Semua Bab The Mate Games: Bab 131 - Bab 140

Many decades ago…I didn’t sleep.Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her, that old woman’s eyes, burning gold in the darkness, her voice rasping in my ear. Mercy cuts both ways. The words chased themselves in circles through my mind until they tangled into something that felt like a snare around my throat.I lay there until dawn, twisted in sweat-damp sheets, my heart drumming so hard it actually hurt. Every creak of the old wood, every sigh of wind outside made me flinch. Like someone might step through my door at any moment and drag me off to pay for my choice.And then the knock came.Not three sharp raps like before. Just one. Slow. Almost lazy. But somehow worse for it — like whoever stood on the other side knew I was already scared.When I pulled the door open, it wasn’t the same servant as before. This one was younger. Barely older than me, with downcast eyes and a mouth pressed tight. He didn’t say anything. Just held out a small silver basin filled with clear water.For washi

ASHER The worst of it passed in the night. Now, the pain has dulled to something manageable. The fire that tore through my chest, the way my bones felt like they were turning inside out, it’s faded. What’s left is a low ache, like a bruise just under the surface. My wolf is quiet. Not gone, but no longer clawing at me, no longer snarling for blood or a mate or a fight. Just resting. Waiting. It’s a strange kind of relief. I can finally breathe without my hands shaking. The council meets in one of the high rooms of the eastern tower. Long stone table, high windows, and too many voices talking at once. I used to dread these meetings. Now they feel like a welcome distraction. As usual, the room falls silent when I enter. They rise, bow, and take their seats again after I nod. I take my spot at the head of the table. Mark is beside me, flipping through notes like always. The scribes settle near the far wall, ink-stained fingers ready. We begin with the usual, grain shortages in the

ALTHEAMoonlight spills across the forest floor, silver and bright, bright enough that we don’t even need torches. It filters through the leaves, casting shifting patterns on the dirt path. I watch my muddied boots crunch over twigs and fallen leaves, trying not to let my mind drift too far ahead to what’s waiting for us.Theo walks at the front, shoulders squared, steps steady. He suddenly lifts a hand, and we all stop behind him. I breathe out, finally feeling the ache in my legs.“We’ll camp here for the night,” he says. His voice is tired, but certain. That’s enough to keep the rest of us from arguing.People start moving almost at once. Bags drop to the ground. Jarek and two others clear a wide circle of rocks and debris, stomping down the grass to flatten it. I help Liza pull free the thick canvas from her pack. We shake it out, stretch it, drive stakes into the hard ground. It takes effort, my arms burn from pounding the wood into place, but soon, little tents dot the clearing.

ASHERRage. It’s an emotion that’s not appreciated enough. Not studied enough. But the rage I feel right now completely consumes me. It’s like molten lead in my veins, scorching everything in its path.The palace is already a disaster—my men have failed over and over to catch the revolutionaries, Caroline is pregnant, and now this? My vision blurs with hot fury. It takes everything in me not to tear the nearest tapestry off the wall and shred it to pieces.I storm down the hallway, ignoring servants who flatten themselves against the walls to avoid me. My boots thud heavy against the marble floors, echoing off the high ceilings. They all know to stay out of my way. Good for them.I reach Caroline’s door. Don’t bother knocking. I push it open so hard it bangs into the wall, the handle leaving a dent.“What the hell is going on here, Caroline?” I grit out, my voice raw with anger.She doesn’t even jump. Just sighs, looking up at me from where she’s perched on the edge of her bed, painti

ALTHEAHe’s here.In the middle of a damn fight, of all things. But somehow, it doesn’t surprise me. If there’s one constant in this twisted world of ours, it’s that Asher finds trouble, or maybe it finds him.I stand frozen, breath shallow, eyes locked on the crude fighting ring set up in the middle of the bar’s wide back room. The air is heavy with sweat, smoke, and the sharp tang of spilled ale. People press close to the wooden rails, shouting, placing bets, eager for blood.And there, right in the center, is him.The man moving with lethal grace, stalking slow circles around his opponent like a predator toying with prey. He’s so much bigger than the other man, muscles straining beneath a dark tunic, body coiled tight with energy. But it’s the way he moves that twists something deep inside me. Not just fluid—calculated. Like he’s already three steps ahead, mapping every dodge, every strike, every final blow.A cloth wraps around the lower half of his face, hiding his mouth, nose, e