Semua Bab Forced to Marry the Wicked Werewolf Prince: Bab 131 - Bab 140

[MAGNUS]“You’ve returned,” a familiar voice falls on my ears. “It’s been a while, son.”The ache is instant.Despite all my wisdom, despite the warnings etched into my blood and bones, I’ve done it again. I’ve let the lake touch me. Let it pull me back into memory. Or madness. It’s hard to tell the difference.I open my eyes, and there he stands.My father.Not the way he looked in the end. Not bloody and broken, but in his prime. Regal, steady, impossibly still. Young as he had been in my eyes. The alpha of the Thunderclaw tribe. Hands clasped behind his back. Brow creased, as if some political conundrum weighs on him even now, in death. Or whatever this is.“I thought you’d forgotten me,” he says, his mouth quirking with a dry, half-hearted laugh. “Or worse—chosen to.”His voice scrapes against my ribs like stone dragged across marble.“You always did hate sentiment,” he adds, tilting his head. “Still wondering if this is really how I looked? Afraid your mind has reassembled me wro

[MAGNUS]“Where did you go, Magnus?”Elara lets out a shaky breath. She’s been holding that question in, hasn’t she?“To the village,” I say quietly. “The one that was attacked.”Her lips part, but she says nothing. Just listens. Then relief crosses her face. It is subtle, but I see it in the way she straightens.She picks up a slice of poached fruit and eats.I watch her, feeling my lips stretch into a smile. Why? I can’t tell. She eats quietly, softly, her eyes flicking to mine a few times. “I went somewhere else, too,” I finally add. “Somewhere I shouldn’t have.”She stops. Swallows. Waits.“I should’ve returned sooner,” I say.She doesn’t speak. But her eyes stay on me now. Not guarded. Not distant. Just… waiting.“I shouldn’t have left you,” I tell her, my voice quieter now. “When I came back and saw you weren’t in my room, I—”I stop. The words vanish.She leans forward slightly, gaze softening, lips parted in something that almost looks like forgiveness—or at least understan

[MAGNUS]I fold the parchment again.The lump in my throat feels impossible to swallow. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, breathe through my nose, but it doesn’t help. A single tear breaks free, sliding down my cheek, and lands on the parchment. The ink smudges slightly where the wet spot spreads.Elara doesn’t speak.She just steps closer.Her hand touches my arm, barely, then moves upward, curling around my shoulder blade. She doesn’t press, doesn’t pull me up. She just holds.I glance up from my chair, meeting her gaze.There’s no judgment in her eyes. No discomfort. Only quiet understanding.And that, more than anything, makes something in me come undone.My hands find her waist. I pull her closer.Then I fold into her. My forehead presses against her stomach, my arms wrapping around her hips like a child seeking shelter.She lets out the softest breath and responds in kind, her arms drawing around my head. Her fingers thread gently into my hair, slow and calming. She hol

[ELARA]Lady Brook catches me just as I step out into the corridor, the taste of the cinnamon honey porridge from breakfast still lingering on my tongue. Magnus has gone off to meet with Lord Rustyn, something about the guest list for the ceremony, and I’m half-lost in thought when a firm hand wraps around my wrist and tugs me into the shadows of an archway.“Goddess,” I whisper, startled, but it’s only Lady Brook—dark-haired, wry-eyed, and entirely unimpressed by formal entrances.She seats herself on the stone ledge, boots tucked beneath her, and gestures for me to sit beside her. I do. The arch overlooks the lower garden, snow having softened the sharp angles of the land into something gentle and bright. Only the peaks of roofs remain untouched, but beyond that, the glass dome of the greenhouse gleams like a crystal heart. I know the plants are safe in there—protected by old enchantments and the steady heat of a fire-fed system.My gaze lingers.Back in Caelondor, Magnus had a gard

[ELARA]A flicker of a smirk touches Magnus’ mouth. He removes his shirt, muscles shifting under his skin. Then pulls on a short, dark cloak—an informal one—unfastened at the front. It falls open, exposing the breadth of his chest, the markings that crawl like inked branches across his back reaching to the front, the ones I now know are the result of poison, of survival, of pain.I try not to look. Truly, I try.But my heart betrays me.I lie down on my side, resting my cheek in my palm, watching him as he walks to the bed. His eyes are already on me, watching me with that quiet intensity that always undoes me.“You’re beautiful,” he says, voice soft as snow melting into moss.When he reaches out and touches my cheek, I lean into his hand before I can stop myself. His exhale is shaky.“What are you thinking?” he asks.I shake my head, my voice barely a breath. “That this feels good. That I missed this. Craved it, actually. All these months…” My throat tightens. “I hated how far away y