All Chapters of The Billionaire’s Marked Mate: Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

The estate gates did not simply open that morning. They groaned as though something ancient had been summoned back from the earth. Zaria stood from her window in the West Wing, the drapery cool against her fingertips. The hush of the estate grounds—usually a seamless choreography of gardeners, chauffeurs, and polished order—had broken into murmurs. Guards shifted at their posts. The hum of engines thundered past the iron gates, too many cylinders for a diplomatic visit, too polished for anything less than a statement. The pack had returned. Luxury announced them first. A convoy of black cars, sleek and mirrored, curved into the courtyard like shadows folding into themselves. Two helicopters thudded above, scattering dust across the marble balustrades, their downdraft rattling the fountain’s surface. For all their grace, the arrivals radiated savagery held just under the skin. The estate’s staff lowered their gazes. At the center of the procession stepped Silas Renard. Lucien’s s

The East Wing had not stopped echoing. Even after the last sigil dimmed and the final ember of the mirror’s flare faded, its cold breath still haunted the estate halls. The nobles left whispering, the council split clean down invisible lines, and Zaria felt the air itself humming like a taut string. That hum followed her into Mara’s chamber, where parchment lay scattered across mirrored desks, runes glowing faintly in blue chalk. Mara crouched over a fragment of the inscription they’d copied, her fingers smudged with ash from protective wards. Silas leaned against the window with the relaxed menace of a wolf half-shifted, while Rowan prowled the perimeter like he expected Kael himself to burst in. It was Mara who broke the silence. “‘The Marrow Thread binds where vows wound blood.’ That’s the closest I can give you.” Her voice was clinical, but her eyes flicked to Zaria. “This isn’t just history. It’s lineage. The prophecy is tied to bloodlines, and—” “And the bond,” Silas fin

The words still echoed in Lucien’s mind. Marrow… not dead. The mercenary had rasped it with blood bubbling on his lips, like a curse dragged out of his ribs. Then silence. Then stillness. Lucien hadn’t slept. He didn’t even close his eyes. ⸻ The Vane Estate was restless by dawn. Helicopter blades cut across the skies, and black cars rolled through the gates in a convoy so long it bent like a serpent along the private drive. Zaria stood beside Lucien on the balcony overlooking the grounds, the bite of autumn wind cutting against her skin. She had seen the way the guards stiffened, the way even Rowan lowered his gaze in acknowledgment. “She’s here,” Lucien said quietly. His jaw was tight, his hands braced on the railing like he was ready to hold the entire world in place. “Your mother,” Zaria murmured. Evelyn Wolfe emerged from the lead car. She wore midnight silk that caught the morning light like oil on water. Her hair, streaked silver and black, was pulled into an

The glass walls of the Conclave’s tribunal chamber rose like a cathedral to both light and power, panels of reinforced crystal reflecting the city skyline beyond. Sunlight fractured through the lattice, scattering prisms across the marble floor. In the center, a circular dais glimmered with embedded runes—ancient symbols intertwined with holographic displays—and every seat was taken by beings both human and otherworldly: emissaries of vampire covens, elder packs, sorcerer guilds, and noble houses whose wealth rivaled empires. Zaria stepped forward, her heels striking the polished floor like deliberate drumbeats. Her gown was deep sapphire, embroidered with silver threads that caught the light in motion. It was not just clothing; it was armor, crafted to reflect power and control. Every whispering eye tracked her, every judge of the Conclave weighing her presence before she had spoken a word. Lucien walked at her side, his wolf aura trailing like a protective aura. His gaze, fierce

The circle shimmered like a living wound across the marble floor. Threads of silver light pulsed from rune to rune, each heartbeat dragging the room deeper into silence. Zaria could hear every breath, every scrape of fabric as the Conclave shifted in their seats, waiting. The air was cold enough to sting her lungs. She gripped the hem of her gown, steadying herself as the ritual’s pull yawned open beneath her ribs. It was happening again. The same weight, the same pulse as the night she had first tasted Caelus’s hunger. Only this time, the moon was fat and merciless, and the circle was not offering reprieve. It was demanding completion. Lucien stood just beyond the inner line, a dark silhouette against the molten glow. His gaze never left her, not even when the marble cracked under the force of what stirred in the circle. His wolf prowled just beneath his skin, straining against his control, but he held the line — steady, unyielding — a pillar she could cling to without shame.