Semua Bab Rejected by My Mate, Fated to the Lycan King: Bab 401 - Bab 410

ScarlettI don’t dream anymore. Not really.I close my eyes and instead of sleep, I get heat. Flickering shadows. A pressure in my ribs that never quite becomes pain, but never goes away either. I wake sweating, aching, teeth clenched.And always, there’s the sense of something just behind me. Watching and waiting.Loki hasn’t appeared again. Not in the flesh. But I feel him like a fingerprint pressed behind my eyes. A weight stitched into my ribs. The thread he left in my magic is fraying everything else. My focus, my mood, my grip.“Don’t speak until I tell you to,” Aunt Cerelia says as she draws a rune in chalk on the wooden floor of the borrowed sitting room. “And don’t move.”I sit cross-legged in the center of the circle, bare arms exposed, heart pounding like I’m preparing for war. Maybe because I am.“Your core is still yours,” she says, “But something foreign is trying to take root in your outer layer. It doesn’t want to consume you. Not yet. It wants to blend. It wants to be

HildaWe shouldn’t have left the inn. Not with the city ready to split down the middle, not with Loki stirring shadows and Scarlett carrying fire in her chest like it’s trying to eat her from the inside out.But Arlo looked at me across the war table, just one long look, full of heat and history and a dare, and I knew. We need this. Not a council meeting. Not strategy. Just us.So we slip through the edge of the city, past the old gates and into the forest where the trees grow thick and the air hums with wild silence. There’s a clearing we found a few weeks ago. The one with the moss-soft floor and the stones half-swallowed by the roots of an ancient oak. No one else comes here. And we’ve decided that it's ours.Arlo waits for me in the center of it, moonlight brushing over his bare arms. His shirt’s already half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up, neck gleaming with sweat.“You’re late,” he says. “I was being responsible,” I inform him cheekily. “Stop that,” he growls. I smirk and walk in

ElliottIt’s not a date. At least, I don’t think it is.But Chris is wearing the hoodie I used to steal from him back when we were thirteen, and I catch him watching me in the glass of the storefront we just passed. His cheeks are pink with wind and whatever thoughts are spinning behind those glittering amber eyes.We walk side by side through the quieter stretch of Raventon, past the river trail where the trees bend low and the cobblestones get slick with moss. The sky is overcast, soft light threading through clouds like someone’s trying to paint something hopeful but can’t quite commit.“Do you remember how we used to throw rocks into the river back home like it owed us money?” Chris asks.I grin. “You always had the better arm.” Chris laughs quietly, “And you always had the worst aim.”We stop at the bend where the water runs clearer. There’s a big flat boulder like the one we used to sit on at the ravine. Back before things got complicated. Before the kiss. Before the silence tha

ScarlettThe air in the room shifts the moment I enter.It’s not just the scent of old paper and candle wax in Signe’s makeshift study, it's the way everyone suddenly gets quieter. Not like they’ve seen a predator, more like they sense something unstable.Aunt Cerelia glances up from the book she’s flipping through. Signe doesn’t look away from her notes, but her fingers twitch at the edges of the page. Even Erik, standing near the fire, goes still.And then there’s Victoria.Lounging in one of the deep chairs like this is her court and we’re all just lucky to exist in it. Her chestnut curls are pinned up today, delicate strands coiling around her neck like chains. She doesn’t flinch when she sees me, she smiles.That smile tightens something in my chest that I can’t ignore anymore. “Scarlett,” she says sweetly. “You missed the part where I offered a theory about the prophecy. It was fascinating.”I walk to the table slowly. My hands are clenched in my sleeves. I’ve learned not to tou

SorenIt was supposed to be a nice surprise.A warm, heartfelt, romantic gesture to say, “Hey, we see you, we love you, we know you’re under a lot of stress, thanks for not blowing us up.” Instead, the kitchen is an actual war zone.Arlo stands at the stove, swearing under his breath, turning something unidentifiable in a pan. It smells like garlic, cinnamon, and remorse.Erik is holding a cutting board like a shield. Chris is slicing carrots with the delicate focus of someone disarming a bomb.I stir a pot of what was meant to be soup, but it more closely resembles molten clay. “Why is that not soup?” Erik asks, frowning over my shoulder.“I followed the recipe exactly,” I say in self-defense. “You’re reading an upside-down page from a book called Spices of the Southern Wastes,” he points out. “…Ah.” That may explain some things.Chris adds, “Are carrots supposed to be purple?” Arlo growls. “These were the only ones at the market. They’re heirloom. It means fancy.”“They look like th