The Lycan King's Werewolf Daughter のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 71 - チャプター 80

Griffen's Point of View The sky is a dull gray when I step out of my dorm, the air cold enough to bite through the thin T-shirt I threw on. I did not really sleep much, I just laid there staring at the ceiling, replaying the ruins of the pack grounds over and over. Maddox’s work. I know it. Every instinct I have screams it. And still he will not answer me. I walk fast, not caring where I am going. I just need to move, to burn off the pressure in my chest before it caves in on itself. My phone stays heavy in my hand, the screen still dark. But I check it anyway, again for like the hundredth time. Still there is nothing. I curse under my breath and shove it in my pocket. Maddox always answers. Even when he is pissed. Even when he is neck deep in something violent or stupid or both. Silence from him is… wrong. I push open the door to the training center and welcome the familiar smell of sweat and metal. A punching bag hangs unused in the corner, and I head straight for it, rol

Griffen's Point of View The air inside the library is colder than I expect, sharp enough to raise the hairs on my arms as I step through the doors. It smells like old paper, dust, and something clean. It is early quiet here. I have not slept, not really, and the lack of rest clings to me like a second skin, heavy and tense. But sitting around doing nothing? That is worse. I make my way past the rows of study tables and whispering students until I reach the far corner, where the old geography section is tucked away. The shelves are tall, the lights dimmer here, and no one bothers coming back unless they need something specific. Good. I need privacy. I run my fingers over a row of binders until I find the campus archive maps, territorial spreads, printed geography, old pack alliance routes Jensen’s pack donated years ago. My heart thuds hard when I pull them out, two thick atlases and a folded map of the surrounding states. Perfect. I grab a table by the window, drop everyth

Cole's Point of View I tighten the straps on the picnic basket one last time, making sure everything inside is steady. The blanket, the sandwiches I woke up early to make, the fruit, the chocolate, covered strawberries I bought because Aria mentioned once, so casually, that she loves them. It is simple. It is definitely not extravagant. But it is… us. Or at least, what I hope we can become. I step back and take in the setup. The little clearing is not far from campus, tucked behind a line of oaks, out of sight, quiet. Peaceful. A place where she can breathe, where the world cannot touch her for a couple of hours. I cannot get her expression out of my mind from the past few days. Something heavy has been clinging to her, weighing her down. Even when she smiles, there is a flicker of something else behind it, worry, fear, even exhaustion. I want today to erase even a little bit of that. I lay out the blanket on the ground, I grab the basket, and carefully place it on the

Maddox's Point of View The air in this cabin tastes like smoke and iron. I like it that way. It reminds me of purpose, of power, of everything the Lycans were meant to be before the wolves poisoned it all. The map sprawled out in front of me is covered in red lines and claw marks from where I dragged my finger too hard earlier. I trace the next mark, Silver Mountain Ridge Pack, and feel the familiar rush of anticipation coil tight in my chest. Rhys stands opposite me, tall and patient, waiting for me to speak. He is the only one who does not flinch when I take too long to decide. “They will be an easy strike,” he says finally. “We hit them from the east, through the treeline. They will not...” I cut him off with a shake of my head. “No. They will expect that. We go from the north. Through the ridge.” Rhys hesitates for a second, then nods his head. “Understood.” Good. He does not question me twice. I glance at the map again, at the way the ink bleeds where the paper ha

Leo's Point of View As Dad drives deeper into Mountain Ridge territory, the smell only gets stronger, charred timber, the metallic sting of blood, and something else beneath it. Something wrong. Something almost feral. My wolf is on edge before I even step out of the SUV. When we finally roll to a stop at what used to be the pack’s training grounds, my breath catches in my throat. The place is barely recognizable. The clearing is scorched black, the main training lodge collapsed inward, smoke still curling from the beams as if the fire has not decided whether it is done burning. Bodies are covered and lined up under a makeshift canvas tent. Too many bodies. Dad gets out without a word, and I follow after him, my boots crunching over broken glass and burned debris. Warriors from a neighboring pack, one of Dad’s allies, are already moving around the site, assessing damage, checking for survivors, documenting everything they can. A warrior approaches us immediately. “Alpha