All Chapters of The Price of a Second Chance: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

There are nights when I wake up before dawn, with fists clenched and the body tense, as if ready to attack. It is instinct. Reflection of a life that I shaped to survive—or that was molded for me, with no choice.No matter how much time passes, the past still clatters. The smell of blood, the roar of wolves in battle, the dry sound of bones breaking. All this is still alive inside me.When I followed his orders, there was no room for doubt. My father’s word was law. It did not matter whether the mission was dirty, whether the target was guilty or innocent, or whether the cause was just or just a whim. The only acceptable answer was obedience.My father believed that a true alpha does not rule by respect but by fear. And he cultivated this in me from an early age. He told me that I was born to be his weapon. “If you want to survive, learn to be worse than your enemies,” he repeated.I have learned.The first few times were easy—or at least I convinced myself that they were. Too young t

His weight on my shoulders almost made me give in, but I held fast. The narrow corridor to the small room in the back seemed longer than it really was. Every step was careful, trying not to hit his body against the wall. The heat of Lancelot’s skin was still intense, as if the wolf was lurking just below the surface, waiting for an opportunity to return.“It’s going to be all right…” I murmured, more to convince myself than to him, because Lancelot was unconscious, breathing deeply and irregularly.I managed to lay him in the narrow bed of the makeshift room for rest that I had recently discovered. Apparently, Lancelot was worried that his employees were not so exhausted at work. The yellowish light of the lamp revealed the sweat covering his neck and temples, his chest rising and falling in a heavy rhythm. For a moment, I was just watching the man and the wolf, coexisting in a body that always seemed on the edge.I took the towel that was folded over a chair, wetted it in the sink, a

The invitation came as unexpectedly as lightning on a sunny day. Lancelot, with his voice always full of mystery, called me out. A meeting. In the city. As if we were normal. As if I did not carry within me the scars of a rejection and the mark of a new bond that I was still trying to understand.“There is a night party in the city. Beautiful lighting, live music. I thought you might like it,” he said, leaning on the doorknob with his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. And even without realizing it, I was already accepting.Hours later, as I looked in the mirror, straightening my hair, a strange anxiety vibrated on my skin. It was not like any meeting. It was with Lancelot. The silent, protective, and intense wolf that had entered my life. What I felt for him was still a tangle of instincts and affections, and now, I was about to let him guide me through the city lights.The evening was nice. Sitting next to him, feeling him so close, was good, although I was still getting us

The news comes to me piecemeal. It always comes like this. Never from Naomi. Never straight from the source. This time, it was through one of my contacts in the city, someone who owes favors and knows how to pay attention to what doesn't seem important to anyone else."Did you hear about the mess at last night’s party?" he asked, with that kind of anxious tone you only use when you think you’ve discovered something that interests me.I was sitting on the wooden bench in the back, trying to forget the bitter taste after our last call. "No," I replied, dry."Your friend—or rather, the wolf that is glued to Naomi—almost transformed in the middle of the square. Everyone was there. If it were not for her to drag him away," he gave a low laugh, no humor. "Would have a headline in the newspaper."For a moment, I could not answer. The phrase was repeated in my head as if echoing in an empty room: almost transformed in the middle of the square. I knew well what this “almost” meant. It meant th

When Lancelot came back, it was almost dawn. I was in his house, sitting on the couch, waiting for him to show up from wherever he was.He came in the back, barefoot, body sweating, breathing hard. He didn’t look at me right away. Just closed the door behind him and leaned against it, as if he needed support to continue standing. "Are you hurt?" I asked, rising.He did that not with his head, but the movement was slow, as if it cost effort. "It’s nothing," he said. But I already knew him well enough to know that it was not true. It was clear to see that it was another one of those troubled nights.When I came closer, he turned away, passed straight, and sat down in the corner chair. He was looking at the ground, his hands still trembling. "You want to tell me what happened?"His silence bothered me. "I could not hold the transformation," he admitted after a long time. "But it was not because of you, nor the crowd, nor the party. It was…" He closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and his ja