로그인Accused of murdering her father, Scarlett is forced into slavery and bought by Alpha Lycan Winter Drayonne, he strips her of rank and pride, reducing the daughter of an Alpha to the lowest Omega in his pack. Her new duty is to tend to his heavily pregnant Luna, his child in her belly, and him who now owns her body but will never touch her soul. Following the death of his mate at childbirth, Winter develops a possessive interest in her, dragging her from the shadows of servitude into the blistering heat of his gaze, deciding the only way to silence his ghosts is to tame her. He will make her kneel. He will make her crave. He will make her his, until the only name she remembers is the one he growls against her throat. Caught between an Alpha who would burn the world to possess her and a forbidden ember reigniting with River Kedalf, the silver-eyed Delta who still tastes her name like forbidden wine and would bleed the world dry to free her, Scarlett must decide: kneel as the Omega he craves… or ride with River to seek her revenge against the people that hurt her. In a court where love is a leash and desire draws blood, only the untamed survive.
더 보기The thought sent a chill through Zoe that had nothing to do with the cold afternoon air. She had seen what Winter had done to River already. She had seen the gashes, the broken bones, the way the man had lay like something discarded. And yet River had agreed.He had agreed because the plan gave him something he had lost in the dungeon. Purpose. Revenge. A chance to reach Scarlett.Zoe closed her eyes for a moment, letting the weight of it settle.She had planned the route out of Dravonnia with River in hushed whispers. There was a horse waiting at the edge of the forest that would take them to the safe house in the hills where Dixon’s men would meet them after abandoning the carriage somewhere in the forest. But all this onl if River could reach the carriage with the boy in his arms.The carriage rocked faintly on its springs as another gust of wind swept across the outer yard, rattling the shutters and sending a fresh shiver of cold through the thin wooden walls. Zoe sat rigid in the
The first week of spring had arrived with deceptive gentleness. The snow that had blanketed Frostspire for months was retreating in slow, reluctant patches, melting first along the southern walls where the sun lingered longest, then creeping upward toward the towers until only the highest battlements still wore white caps. The thaw brought mud: thick, black, sucking at every boot and wheel that dared cross the outer yard. It brought noise too, carriages rumbling in endless procession, horses stamping and snorting, drivers shouting orders over the din, servants scurrying between the stables and the kitchens with armloads of hay and firewood. It brought people. Tens of them. Alphas and Betas from every corner of the North had answered Winter’s terse summons. Their banners snapped above the courtyard like war flags in peacetime: gray wolves on black, red stags on green, silver ravens on midnight blue, black bears on crimson. Carriages lined the yard in crooked rows that spilled beyond t
The morning of the first day of spring dawned cold and clear. The last patches of snow still clung to the northern faces of the towers, but the sun was strong enough to melt the ice on the battlements into steady drips that pattered onto the stone below. The sky was pale blue, almost painful in its brightness after months of gray. By mid-morning the great hall was already filling. Long tables had been pushed back against the walls to create an open floor. Braziers burned at regular intervals, throwing heat and light across the flagstones. Banners, Winter’s personal sigil only, hung from the rafters: black field, silver wolf head in profile, jaws parted but silent. No other pack colors were permitted inside.The invited lords and ladies entered in order of rank, cloaks shed at the door, weapons left with the guards outside. They moved in near silence, taking their places along the sides of the hall according to station. The older Alphas stood near the front, faces unreadable. The young
“You are pregnant, Scarlett.”The words had landed gently, almost apologetically, but they had struck her like cold iron sinking into flesh. She had lain back on the wide bed that night, hand pressed low on her abdomen, and stared at the carved ceiling beams until the candle guttered out. No tears came then. No panic. Only a deep, hollow stillness that felt dangerously close to acceptance. She had kept the news entirely to herself. And two months had passed since the physician’s soft voice had confirmed what she already half-knew in her bones.Not a word to Winter. Not a whisper to the maids who changed her linens or brought her trays of broth and bread. She had simply begun to move differently: looser robes that skimmed rather than clung, shawls draped across her middle even in the warmest hours, a habit of resting one palm just below her navel whenever she thought no one was watching. Her stomach had not grown visibly yet, too early, the physician had explained, but the slight soft
Skye stood unclad on the threshold leading to the balcony, overlooking the outer border of the castle. One palm pressed flat against the cold stone door frame, supporting most of his weight; the other hand dangled loose at his side, fingers slightly curled as though still remembering the grip of a
Scarlett’s breath hitched, she shifted her gaze, tears spilling over. “I don’t know what I want,” she admitted, voice breaking. “I thought… I thought if I carried his child, I would have power. Leverage. A way to survive. But now… now I’m just scared. Scared of him. Scared of what it means. Scared
It had been weeks since Imogen’s body had been buried in the crypt beneath the castle, laid to rest in the cold stone vault that bore the sigil of Torrine and held generations of Torrine’s dead royals. The ceremony had been brief, austere, almost curt—Dixon had insisted on no spectacle, no mourning
In one of the deepest dungeon cells beneath Castle Holgah, River lay almost lifeless on the cold stone floor. His back rested against the rough wall—painted now with streaks and smears of his own blood that had dried in dark, uneven patterns. The wounds on his body were a brutal testament to Winter
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