Accueil / Werewolf / The Rejected Omega's Redemption / Chapitre 181 - Chapitre 190

Tous les chapitres de : Chapitre 181 - Chapitre 190

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Whispers Beyond the Gate

The wheels of the the carriage thundered against the cobbled driveway as it rolled into the sprawling Blackwood estate. Becca stared out the window, her fingers clenched around the edge of the seat, her knuckles white. Her heart beat in a rhythm far too fast to be calm. She had felt the shift the moment the gates creaked open. The entire place was buzzing — guards moved in urgent strides, voices rang out in clipped tones, and something thick and anxious hung in the air. It was obvious something had gone terribly wrong like they had been told. Eugene was the first to step down from the carriage. As his boots hit the stone path, several of his elite guards moved forward in haste, forming a protective semi-circle. Max followed immediately, speaking quietly with one of the scouts who had rushed to greet them. Becca stepped down after them, her long gown fluttering slightly in the cool breeze. Mira was the last to emerge, her face a calm mask of observation. One of the guards, a

The Prisoner

The heavy, rusted gates of the dungeon groaned open with a reluctant creak, the echoes bouncing off the stone walls like whispers of long-forgotten prisoners. The place was carved to break spirits. No soul came in here and left the same. Alpha Eugene descended the stone steps with purpose in his stride, the tension in his shoulders giving away the storm he carried within. Behind him, Max followed in silence, though his eyes burned with curiosity and calculated fury. "He’s in Cell Four," one of the guards said as they turned the corner. "And he hasn’t said a word since?" "Not a word, sir." Max scoffed lightly, his voice dripping sarcasm. "Then maybe he’s saving his last words for the Moon Goddess." Eugene didn’t reply. As they approached Cell Four, the stench of sweat and urine hit them. Behind the thick iron bars sat a man in torn guard uniform, bruised and bloodied. He looked like he had taken a few blows trying to resist capture. Max stepped forward, gripping the ba

Whispered Truths and Lingering Lies

Becca sat by the arched window, her arms folded tightly across her chest as she stared out at the quiet night, the wind rustling the leaves. She should have been asleep—Luna duties demanded her strength, and rest was crucial. But sleep was a luxury her mind refused to grant tonight. Her thoughts kept circling the same loop. Eugene is coming to my room later. He had said it like a promise, like something he was determined to do whether she was ready or not. The image of his face when he mentioned the spy held in the dungeon haunted her. There was a heaviness in his expression, a tightness in his jaw—something grim he wasn’t telling her. And though she wasn’t sure if letting him into her room, into her space, was the right thing to do, her curiosity had already won the battle. What’s happening in that dungeon? She pressed her fingers to her temples, trying to block out the relentless questions. But more than the spy… it was Mira’s words that had burrowed into her chest like a s

Between Mercy and Blood

The fire in Alpha Eugene’s study had burned low, leaving the room bathed in amber shadows. The smell of old leather, smoldering cedarwood, and ink filled the air, a familiar scent that should have brought Eugene comfort. Instead, it only deepened the ache in his chest. He stood near the bookshelves, his arms crossed tightly as he stared down into the flickering fire. The weight of the day clung to his shoulders like chains. Max paced behind him, his boots thudding against the dark wood floor with every restless step. “We’ve been down there for hours,” Max said, exasperated. “From mid-afternoon till just before moonrise. He hasn’t uttered a damn word. Not even a lie. He just stares at us like we’re the enemy.” Eugene said nothing. Max turned to face him, arms spread wide in frustration. “I hate to say this, Eugene… truly, I do. But I think Desmond was right.” Eugene’s brow furrowed. He turned, slowly. Max met his gaze, serious. “We need to use force or torture. Something.

The Confession That Wasn’t Spoken

Kaelyn stood in the doorway, her hand still resting on the carved wooden frame. Eugene on the other side, his broad shoulders stiff. Their eyes locked. “Kaelyn,” Eugene said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to echo in the quiet of the room. “You wanted to see me?” She nodded once. “I did.” Her voice was barely above a whisper. He gestured toward the room, stepping aside. “Come in.” Kaelyn hesitated, her palm tightening slightly against the doorframe. She had told herself she would do it. That she would come here, look him in the eyes, and finally say the words that had been clawing at her insides for weeks. But now, standing before him, under his gaze that always felt like it saw too much, her courage faltered. Still, she stepped inside. The door clicked softly behind her as Eugene closed it. Kaelyn’s slippers barely made a sound on the thick rug as she moved into the room, but she could feel every step like an earthquake inside her chest. Her gaze flickered to

Thoughts in the Quiet Room

The silence in Becca’s room was loud. It. She sat on the edge of her bed, arms crossed tightly across her chest, her brows drawn into a pensive frown. The conversation with Kaelyn had gone well—at least on the surface. Still... something gnawed at Becca’s gut. Something felt off. Becca bit the inside of her cheek and closed her eyes, breathing out slowly. What if Kaelyn wasn’t being honest? She shook her head. No, Kaelyn wouldn't lie. Not to her. Not after everything. And yet, she couldn’t shake the tight knot that had taken residence in her chest. A gentle knock rapped at her door. Before she could even answer, the door cracked open and Mira peeked her head in, her eyes already scanning Becca’s face for signs. “Hey. Can I come in?” Becca nodded, grateful for the distraction. “You look like you’re about to explode,” Mira muttered as she made her way to the bed and sat beside her. Becca let out a humorless chuckle. “Do I?” “You’re doing that thing where your jaw clen

Loyalty

The morning air in Blackwood was crisp, laced with mist and the distant calls of the watch hawks gliding overhead. Down in the dungeon, it was cold. Not the kind of cold that merely prickled skin, but the type that sank into bone and clawed at the soul. The air was thick with the scent of rusted iron, mildew, and dried sweat. Chains clinked faintly in the dark, the kind of music reserved for prisoners and ghosts. And the spy was still here. He hadn’t spoken. Not a name, not a mission, not a whisper. Desmond had been patient. Too patient. But not anymore. His boots clicked against the cold stone as he descended the last steps into the torch-lit corridor of the dungeon. The two guards posted at the cell doors stiffened the moment they saw him. He was dressed sharply this morning—dark leather with silver accents at the shoulders, his Alpha insignia polished and gleaming. A symbol of authority. Of dominance. Beside him, Seraphina moved with the elegance of a Luna. Her cloak

Closed Off

The morning sun clung lazily to the edge of the stone courtyard, casting golden light over the pale tiles that stretched across the space like a still sea. The wind carried with it the faint scent of dew and steel—metal being sharpened in preparation, stone grinding under footfalls. Eugene stood near the outer training post, the rigid line of his back a clear sign of the weight resting on his shoulders. He wasn’t dressed like an imposing Alpha today. He wore a simple dark leather tunic, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing the veins of a man who had known the sword before he knew the crown. Strapped to his side was not his ceremonial blade, but a dagger—quick, practical, and lethal. His eyes, usually steady, held a storm behind them this morning. The spy. The man who had dared enter into the heart of their pack, who had almost succeeded in sabotaging the heart of their peace, was currently rotting in the bowels of the dungeon beneath the packhouse. And Eugene intended to

Moving through the Garden

The morning sun had broken gently over the horizon, casting golden rays of light through the towering hedge walls and blooming flowerbeds of the beautiful garden. Birds chirped in lazy harmony, and the sweet scent of jasmine and marigold floated thick in the air. Amid the serenity, Kaelyn sat beneath the willow tree, her body relaxed and posture regal, with her legs folded neatly to one side on the stone bench. In her hands, she held a worn leather-bound book that was basically about understanding the power of herbs and how to make good use of their potential. The cover was cracked from use, and inside, faint notes were scribbled in the margins by a former reader: Becca. Kaelyn ran a finger along one of the annotated pages, where Becca had underlined a passage and written in soft, slanted handwriting: “Use golden thistle only at night. It reacts better to moonlight.” A faint smile ghosted across Kaelyn’s lips as she traced those words again. She had been skeptical at first

Fangs and Lies

The sound of screams echoed off the damp, stone walls. A man’s voice—raw and choked with agony—rang out like a siren in the dungeon’s shadowed corridors, followed by the metallic clink of bloodied tools and the scent of iron and fear. Becca’s heart thundered in her chest as she ran, the hem of her long robe catching on uneven stones. Eugene’s hand was tight around her wrist, practically dragging her as Jack took the lead, his claws already drawn and his rage simmering. “Desmond!” Eugene’s voice thundered before they even reached the chamber. Another scream. This one cut short. They burst into the torch-lit chamber just as Desmond reached forward with a pair of rusted pliers, gloved hands bloodied and unwavering. The prisoner was strapped to an iron chair, his face battered, a stream of blood pooling beneath him as he cried in agony. “No!” Becca’s cry shattered the tension like glass hitting stone. Desmond froze mid-motion, his face emotionless, cold as a winter ni

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