All Chapters of Rejected by My Mate, Fated to the Lycan King: Chapter 421 - Chapter 430

ChrisThere’s a thorn in my thumb.It’s stupid, really. I was just trying to prune one of the rose branches near the edge of the inn’s little courtyard garden, because apparently that’s what I do now when I’m trying not to think about how everything around me feels like it’s circling the drain.The prophecy. Scarlett. Victoria and her creepy magic. And Loki, who keeps showing up like a villain in a really badly written play. Except he’s terrifying. So... maybe not that badly written.“Hey,” Elliott says behind me. I don’t even turn around. “There’s a thorn in my thumb,” I tell him morosely.“Oh no. Do you want sympathy or tweezers?” he asks. “Both?”He laughs, and it makes my chest feel better. Just a little. A shadow falls beside mine as he crouches next to me, brushing his fingers over mine to see the offending wound.“You bled for a flower?” he asks. “I was pruning, it makes them grow better,” I correct him. “You were brooding,” he ripostes, not inaccurately.“Multitasking,” I mutt

ErikI know something’s wrong the second I touch her. She doesn’t pull away from me, but her skin feels hotter. Like the fire inside her is burning closer to the surface. Her pulse is steady, but her body is wound tight, like she’s bracing herself for an argument.“Scarlett,” I murmur, brushing my knuckles over her jaw. She meets my eyes, and the distance there feels like a wall I didn’t know we’d built. “Come to bed,” I say.I know sex can’t fix everything that’s wrong between us, but our bodies always seem to find a way to communicate, even when we don’t have the words.She nods and leans into my touch. It’s not trust I see in her eyes when she follows me into the bedroom. It’s surrender. But not to me. To the storm churning beneath her skin.I try not to let that thought take root. Try to hold onto the way her hand slides into mine. The way her breath catches when I pull her close. The way she leans into my chest like she wants to drown in the silence between us.We kiss before the

CereliaThe runes aren’t just reacting. They seem to be remembering.I kneel in the shallow corridor beneath the inn’s foundations, chalk dust on my palms, my skirts damp from where the old stone floor still sweats from generations of silence.The markings on the wall, etched in long-faded ash and something darker, glow softly in response to the spell I whispered five minutes ago.But they’re not responding to me. They’re responding to her. Scarlett.I press my hand flat to the wall and the stone hums beneath my skin like a heartbeat. Signe crouches beside me. “You feel it too?”I nod slowly. “It’s not just warding. This is woven magic. Intent layered across time.” The meaning is obvious, but that doesn’t make it any less jarring.“Weavers,” Signe says.“Yes,” I agree. My voice is quiet. “This isn’t a coincidence. This was done by design.” Trying to fathom how long ago they braided Scarlett into their design is giving me a headache.The words hang heavy between us.Signe exhales and d

ScarlettThe room goes still when I touch the flame.Not with my hands, I’m not quite that far gone yet, but with that part of me that exists just behind my ribs, where the fire lives.The part that hasn’t stopped humming since I came to Raventon. Since I started listening.The second I let it rise, the air thickens.No one else is here.Not Erik, not Cerelia, not even the fireflies that usually gather near the stones at dusk. Just me and the pulse of heat that’s never truly gone quiet. Not since I heard its voice the first time.Not since the Ashkeeper whispered my name.The shrine isn’t ancient in the way most ruins are. It’s far older. Older than wolves. Older than gods, maybe. And somehow, it knows me.Not my face. Not my blood. Not my magic. Me.I kneel on the cold floor, ignoring the way my knees protest against the freezing stone. The rune on the back wall flickers to life, faint but steady. I don’t cast any magic. I don’t need to.It knows I’m here. And it’s been waiting for m

VictoriaHe doesn’t know how much I’ve changed. Not fully.Erik watches me with those warm, careful eyes like I’m still someone fragile. Like the girl he used to study with and laugh with and pull gently back from the edge is still the one standing in front of him.She isn’t. She hasn’t been for days. But I let him think she is.I let him hold onto the memory.Because I want to know what happens when he realizes the thing he feared, is the thing he can’t stop wanting.We're in the study behind the inn, tucked between two bookshelves that smell like mildew and old spells.I told him I needed help stabilizing my channeling. Just a few minutes of hands-on work. He agreed too easily.He always does when it comes to fixing me. Jumping at the opportunity. As if I ever needed fixing.“I think the thread is bending wrong,” I say, frowning down at the tiny rune circle I’ve etched into the wooden table.He steps closer. “Here, show me where the pressure flares.”I extend my palm toward the glow