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73. Let Me Go
Last Updated:
2025-08-26 00:49:15
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The Alpha King's Omega 76. Mountain of Darkness
Ragnar’s grip around Freya’s HAND was unyielding as he guided her through the dimly lit halls of the castle. The echo of their footsteps rang heavy against stone, a silent reminder of the tension clinging to the air. He did not speak, but the storm in his eyes spoke louder than words.Freya’s heart still trembled with the weight of Skyrana’s presence within her, the whisper of another soul in her blood, the fire of another’s rage burning inside her chest. The sword of flame pulsed faintly at her side, as though it recognized her turmoil, as though it belonged to both women, past and present.When Ragnar pushed open the carved doors of his study, the room was already alive with the faint crackle of firelight. Nyra stood by the hearth, her silver hair spilling like moonlight down her shoulders, her gaze sharp and knowing.“You brought her,” Nyra murmured, voice steady yet touched with urgency. “Good. We cannot waste time.”Ragnar led Freya toward the center of the room, his hand firm at
The Alpha King's Omega 75. Love
The chamber seemed to shrink around them, its stone walls pressing inward as though unable to contain the storm they had unleashed. Dawn’s light bled through the fractured window in jagged beams, cutting across the floor like shattered glass. Yet even the newborn sun paled against the fire that burned in Ragnar’s eyes.Freya staggered back, her breath ragged, but she got no farther than a single step before Ragnar’s hand closed around her wrist. His grip was unyielding, trembling not with weakness but with the violent clash of rage and fear. Between them, the Sword of Flame hummed with a hunger all its own, the molten veins along its steel glowing brighter, pulsing in rhythm with their racing hearts.“Ragnar, let me go.” Her voice cracked, wavering between command and desperation. But her strength faltered beneath the searing heat of his touch, the tether that had bound them since the moment their fates collided.Instead of releasing her, Ragnar yanked her closer. The sword tilted dan
The Alpha King's Omega 74. Choose
The castle held its silence like a tomb. Not even the wind dared stir through the narrow windows as dawn’s first light crept across the stones, staining the chamber in muted silver. Freya ambled to the door, her limbs trembling beneath the weight of truths too sharp to carry.The Sword of Flame rested in her palm. Its silver-ash blade shimmered faintly, not with reflected light, but with its own pulse, an ancient heartbeat answering to her blood. In her hold, it thrummed with recognition, as if it had been waiting.Warmth surged through her arm as she closed her hand around it more tightly. Not pain, something worse. It was alive. The flame coiled through her veins, whispering with Skyrana’s voice, sly and serpentine:Run. Leave before he binds you, before he cages you like they caged me. You carry the Flame. The world needs you, not him.Skyrana was putting these thoughts in her head, but Freya wasn't leaving because of this. She was leaving because she knew Skyrana might take over h
The Alpha King's Omega 73. Let Me Go
The night had not yet exhaled the weight of battle. The castle still held its breath, the stones themselves remembering the clash of steel, the scream of fire, and the blood spilled across its halls. In the stillness of the chamber, the shadows seemed almost alive, curling against the walls like smoke reluctant to fade.Freya stirred.Her lashes trembled before her eyes fluttered open, pale and unfocused at first, then sharpening with dawning dread. A pulse beat hot in her temples, each throb heavy, dissonant, as though her soul had been stretched until it frayed. Her breath broke into ragged fragments as she sat upright, only to freeze at the weight anchoring her hand.The sword.It pulsed with ghostfire, its blade shimmering with pale flame that breathed like a living thing. The air around it shimmered with heat, distorting the chamber’s edges. Freya’s knuckles whitened against the hilt as though it clung to her rather than the other way around. Its warmth seeped into her skin, not
The Alpha King's Omega 72. Confrontation
The chamber was suffocatingly still, the air heavy with the faint bite of herbs and the iron tang of blood. The fire in the brazier hissed and snapped, casting long shadows that writhed across the stone walls like restless phantoms. Ragnar stood beside the bed, arms crossed over his broad chest, but his rigid posture betrayed the weight pressing into him, coiling deeper with every heartbeat.Freya lay where he had left her, beneath the veil of forced sleep. She should have looked peaceful, softened, safe. But when her lashes had fluttered open earlier… her eyes had not been hers.They had burned too sharply. A searing, unnatural blue, liquid sapphire gleaming with knowledge and malice older than kingdoms.They had been Skyrana’s.A whisper curled through the silence, colder than the flames dancing in the brazier.“You cannot guard her from me, Ragnar.”The sound cleaved through him like a blade. His head snapped toward the bed.Freya, or the thing wearing her skin, was sitting upright
The Alpha King's Omega 71. Captive
The chamber reeked of smoke and iron, the mingled scents of fire and blood clinging stubbornly to the air. Freya’s skin was ghostly pale in the wavering candlelight, her silver-ash hair clinging damply to her cheek where sweat and tears had blurred together. The wound in her arm bled sluggishly beneath Ragnar’s touch, though it was shallow. Still, the sight of her blood-stained against his hands awoke something dark and savage in him, a hunger for destruction, for vengeance, for war.His broad hands trembled, but not with weakness. They trembled with barely leashed rage as he pressed a cloth to her arm, his jaw tight enough to snap bone.Freya’s lashes fluttered, her eyes heavy with exhaustion but still alight with that infuriating, unyielding fire that always met him head-on. Even wounded, even fragile, she never bent.“You shouldn’t…” Her voice was a whisper, thin and ragged, yet steady enough to cut. “You shouldn’t look at me like that. As if… It’s my fault.”Ragnar’s storm-grey ey
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