Todos os capítulos de THE POSSESSIVE ALPHA KING AND HIS FATED QUEEN: Capítulo 111 - Capítulo 120

The afternoon sun stretched over the valley, golden light slanting across the cottages and smoke trails curling from hearths. Ryker swung an axe down into a thick block of wood, splitting it clean. He gathered the pieces into his arms, the scent of pine and sap clinging to him as he carried them toward the gentle slope leading to Rae’s house. The rhythm of it—chopping, stacking, carrying—had begun to soothe him. A routine. A life that, though simple, tasted sweeter than any dream he had dared while in the Duke’s service. Rae sat where he always did in the afternoons, perched on his stool outside the small house with a skein of yarn looped around his bent fingers. The old man’s hands moved slow but steady, twisting and weaving, his eyes half-lidded in thought. When he saw Ryker crest the hill with the firewood, he set the yarn aside and smiled.“You’ll have me spoiled,” Rae said, voice rough with age. “Another day or two of this and I’ll forget how to fetch my own firewood.”R

The manor’s banners whipped in the gathering wind, the trumpets still echoing faintly down the valley. Villagers of Kareth clustered in the square, whispers darting from mouth to mouth like startled birds. They watched as Lord Sawyer, perched upon his black destrier, reined in sharply before the cluster of cottages. His face was hard, his lips pressed into a cruel line.The Duke’s sanction had filled him with new authority, and his hunger for Elara made his patience razor-thin. He scanned the crowd with venom in his eyes.“Bring forth the old man,” Sawyer barked. “The one called Rae.”Gasps stirred the crowd. Heads turned. From the edge of the assembly, a figure stepped forward, his back bent slightly with age, but his bearing steady as an oak. Rae’s gray hair caught the dim sun, his weathered hands gripping the simple walking stick he had carried for years.Sawyer’s eyes narrowed. “So. The father of the traitor.”Rae stopped a few paces before the Lord’s horse, looking up at him with

The little room smelled of damp wood and old straw, but to Elara it was a palace compared to Lord Sawyer’s keep or the cold grandeur of her father’s manor. She lay nestled against Ryker, his warmth a shield against the chill that clung to the air. His arm curled protectively around her waist, palm resting lightly on her stomach as though even in sleep he could not release her.Elara tilted her head and watched him in the half-light of the guttering candle. His violet eyes were closed, his lashes resting dark against his cheeks, his brow softened in rare peace. Even his breathing, steady and deep, filled her with calm. For the first time in days, perhaps in years, she felt safe.Her auburn hair spilled across his chest, strands catching the faint glow of the flame, fiery in its dance. His calloused hand moved unconsciously against her side, a subtle stroke that drew her closer. She closed her eyes and let her body sink into his, heart steadying in rhythm with his.“Ryker,” she whispere

The night air in the Grand Duke’s manor was heavy, and the torches burned low in their sconces, casting long shadows down the marble halls. Lord Sawyer’s boots echoed sharply against the stone as he strode with coiled fury. His jaw was clenched tight, his hands twitching at his sides as if itching to strike. A trembling guard followed at a careful distance. “M-My lord,” he stammered, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor, “it has been two days. The lady has refused all sustenance. Not a morsel has passed her lips.” Sawyer halted so abruptly the guard nearly collided with him. He turned, his dark eyes narrowing with cold fire. “And you thought to inform me now?” His voice was dangerously quiet, more terrifying than a shout. The guard dropped to one knee instantly, bowing his head low. “Forgive me, my lord. We… we thought she might relent of her own will. We dared not anger you with news of her stubbornness.” Sawyer’s lips curled in a bitter sneer. “Elara thinks to play games w

The night before the wedding lay heavy over the Grand Duke’s manor. Clouds rolled across the moon, dimming its light, so that the sprawling gardens behind the estate were drenched in shadow. A wind whispered through the hedgerows, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and clipped roses. The torches that lined the stone paths flickered weakly, struggling against the restless air, as though reluctant to illuminate what they were about to bear witness to.Lord Sawyer moved through the garden with measured steps, his boots clicking against the flagstones. He wore no cloak, though the night was cool; his vanity refused to let him shroud the finery of his dark embroidered doublet. His lips still bore a faint trace of healing from the wound Elara had dealt him, a small scar of humiliation he had vowed to erase with her submission tomorrow.Ahead, by the marble fountain carved in the likeness of the Empire’s first sovereign, a figure waited. Fowler, the Grand Duke’s right hand, stood with