All Chapters of Mated to Three Alphas: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

Lyra’s POVThe nights blurred together after Kyle’s death. Sleep didn’t come, only flashes of memory I couldn’t shut out—his smile, his laugh, the way his eyes dimmed in that final moment. Every time I closed mine, I saw it all over again.I told myself I would never cry again. But my body betrayed me in silence, tears soaking my pillow when no one was there to hear.The mark on my neck still burned whenever I thought too loudly of rebellion. It punished me for even daring to dream of freedom. I hated it. I hated Damian. I hated myself.So when Jax appeared outside my chamber one evening, I almost didn’t notice him. He leaned against the shadows, eyes darting left and right, shoulders tight as if he carried a weight too heavy for one man.“Lyra,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t be here.”I blinked, wary. “Then why are you?”His jaw tightened. He stepped forward and slid something under my door. A bundle wrapped in leather. Small. Worn.“What is it?” I asked.“Kyle’s,” he said. His voice cr

Lyra’s POVThe night air was sharp against my skin, filled with the metallic tang of blood and the scent of wet pine. Patrols shouted in the distance, their footsteps crunching over leaves, searching for survivors after the raid. I pressed myself against a broken tree stump, forcing my breath to steady. This was my chance.Damian had left me under guard, assuming the border was impossible to reach with sentries scattered across the ridges. But he didn’t know how far desperation could push me. Or maybe he did, and that was why the cursed bond burned on my neck whenever I even thought of freedom.I clenched my fists. The scarlet fire of the mark flared under my skin, hot and pulsing. It felt like invisible claws dragging through my veins. I swallowed a cry, biting my lip until I tasted blood. The pain reminded me of chains I could not see—but tonight, I would test if I could break them.I whispered the words Mother once taught me, hidden spells woven from fragments of blood and breath.

Damon’s POVVivian’s screams had grown hoarse long before she broke.The cell smelled of iron and rot, chains rattling each time she flinched. I crouched in front of her, resting my hand on the slick stone wall beside her head. My knuckles were still wet with her blood. She glared at me, though her lips trembled, and I knew the fight was slipping out of her.“You should thank me,” I said softly. “Most would have left you to my father’s mercy. I’m giving you a chance to speak before he carves the truth out of you.”Her breath shuddered, chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. “You’re worse than him.”I smiled. “You’re not the first to say so.”The torchlight flickered, shadows dancing across her face. I leaned closer, my voice a low growl. “Tell me what Dominic is planning. Or I’ll make sure this night never ends for you.”Her lips pressed tight. Stubborn. Brave, even. I almost admired it. But pain was a patient teacher.I dragged the blade across her arm, just deep enough to remind

Damon’s POV I had learned long ago that power never stayed still. It shifted like water, spilling through cracks, seeping into hands that knew where to grasp. Dominic believed he held all of it. He believed the pack bent to his will, that fear kept everyone loyal. But fear was a weak chain. Sooner or later, fear broke. I sat in the dim light of my quarters, the smell of ink and smoke heavy in the air. My desk was littered with letters, coded messages, scraps of intelligence. I read them one by one, piecing together the puzzle Dominic thought no one else could see. Rogues had been sighted near the southern ridge, armed with steel forged too fine for scavengers. Weapons like that came from connections, not scraps. Someone supplied them. And all trails led back to him. I clenched the parchment in my fist. My father had sold out warriors before—Omegas too. He traded lives for influence, for favor with the Council. The pack believed him untouchable, a titan who always stayed ten steps a

Lyra’s POV The journal felt heavier in my hands than its size allowed. Kyle had written like he spoke—fast, urgent, messy. Each line hit me like a bruise. I stayed under the oak until the stars thinned and the court grew quieter. The torches guttered. Frost hardened on the ground. I read until my eyes burned and my fingers ached from turning pages. Kyle had tracked names and places. He had drawn crude maps. He had listed shipments and times. He had marked faces. I read the list of warriors who had vanished. I read the names of Omegas who had been taken and never returned. His handwriting smeared where he had written in a hurry. Sometimes he crossed things out and wrote them again. His fear had bled into the ink. He had written about Dominion’s men leaving at dawn with crates stamped with the Council’s sigil. He had written about whispers at the market, about traders who spoke in code. He had written about a priestess who visited the barracks at night. He had written a line that