บททั้งหมดของ The Wrong Mate, The Right Alpha: บทที่ 171 - บทที่ 180

Damon I know she is gone before anyone tells me. It is not a sound. Or a scent. It is the absence. Mara's presence in the estate is a constant hum to me. Quiet but undeniable. Like a second heartbeat layered beneath my own. Like the background noise of my life that I do not notice until it stops. When that hum thins. When the air feels wrong. When the space where she should be registers as empty. Panic strikes sharp and fast. I am in the council room reviewing reports on Stormdawn's movements and troop positions when I feel it. The moment the bond shifts. The moment something essential changes. "Mara?" I call through the bond. Nothing. The word dies in the space between us. The connection remains open but she is not answering. She is not reaching back. I close my eyes and reach deeper. Careful not to force it. Careful not to push so hard that I shatter whatever fragile silence she has chosen. The bond stretches, warm, alive, responsive. She is there. Breathing. Moving. Wh

Damon The ride to my father's estate feels longer than it should. Not physically. The distance between Redwind stronghold and the old pack house is one I have traveled since childhood. One my body could map blindfolded. One my horse could navigate in complete darkness because it has carried me down this path so many times. But today every step toward it feels like walking into a trap I can already smell but cannot yet see. Every moment brings me closer to something that my instincts are screaming about. Zeta walks half a pace behind me as we cross the stone courtyard. He does not speak. He does not need to. The tension rolling off him is sharp and alert and ready to snap if necessary. He feels it too. The wrongness. The sense that something has been set in motion and we are about to collide with it. "You feel it too," I murmur under my breath. "Yes," he replies quietly. "This smells staged. This feels like a performance that has been planned. This feels like someone has been wa

Damon The packhouse feels different when I return. Not hostile. Not cold in the way that comes from rejection or disdain. Just… watchful. The walls themselves appear to be holding their breath unsure if I will still be a part of them when the sun rises. Unsure if I will still be their Alpha or if I will become something else. Something diminished. The doors behind me close with a gentle thud. I am not as relaxed by the familiar scent of woodsmoke wolf and house stone as I usually am. The smells that have always meant home and safety now feel like they are asking questions. Asking if I can still protect them. My power hums restlessly under my skin agitated scraping against restraint. It wants to do something. It wants to move. It wants to act but there is nothing to fight. Nothing physical that can be solved with strength. Mara is already there. She is pacing the main sitting room with bare feet silent against the floor with hair loose around her shoulders like she has been wa

Mara Until the automobile disappears around the corner I wave. Up until the morning air wisps with the curl of dust that is all that remains of his departure I stand at the gates and watch him go. I stand there long past the point where seeing him would do any good. And still— Something does not sit right. It is not dramatic. Not sharp. Not the kind of pain that cuts and demands attention. Not something that announces itself with violence. Just… tight. I felt as though invisible fingers were pressing against my ribs in the middle of my chest. As though something inside me recognizes that things are about to shift. That the day ahead will break something and cannot be undone. I frown and put my palm there against my chest trying to understand what my body is telling me. Anxiety I tell myself immediately. Of course I am anxious. Of course my instincts are screaming. Damon is walking into a chamber full of men who want him humbled. Men who smile while sharpening knives. Men wh

Mara Morning comes gently. Too gently. Warm ribbons of light stream across the bed like a promise as they flood through the drapes. The morning is kind in a way that feels unearned after yesterday. I forget about councils and accusations and politics for a little moment. I forget about everything except the warmth beside me and the stillness of early morning. Then Damon groans. Reality returns. He shifts beside me pressing a hand to his forehead like his head might fall off if he does not hold it together. His expression contorts slightly. "Never again," he mutters with the absolute certainty of someone who genuinely believes they will maintain this promise. I smile faintly and slip out of bed moving quietly so as not to jar him further. "You say that every time," I observe. "This time I mean it," he protests weakly. "You will not," I reply calmly already pouring him water from the pitcher on the bedside table. The water is cool and fresh and exactly what his body needs.