the healers noticed, before Logan stirred in his restless sleep again.Blackridge was quiet, blanketed in fog. The air felt thicker than usual, charged. Magic hung in it like a storm that hadn’t struck yet.She followed the whisper into the woods.And the woods obeyed.Trees parted where they shouldn’t. Stones glowed faintly as she passed, moss curling away from their surfaces. Fiona didn’t question it—she didn’t have the energy to fight what called her. Not after everything. Not after him.The ground changed beneath her feet—damp earth giving way to old stone steps, half-swallowed by roots and time.Then she saw it.The altar.Half-crushed beneath a fallen tree, surrounded by thorns, it pulsed faintly in the lightless clearing. Not golden. Not white. But something older. Moonlight that
A DEAL WITH THE ALPHA DEVIL Sixty nine: fire and blood
Logan's pov Pain didn’t come in waves anymore. It came in fire, constant, consuming, licking every vein like a fuse had been lit under my skin. My body wasn’t mine.It was a battlefield of magics that didn’t belong to each other, tearing down whatever made me whole.The bond was gone.I could still feel her. Fiona. Distant. Dim. Like a candle flickering behind a locked door I no longer had the key for.I was floating, maybe. Or buried. I couldn’t tell. Sometimes I felt the forest again—the wind on my face, her arms around me, her voice begging me to stay. But those moments faded too fast, overtaken by the thing inside me, whispering in a language my throat remembered but my mind didn’t.A voice that felt old.Not cruel just… patient.I don’t remember arriving at Blackridge. Only the smell of blood. My own. Smoke. Fiona’s hands slick and trembling. Voices shouted. Spells chanted. Cold cloth pressed to my skin. Someone said “He’s not breathing,” and I wanted to laugh. I was breathing.
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