Semua Bab Rejected by My Mate, Fated to the Lycan King: Bab 541 - Bab 550

ScarlettThe tree bleeds when I touch it.I’m just pressing a fingertip against the rough bark. Just a moment of pressure. And then I feel the warmth blooming under my touch.Not sap. Not moisture.Blood.Thick, dark, and slow, welling up from beneath the bark like it’s got veins.Like it’s alive in the same way I am.Behind me, Erik swears.I glance over my shoulder, and he’s already there, hand at the hilt of his knife. Not drawing it yet, but close.Ilsa steps up beside him. Her nostrils are flaring as she scents the air.“That’s not human blood,” she murmurs.She’s right.It smells like copper and rot and pine needles crushed underfoot. Like history. Like hunger. It smells like the woods themselves have turned inside out.And then I hear it.My name being called again.Not out loud, not quite.It’s in the bark. In the root. In the soft hush of the leaves overhead.Scarlett.I jerk back like I’ve been burned.“What is it?” Erik says, instantly on alert, ready to jump to my defense.

ErikShe tells me everything.Her voice is low, rough with the weight of it.How the tree lit up when she touched it, how her name burned into her skin like a claim, how it hasn’t faded.I don’t say the things she expects. No fear. No disbelief. No attempt to make it smaller than it is. I just watch her.Scarlett, fierce and golden and afraid in ways she doesn't know how to name.She’s standing at the edge of something vast and ancient, and I know better than to try and pull her back from it.She doesn’t need rescue.She needs my support.So I step closer. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin, and I say nothing.I reach for her hand and gently push her sleeve back.The mark is still there, faint now, but glowing softly in the dim light. Her name, curled in radiant gold like it was written by a god.I press my lips to it. Once. Slow. Devotional.Her breath catches and she sways forward like she can’t help it, like some magnetic thread between us just tugged tight.“What

ElliottIt’s like the forest wants to be quiet.Not peaceful, never that, but intentionally silent, like it’s holding its breath.Watching us stumble through a story we were never meant to read.Chris walks ahead of me, his movements sharp but fluid. Blades strapped across his back like second skin, tension wound tight in his shoulders.He doesn’t like it here, none of us do, but he wears his unease like armor.I wear mine like fog in my chest, heavy and spreading.Every time he hears a sound that doesn’t belong, something too soft, or too sharp, he glances over his shoulder.Always looking for me. Always making sure I’m still here. Just one glance, and I breathe easier.But then the forest takes its opportunity.One misstep. A shallow ridge hidden beneath fallen leaves. My boot catches, and I fall forward hard.My palms scrape against packed earth, the sting of impact blooming across my hands. A scatter of dry leaves flies up around me.Chris is at my side in less than a second. “El,

IlsaThe seam won’t leave my mind.Even hours later, I can still feel the way the air shifted around it.Thick, like the space between worlds had been bruised.Like the forest exhaled something it shouldn’t have.And that name. My name. Carved before I was born. As if the trees had been waiting for me.I’ve lived with magic my whole life. It weaves through our bloodlines, dances in the bones of our people, sparks in the touch of women Cerelia.But this? This is older. Wilder. Untamed.And Caelan knows more than he’s saying.I find him a little ways off from the camp, sitting on a fallen log with one leg tucked beneath him like he’s lounging in a court that exists only in his head.His tunic is undone halfway down his chest, and moonlight clings to his skin like it’s drawn to him. I don’t know if he does it on purposeIf he’s always this captivating or if he’s making an effort especially for me.I know he’s dangerous in ways I haven’t begun to measure.“You followed me,” he says withou

OmniscientThe forest thins.That’s the first sign.The trees don’t vanish, but they step back. Just enough to let the light in. Cold and silver, cast through a pale morning sky.The air feels wrong in a way none of them can quite name. Not heavy, not sharp. Not dangerous in the obvious way.Just… off.Chris senses it in his gut. His sword hand twitches, and he keeps glancing at the sky like he expects it to split open.Beside him, Elliott walks in silence, one hand hovering near his shoulder. They haven’t spoken much since the night before. But their silence is a good one. Watchful and steady.Scarlett leads them, her expression unreadable.Erik shadows her every step. She hasn’t said a word since she woke, and no one’s pressed her for more than she’s willing to give. Not after what happened. Not after the fire.Her fingers flex intermittently, as if her body still remembers being borrowed. As if her magic hasn’t quite settled back inside her skin.Ilsa is the one who stops first.“T