All Chapters of Marked by the Alpha: Blood Oath: Chapter 121 - Chapter 130

RonanI call the council at dusk because I’m done letting rumor do the talking.Eli sits to my right, unhidden, unbowed. Jace stands behind us like a shadow that could choose violence at any moment. Mara leans against a pillar, arms folded, gaze appraising. Hazel perches near the door with her bow unstrung but within reach.I could have kept Eli home. I could have let them talk about him as if he were an abstraction. A “resource,” “opportunity,” “offer.” Or the word that still makes my jaw ache, “price.”I want them to look at him and then try to say those words.“Let’s be plain,” I say, voice even. “Silvercrest sent a courier with a bag of coin and a letter dressed up as diplomacy. I refused. There was nothing to discuss. He is my mate.”I angle my head toward Eli. He doesn’t look away from the room. Good. Let them feel witnessed.Elder Invar clears his throat, a careful sound. “No one is challenging the sanctity of a bond, Alpha. We are only… advising that such decisions be carried

EliRonan is hovering again.I stretch out on our bed like a dying prince, sighing theatrically, one hand draped across my forehead. If I had a velvet robe and a goblet of wine, the image would be perfect. Instead, I’m shirtless and Ronan is glaring down at me like he’s about to summon the entire infirmary.“You’re still pale,” he says, voice low, gruff, the way he always sounds when he’s trying to hide worry behind authority.Pale is just my normal complexion, but I’m not about to tell him that. “Maybe it’s internal bleeding.”His jaw tightens. He sits on the edge of the mattress, palm sliding across my chest, pressing just hard enough that heat spreads beneath his hand. “Where?”“Everywhere.” I wince for effect, sucking in a sharp breath. His thumb freezes mid-stroke.The truth is, I’m fine. My throat doesn’t hurt at all anymore and I’ve been sneaking in stretches every morning. But Ronan’s version of nursing involves strong hands, growled commands, and the kind of attention I’ve b

EliI sprawl in the chair next to Ronan’s like a cat basking in the sun. Legs draped over one arm, my scarf slouched rakishly around my throat, the cut of the bandage hidden but implied, his mug of tea in my hand like it’s always been mine. Ronan stands in the doorway for two heartbeats, assessing the room, then me, then the room again as if measuring how much blood it would take to refinish the floor. His jaw goes tight in that way I like, the tendon jumping. My private metronome.“Good morning,” I say, sweet as sugar, and take a sip of his tea. It’s strong and dark, with a hint of honey. Rude to my taste buds and therefore very him. Ronan circles behind me. One palm lands on the high back of the chair near my head, his fingers brushing the tips of my hair. To the room, he’s composed. To me, the bond hums with “sit up straight, menace,” and also “stay exactly as you are, it pleases me.” “Requisitions,” Mara says, crisp. “Wire, resin, arrowheads. And we’re still short on salt.”“We

RonanHis shirt is half-open, his grin smug, and he dares to remind me, “It’s tomorrow.”As if I don’t remember every syllable I’ve ever promised him.I haul him into my lap before he can get cleverer. His laugh breaks against my mouth, swallowed down when I kiss him hard enough to bruise. He tries to talk, always, but my palm closes over his throat, thumb pressing just under his jaw, and the sound dies. His eyes flare, hungry.“If you make any loud noises,” I growl against his lips, “I’ll stop.”He nods, frantic, shifting to straddle me, already hard against my thigh. My wolf hums, pleased.He opens for me instinctively, hands catching at my shirt like it’s a ledge. I bite his lower lip until he breathes hard through his nose. When sound threatens, I lift my head and lay the rule down low.His eyes flare. I feel the way his wolf rises to that, sleek and hungry. He nods fast. Motivated is one word for it. Desperate is another. Both please me.I unbutton his shirt in a practiced rhyth

EliBlackthorn doesn’t do pageantry. We do black leather, old scars, and the kind of hospitality that involves counting knives before and after a visit.Silvercrest rolls in like a storybook that lost its mind.Carriages with lacquered sides gleam under the weak winter sun, each wheel rim banded in polished steel. Their guards wear matched mail, blue overcoats embroidered with silver swirls. Even their horses look moisturized. Our wolves don’t even pretend not to stare and I watch with undisguised interest.The first cart lurches to a halt. Two servants hop down and snap a traveling awning out into a pavilion like they’ve rehearsed it a thousand times. Boxes follow. The wood is waxed and stamped with sigils that prickle the air. Old magic hums, nibbling at my skin. Hazel sidles up on my left, bow unstrung but close, expression sharpened to a point.“Careful,” she murmurs, barely moving her mouth. “Some of those hum wrong.”“Some of those hum expensive,” I counter, and she snorts bec