All Chapters of Contract Marriage To The Alpha King : Chapter 91 - Chapter 100

Damian’s POV I stood at the bottom of the grand staircase, my gaze locked on her retreating form. Each slow, deliberate step she took, her hand gripping the polished banister so tightly her knuckles were white, her shoulders stiff with forced composure, did nothing to calm the raw, visceral storm that churned inside me. If anything, her pathetic show of resistance only fueled it, igniting a deeper, more primal rage. My jaw clenched so tight it ached, a dull, persistent throb. My knuckles still pulsed beneath the hastily applied bandage Ava had wrapped around them earlier—too tight at first, then trembling, hesitant, as she tried to fix the damage I had wrought. The rough, masculine scent of the office, tainted with the faint, metallic tang of James’s blood, still clung to my skin, a constant reminder of my unchecked fury. I hadn’t even bothered to bandage them properly after slamming that sniveling coward into the floor, hearing the sickening crunch of his jaw snapping under my

Damian’s POV Her silence when I told her to undress was deafening, a stark contrast to the furious roar of my own blood in my ears. It wasn't the silence of defiance, not truly, but a fragile, terrified stillness. Her hands, though trembling visibly, moved slowly, reluctantly, to the delicate buttons of her blouse. One by one, each button released felt like a small, agonizing victory, a concession wrung from her unwilling spirit. And yet, it wasn't enough. Not nearly. Her defiance still lingered in the air, a subtle, almost imperceptible scent that mingled with her fear. Even as she stood there, stripped down to nothing but her thin lace underthings—a delicate, almost transparent barrier against my gaze—her eyes were still bright with unshed tears, glistening like polished stones. And in their depths, I could still discern it: that little spark of rebellion, that infuriating unwillingness to fully submit, to truly break. It infuriated me. A hot, sharp surge of rage that clawed at

Ava’s POV The door to the bathroom shut behind him with a soft, final click, a sound that resonated in the hollow space he left behind. I lay there, motionless, my body a leaden weight, my arms sprawled uselessly at my sides, the sheet half-draped over my bare, bruised skin, a pitiful attempt at modesty. Everything ached. A deep, pervasive soreness had settled in my bones, a constant, physical reminder of the night’s brutal lessons. The raw sting of the metal cuffs was still carved into my wrists—angry red welts throbbing with every faint pulse, a testament to my futile struggle. My thighs felt heavy, sore, like leaden anchors, and the dull, burning ache between them reminded me with cruel, agonizing precision of everything he’d done to me, of the violent, primal claim he had made. The pillow beneath my head was a cold, damp patch. From tears, though I hadn’t even noticed they’d been falling, a silent, unending river that had escaped my control. I blinked at the intricate pattern

Ava's POV The jarring ring of my phone sliced through the mundane routine of my morning commute, a harsh, unwelcome sound that broke the rhythm of the city. I was on my way to the office, distracted, my mind replaying the cold, empty silence of the mansion and Damian’s parting words, sipping the lukewarm, bitter coffee that I had forced myself to buy. Bia. My heart seized in my chest, a cold, hard knot of dread. Something in me, some deep, primal instinct, knew before I even answered. The name on the screen was a harbinger of a different kind of storm. “Hello?” My voice trembled, a fragile sound that belied the frantic terror seizing my insides. Bia didn’t speak at first. Just the sound of heavy, ragged breathing on the other end of the line, a sound of profound distress that mirrored the one I could feel building in my own chest. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken tragedy. Then—“Ava… it’s Eli. His condition… it got worse. Much worse.” The world tilted on its axis, and

Ava's POV The air inside the ICU waiting area was thick with the weight of quiet prayers and the heavy silence of heartbreak. I sat hunched over on a cold plastic bench, a paper cup of untouched coffee growing colder in my hands, a bitter mockery of comfort. My eyes stung with the constant burn of unshed tears, my soul ached with a profound, terrifying helplessness. Eli was still inside, behind the closed glass doors. The steady, rhythmic beep of machines was a constant, fragile metronome of his life, a sound that both terrified and anchored me. Doctors, their faces grim and tired, moved around him in a silent, methodical dance, their very movements a chilling testament to the severity of his condition. When I had asked one of them what his chances were, her gaze had fallen, her words a quiet, devastating finality. "He needs a miracle." I was trying to hold on to that word, to that faint, flickering hope, trying to build a fortress of faith in a place where none existed. Until the