All Chapters of The Alpha King's Breeder: Chapter 761 - Chapter 770

LexaBoots scrape over stone. Water drips down moss covered bricks with a smooth plop, plop, plop next to my head, where my cheek is pressed against what I can only assume is the floor. It stinks here. Like sweat, blood, and filth I refuse to describe. I haven’t moved in hours, but I’ve been awake. Yes, I’m aware. Yes, I can feel every ache in my body. Yes, I’m alive, but why? The memories of the beach are hazy. I’m not sure how much time has passed or where I am. I could actually be dead, I suppose, and currently in purgatory awaiting the Goddess’s final judgment. People have been moving in and out of wherever I am for the last several hours. I know that much. Facing the wall with my body curled in the fetal position, I haven’t so much as glanced behind me–at the darkness, at the shadows that groan and grumble, at the sound of chains grating across the wet floor. The Boots, I call them, have been coming in and out, collecting souls in silence. A key slides into a lock. A murmured

LexaMeg groans as I wrap a length of leather torn from my dress around her mangled upper arm. Chessie kneels nearby, tearing into her dress, dried blood crinkling off her knuckles in crimson flakes. She hands me another length of leather, but her eyes tell me the truth of the matter. Meg’s in bad shape. She closes her eyes, leaning her head against the grimy wall of the room we were thrown into several hours ago, but we’re together, at least. “She needs to eat something,” Chessie whispers over the soft hum of the battle taking place above our heads. Another Culling. Sixteen so far, not including ours. The rounds take mere minutes to complete. Only five or six hours have passed, I’d guess, since our round ended. No one has come to see us, to feed us or give us water. No medical supplies have been offered. We’ve been alone, trying to stop Meg from bleeding out. I shake my head at Chessie with a sigh. “There’s nothing we can do as it stands.” I glance at the heavy wooden door blocki

Kaleb“We’re out of wood for the pyres,” Otto, an elder wolf, says as he smoothes a withered hand down the length of a log. It’s leaning precariously against the others–against stacks upon stacks of logs given to the Glade last week in anticipation for the dead. It’s not enough. It’s never enough. I turn to look at the funeral pyres, at the rows of log structures that will soon house five or six men to a pyre. Fathers. Brothers. Sons. They should each have their own. The fae know what they’re doing by purposefully giving us less than we need. They always do. “I’ll find more.” Otto gives me a grim smile before turning back to the pyre that will soon be a beacon of light to guide his son, two of his nephews, and his eldest grandson home to the Goddess. He’s not the only man wandering through the darkness tonight adjusting logs and bringing handfuls of wood taken from tables and chairs–anything they can find. It’s a quiet night. Mothers wail silently into pillows. Wives tuck childre

LexaI’m woken up by Lis in the late hours of morning. She barely says a word to me–tiptoes around me, in fact, keeping a wide distance between us as she shows me the bathroom located on the second floor, just down the hall from my room, and leaves a set of clothes and a small plate with bread, fresh butter, and a glass of milk on the table beneath the window in my room. My body feels leaden when I run a shower. There’s not much to be had in terms of hot water, but honestly, the cool spray feels nice given this place has little in the way of air conditioning, either. My mind is locked in a haze I have a hard time breaking free of, but after my shower, I change into the clothing Lis laid out for me. Men’s clothing, at least the pants. I tighten them with a belt. The shirt, however, is probably one of hers, given that it barely covers my belly button. After I eat, I tame my hair into a tight bun and start to move downstairs in search of anyone who can tell me where to find my friends,

LexaMy heart skips a beat, then another, as Kaleb releases his grip on my arm. His dark, wavy hair is tied back, but rogue strands fall around his chiseled face. Everything about Kaleb is masculine. His height–several inches taller than me–tall enough that he has to look down at me–catches me off guard, as well as the way he moves with a predators grace–light on his feet but with determination in every step, muscles flexed, the fabric of his torn shirt rippling down his middle. I think he’s about to cage me against the rough metal wall of the sparring ring, but he steps past me, reaching for a long, wooden spear, and fists it, turning gracefully with the weapon in his hand, like it’s his toy of choice. “You’re going to learn to use these.”“Why?”“Because you won’t just be fighting men in the Trials.” He whips the spear around and pins the point in the dirt with practiced grace, leaning his weight against it. “You’ll be up against much worse than men.”“There’s nothing worse than m