All Chapters of The Alpha King's Breeder: Chapter 911 - Chapter 920

FallonThe humid weight of mid-summer beats down on my brow as I move through the garden, frowning at the twenty-foot wall shielding my view of the city of Moonrise–and the public's view of me. I crouch to pull a few weeds from the base of the hedgerow and dust my fingertips on the apron I stole off a hook in the servants’ hall just off the garden, twisting the rough fabric between my fingertips. I rise and move on to the thickets of mustard greens, ignoring the tomatoes because their leaves make my fingers green and itchy, and all the while, a tall, aggravating, annoying, pointless shadow follows my progress. I look up at the guard in royal garb–which includes a helmet and mask of iron–something I suppose was designed to look menacing, and it sure does. Sunlight glints off braids of iron and onyx covering his nose and mouth. His eyes are pools of the deepest black, even in direct light. His chest and arm guards are no different and likely weigh over a hundred pounds. I guess that’s

FallonMaebelle Yarrows, the daughter of Alpha Yarrows of Diamond Ridge in Veiled Valley, stirs her bland, unsugared tea until it spills over the rim of the delicate, pale floral pink teacup I find myself slightly territorial over. It’s my favorite set, and her spoon clinking against the fine porcelain has my left eye twitching against my will, but I have a duty, and that duty is playing nice with fellow princesses, even if they’re grossly beneath my station and absolutely ridiculous, like Maebelle.She’s beautiful in a Veiled Valley sort of way–ethereally rustic. Her red hair is braided intricately through a tiara of gold and emerald that matches her gown and robe of green silk. She looks like a flower plucked from a mountain ridge.Her golden eyes are fixed to a shadow in the corner of the room, oblivious to everything else. A six-foot-six, two-hundred-and-fifty pound shadow that continues to haunt my every move, despite my gallant efforts to lead him astray.Maebelle blushes deeply

FallonZayn stills as the young priestess rushes down the steps, her fingers gripping a slightly damp apron that carries the scent of camphor and chamomile–healing herbs I’m familiar with from my education in matters of witchcraft and the like. She looks incredibly frazzled as she reaches his side, out of breath. She tugs his arm in an effort to hurry him back up the steps, leaving me behind. I stare after them. Somewhere in the distance, over the mountain peaks, thunder rumbles, promising another epic mid-summer storm. My skin prickles. Electricity spices the air, and I’m not sure if it's the weather driving the currents or something else–something slippery, slimy, and uneasy now curling in the pit of my belly. I climb out of the truck through his open door. The hem of my gown snags on the clutch and rips, but the sound is swallowed by another burst of thunder, closer than the last. I’m halfway out of the truck and fumbling with my gown when Zayn disappears through a doorway with t

ZaynI hate to admit that Fallon won this time. It took approximately two minutes of threats while waving around my employee file for me to find myself on the edge of my unmade bed with Fallon standing between my knees, her dainty hand gripping my shoulder to keep me still. She danced around the fact that she knows I’m not originally from the Roguelands. She made it clear that she’s under the impression I want my background, whatever it is, kept secret, which is why my file is so thin, and several important chunks on most forms have been left blank on purpose. Her parents didn’t seem to care, but Fallon does. She made a single promise to never ask about my past as long as I’d allow her to fix me up. So I agreed, even if her touch feels like a cool kind of fire–something foreign–something that threatens to undo everything I’ve promised myself I wouldn’t ever consider having for myself. “Stop moving. I can see your skull,” she snaps, dabbing the wound with pure rubbing alcohol. I ca

ZaynThe arena in Moonrise is full of young men and women–the best of the best, hand-picked by Queen Maeve and her father, Commander Evander of the Ghost forces. The Ghosts mill about in their form-fitting, far more comfortable and sleek uniforms while knights like myself move more clunkily, trying to find pockets of shade while commanders go over their lists and generals, me included, keep our assigned men in check. “General Zayn!” I turn to the shout of Commander Wilcox, who waves me over to where he’s standing with Commander Heatherway. A group of warriors in their wolf forms glide past me at a trot. One of them nearly runs into me, but they skirt out of my way at the last possible second. It’s madness here. Barely organized. Hot as fucking hell. I reach the commanders. Wilcox jumps in immediately, saying, “The queen is sending three hundred warriors north through Veiled Valley this morning and another two hundred tomorrow morning to set up our camps and stations before we send