All Chapters of The Alpha King's Omega: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

The air in the chamber cracked under the weight of that single word.“You.”It fell from Ragnar’s lips like a blade, silent in its arc yet sharp enough to slice through the fragile stillness binding the room. The sound wasn’t loud, but it carried a lethal density, as if every syllable had been forged from molten fury and left to cool in his chest. Even the walls seemed to draw back, shadows curling away from him.Atlas froze where he knelt beside Freya’s bed, her hand still clasped between his own as he had held it again. His grip tightened until the skin across his knuckles blanched, as though the contact was the only anchor keeping him upright. He didn’t look toward Ragnar, not immediately. His gaze clung to Freya, his eyes frantic in their search for her, as if seeing her alive wasn’t enough; as if he needed proof she was truly safe.Ragnar stepped forward, slow and deliberate, the door yawning wider behind him with a low groan of hinges that scraped across the stone like a warning

The doors slammed shut with a thunderous crash, the sound echoing through the chamber like the iron seal of a prison. Freya’s breath caught as Ragnar’s grip tightened around her arm, pulling her flush against the immovable wall of his chest. His body radiated heat, fierce, unrelenting, searing into her until even the air seemed to burn.His scent enveloped her, wild and untamed, edged with smoke, steel, and the faint tang of fresh blood. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, suffocating. His molten-gold eyes bore into hers like firebrands, branding her where she stood.“You think I didn’t see?” His voice was a growl, rough and low, scraping against the silence like claws on stone. “Him, on his knees before you. Touching you.”A shiver ran through Freya, not from fear, but from the sheer intensity blazing off him. Her lips parted, fumbling for words. “Ragnar-”“Don’t.” The single word cracked like a whip, silencing her. His breath came ragged, as though he had fought a war just to reach t

The chamber was quiet, save for the steady flicker of the fire. Yet Ragnar’s chest burned as if he had walked into a battlefield.It wasn’t Freya who sat before the mirror.It was her face, her body, her hair spilling like molten night over her shoulders, but the moment those eyes lifted to his, he knew. They weren’t hers. Freya’s gaze always carried warmth, even in anger. These eyes glowed like cold blue fire. Amused. Predatory. Ancient.“Skyrana,” Ragnar growled, his voice low and edged with threat.Her lips curved, though it was Freya’s mouth that moved. “You say my name like a prayer and a curse at once. How fitting, Ragnar.”He crossed the room in three strides, fury crackling in his veins, but he stopped short, his fists trembling at his sides. He wanted to seize her, shake her until Freya returned. But one wrong move, one act of violence, and it would not be Skyrana who bore the bruise.It would be Freya.“What have you done to her?” he demanded, each word strained.Her reflect

The palace was silent that night, as if the stone itself had drawn breath and refused to let it go. Ragnar prowled the confines of his study like a caged predator, shadows from the dying hearthfire stretching across the floor in jagged, restless shapes. His hands twitched with agitation, unable to rest, his mind gnawed raw by suspicions he could neither name nor silence.He had tried, by the gods, he had tried, to lose himself in work. Maps of borders, reports of spies, scrolls detailing the petty demands of lords. Yet every time his eyes grazed the ink, it dissolved into the same thought, the same image: Freya. Her flame. The enemies are circling like wolves. And the weight, an ancient, choking weight, that pressed heavier on his chest with every breath since she had entered his life.It was not jealousy alone. Not love alone.It was something older. Something buried in the marrow of his bloodline.At last, the pressure drove him to a corner of the study he had ignored for years, the

The night hung heavy, still and waiting, as though the world itself held its breath. Beyond the palace walls, the moon reigned high, casting pale silver across the darkened sky. Inside Ragnar’s chamber, silence ruled, broken only by the low crackle of the fire that painted the room in restless gold and shadow.Ragnar stood at the window, the cold glass reflecting the hard planes of his face. Moonlight cut across his jaw, tightening with the thoughts that plagued him. Behind him, in the glow of the fire, Freya sat curled in the armchair, her silver-ash hair spilling down her shoulders, catching the light like molten starlight. She looked like flame personified, untouchable, divine, and yet so painfully mortal.The tension between them was a taut cord stretched to breaking. Ragnar’s mind burned with the memory of Atlas. Atlas daring to speak of love, Atlas’s hand brushing hers, the way Freya’s eyes had softened when she whispered his name in her half-dreaming state. She had sworn he was