All Chapters of Bewitching the Alpha: Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

We found him in the mirror.It was three weeks after the reconstruction began, and the glamour of victory had long since faded into the dusty, back-breaking reality of cleanup. Vesper and I were deep in the bowels of the Coven House, in the sub-basement known as the Vault.It was a miserable place. The air was stale, recycling the same chill for three hundred years, and it smelled of old parchment, oxidizing metal, and the faint, copper tang of dried blood. This was where the High Council had stored their mistakes."Lift with your legs, Your Majesty," Vesper grunted, her voice echoing off the low stone ceiling. "My back is older than this building, and if it snaps, you’re carrying me out too.""I'm lifting, Vesper," I puffed, gripping the cold silver frame of a massive standing mirror. "And stop calling me that. I'm retired.""Once a Queen, always a Queen," she muttered, shuffling backward.We were moving the mirror from the back corner of the Vault. It was a hideous antique, standing

The spring rains had washed Oakhaven clean, scrubbing away the last gray evidence of winter and war. The mud that had plagued the streets during the reconstruction was gone, replaced by a lush, vibrant carpet of green grass. Wildflowers bloomed with an unnatural, almost aggressive vigor, a lingering side effect of the massive wave of magic I had released during the battle. It was as if the earth itself was celebrating our survival.The town was buzzing. You could feel it in the air, a vibration distinct from the hum of magic. Witches and Wolves were preparing for the Summer Solstice. It was to be the first joint celebration in three centuries, a festival where bonfires would be lit by magic and fueled by wolf-gathered timber.But for me, the buzz was entirely personal.I was sitting in the newly renovated library of the Pack House. The smell of sawdust and fresh varnish still lingered under the scent of old paper. I was hunched over a heavy oak desk, trying to make sense of a report o

The cabin wasn't just a building; it was a deep exhalation after holding our breath for a year.It was tucked away in a valley that looked like it had been carved out of the earth solely for the purpose of hiding us. The mountains surrounding it were jagged and steep, scraping the belly of the sky with snow-capped peaks that turned pink in the early morning light. There were no roads leading here, only a narrow deer trail we had hiked in on. There was no cell service. No Council messengers. No pack links.The lake in front of the cabin was a sheet of glass, so still that the reflection of the treeline was sharper than the trees themselves. It felt like we were floating in a bubble, suspended in a space where time moved differently. Slower. Syrupy.We had been here for two days.For forty-eight hours, I hadn't heard a single alarm. I hadn't looked at a tactical map. I hadn't worried about whether my magic was going to be the death of us.Just us. Just the woodstove, the creaking floorb

"Report," I said, setting my ceramic mug down on the granite countertop. The tea was chamomile, meant to calm my nerves, but the look on Marco's face curdled the milk in my stomach instantly.Marco stood on the other side of the kitchen island. He was usually the picture of relaxed competence, the kind of guy who could defuse a bomb while eating a sandwich. Today, he looked tight. His shoulders were hunched, and his hands were gripping the edge of the counter hard enough to turn his knuckles white."We have movement in the Grey Lands," he said. His voice was low, careful not to carry into the living room where the baby was playing. "Scouts report a gathering at the northern ridge. It's not constructs. It's not rogue wolves.""Then who?" I asked, though a cold dread was already pooling at the base of my spine."Witches," he said. "Or... things that look like witches. They're wearing gray coats."My stomach dropped through the floor.The Architects.I turned away from Marco and walked t

The sun was beginning its long, slow descent over Oakhaven, bleeding out against the horizon in heavy strokes of bruised purple and burnished gold.I sat on the flat tar-and-gravel roof of the Coven House, my legs dangling over the stone ledge. The gravel bit into my palms as I leaned back, the rough texture grounding me. This was the spot. The exact same spot where Guilermo had kissed me on the night of the Solstice Festival years ago. The same spot where I had stood, shivering and terrified, and made the choice to stop running.But the world below my boots looked different now.The scars of the war were gone. Time and hard work had smoothed them over. New growth had reclaimed the scorched earth. The town was a patchwork of slate roofs and green gardens, chimney smoke rising in lazy, gray ribbons that tangled together in the still air.The most striking change, however, wasn't the architecture. It was the flow.Years ago, there had been a line. An invisible, razor-sharp demarcation b