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The Ethics of Monsters
Last Updated:
2025-12-24 18:51:16
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Bound to the Alpha Who Killed Me Marked Is Not Chosen
LYRAThey don’t touch me.That’s the first thing I notice as the guards close in.They circle.They signal.They tighten formation.But none of them reach for me.Fear has recalibrated their instincts. I’m no longer a person to restrain—I’m a variable.Marked things don’t get handled casually.Cain shifts in front of me without looking back. Not possessive. Not dramatic.Deliberate.A line drawn without ceremony.“You will stand down,” he says.No Alpha command.No roar.Just certainty.The guards hesitate anyway—because fear doesn’t erase training. It complicates it.“She’s compromised,” an elder snaps. “We don’t know what she’ll trigger next.”I feel the Hollow stir—not defensive, not offended.Observant.“I don’t trigger,” I say hoarsely. “I transmit.”That lands worse.Murmurs ripple through the square—panic wearing the language of reason.Cain’s shoulders square.CAINThis is where power usually answers fear.This is where an Alpha asserts hierarchy, dominance, threat.I don’t.B
Bound to the Alpha Who Killed Me The Hollow Does Not Negotiate
LYRAThe Hollow does not wait for permission.That’s the first truth I learn when it happens.Not in ritual.Not in solitude.Not in the careful space I promised myself I would choose.It happens in the open.The square is crowded—wolves pressed shoulder to shoulder, voices overlapping, tension still humming from the council’s fracture. Memory has made everyone restless. Names once buried now hover at the edges of conversation like ghosts no one wants to acknowledge aloud.Cain walks beside me, close enough that our arms brush with each step. Not claiming. Not guarding.Present.I think—foolishly—that matters.Then the ground drops.Not physically. Not enough for anyone else to stumble.Just enough for me.A pressure locks around my spine, sharp and absolute, like invisible hands finding bone and saying here.I gasp.The world doesn’t blur.It opens.Sound folds inward. Every heartbeat in the square becomes audible—too many, too fast. Beneath them, another rhythm asserts itself, older
Bound to the Alpha Who Killed Me The Shape of the Price
CAINThe world does not wait for decisions.It never has.By the time we reach the outer paths—where the city’s influence thins and the land breathes without permission—I feel it shift.Not the Hollow.Something sharper.Closer.Lyra halts mid-step, breath catching like she’s struck a wall only she can see.“Cain,” she says.I’m already moving.The bond flares—not warm, not violent, but strained, like a rope pulled taut between two anchors drifting apart.The Devourer does not announce itself.It never wastes spectacle where timing will suffice.LYRAIt comes sideways.That’s the only way I can describe it.Not through the Hollow, not through the bond—but through the absence between them.A pressure inversion. A silence where there should be continuity.The Devourer slips into the gap left by indecision.You hesitate, it murmurs—not aloud, not inside my head, but threaded through the place where certainty should live.That is where I thrive.I stagger—not because it hurts.Because it
Bound to the Alpha Who Killed Me What the Hollow Demands
LYRAThe Hollow does not celebrate.That’s the first thing I understand as the council’s voices fracture behind us and the city exhales like something wounded but not yet dead.There is no triumph in the ground beneath my feet. No warmth. No reassurance.Only gravity.The Hollow pulls—not forward, not down, but inward. Toward a center that has nothing to do with geography and everything to do with cost.Cain feels it too. I know by the way his steps slow. By the way his shoulders square, not in dominance, but in readiness.“It’s not finished,” he says quietly.“No,” I agree. “It’s just done hiding.”We stop at the edge of the city where stone gives way to root and ash. Where the land stops pretending it was ever neutral.The Forgotten Kin are already there.Waiting.Not assembled like an army.Positioned like punctuation.CAINI am keenly aware of what I no longer have.No insignia.No authority.No shield of inherited command.What I have instead is worse—and better.Attention.The s
Bound to the Alpha Who Killed Me The Council Remembers Too Late
LYRAThe council chamber was never meant to remember.Stone walls. High ceilings. Seats carved to elevate voices that expected never to be contradicted. The kind of architecture that assumes permanence simply because it has not yet been challenged.The Hollow disagrees.I feel it before we cross the threshold—roots threading beneath polished floors, listening. Waiting. The Forgotten Kin are already here. Not seated. Not standing in defiance.Present.That alone fractures the room.Conversation dies mid-breath. Elders stiffen. A few councilors rise instinctively, as if dominance alone might erase what has surfaced.It doesn’t.Because the Forgotten Kin do not bow.And Cain does not take the Alpha’s seat.That—that—lands harder than any accusation.CAINI feel every eye on me the moment I stop short of the dais.Habit screams at me to ascend. To claim height. Authority. Control.I don’t.I remain on the floor.Level.Human.Murmurs ripple through the chamber—confusion first, then irrita
Bound to the Alpha Who Killed Me The Ones Who Remember
LYRAThey don’t arrive like enemies.That’s the first mistake the world makes.There is no tearing of sky, no violent announcement, no predatory heat crawling up my spine the way it does when the Devourer leans too close. The forest simply… yields.Space loosens.Roots withdraw.Ash stirs where no fire burns.And they step out of the Hollow like something long expected.The Forgotten Kin are not monstrous.They are scarred.Some wear their age openly, bodies bent by time, eyes clouded with memory too heavy to hold alone. Others look young in the way immortality sometimes lies, faces smooth but expressions ancient, mouths shaped by silence rather than speech.All of them carry the same mark.Not the Bloodveil crest.The older one beneath it.The name that was never meant to surface.The land recognizes them instantly.So do I.Cain stiffens beside me.The bond doesn’t flare.It tightens—controlled, alert, braced.“They’re real,” he murmurs.“Yes,” I say. “And they didn’t come to be for
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