Todos los capítulos de Witch Among Wolves - The Alpha's Enemy Bride: Capítulo 11 - Capítulo 20

She was halfway to the lake when Mara’s voice drifted up behind her—equal parts cheerful and nosy.“Trying to escape breakfast duty, wild girl?”Thalia shot her a look over her shoulder. “If I wanted kitchen work, I’d have let Fen catch me. Or are you here to assign me chores too?”Mara grinned, catching up in three quick strides, hair escaping her braid. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I hear you’re a menace with a bread knife. Agatha still talks about the great carrot massacre of last night.”“Carrots had it coming,” Thalia muttered. “Besides, they started it.”The air had that heavy hush before rain, mist curling off the lake and blurring the line between earth and water. The pines stood sentinel, their trunks black and damp, branches dripping onto banks thick with moss, bluebells, and wild strawberries. Everything smelled green and new and a little wild—undergrowth crushed by boots, the metallic scent of water, faint woodsmoke drifting from the packhouse far behind.Thalia was hyper-aware:

Sleep is a joke. Rowan stands in the hallway, back pressed to icy stone, listening to Thalia’s breathing as it stutters and settles on the other side of the door. He tries to count the seconds—heartbeat, heartbeat, heartbeat—like that’ll drown out the noise in his skull.If only the pack could see their Alpha now: half-dressed, rattled, too aware of his own heartbeat and hers.You’re a legend, Rowan. An unstoppable beast. Protector of Silverpine. You slay monsters, make omelets, pick out fucking curtains. You do not get rattled by a half-dead witch with eyes full of storm.Except you do. Because her nightmares sound just like yours.He flexes his left hand, rolling his shoulder, feeling the old wound twinge. The scar on his forearm aches, a phantom burn straight to the bone—blue fire, never quite healed, the kind of pain that never lets you forget. If he closes his eyes, he can still smell the blood and magic, taste the ash.And behind his eyelids, memory drags him back—That night.T

Fog eats the world. Not a gentle, storybook mist, but a crawling, living thing—thick as grave wool, cold as river stone. It wraps the pines, smothers sound, pulls every step into uncertainty. Thalia’s breath comes in shallow bursts, each one painting a ghost in the air. The forest is silent—unnaturally so. Every footstep echoes, every snapped twig rings out like a curse.Six hours. Just six hours of this, and then you either walk back into that packhouse on your own feet—or don’t walk at all. Piece of cake. Six-hour death cake, maybe.She counts her heartbeats, the rhythm anchoring her as she orients herself without magic. She feels for the slope of the land, the pull of gravity toward running water, the faintest shift in wind. Old instincts—older than this body, older than memory—rise up and guide her.It isn’t enough. Twice she circles back, recognizing her own footprints in mud. She curses under her breath, trying to keep her fear from spilling over.Nothing like being hunted to re

Sunlight blazes down on Silverpine’s meadow, all gold and green, making the grass shimmer. Blankets sprawl in unruly squares across the hillside, and the pack has gone all out—banners and streamers flap between birch trees, homemade flags ripple in the breeze, and tables groan beneath pies, roasted meats, jars of pickles, and so much bread Thalia almost pities the wheat.The air is thick with laughter, music, and the smells of summer—smoke from the firepit, wildflowers crushed underfoot, the tartness of cider spilling from upended cups. Even the wolves’ children are running wild, chased by a barking Fen with jam on his nose. Mara sprawls beside Agatha, demolishing a plate of lemon tarts and making rude gestures at Fen every time he tries to filch one.Thalia sits on the edge of it all, knees hugged to her chest, picking at a crust of bread. There’s a current of joy, yes—but beneath it, something sharper. The pack’s gaze lingers too long. Livia is draped over a hay bale, sharp eyes tra

The morning after her secret practice, Thalia rises before the rest of the pack, hunger and nerves gnawing her raw. The kitchen is empty but for the scent of last night’s bread and the whisper of embers in the stove. She pours herself tea, careful not to make a sound, and lets the mug warm her trembling hands.The world outside is thick with pearl-grey mist, dew hanging heavy on every blade of grass. The sun is barely up, a wan disc struggling through the clouds. The air is sharp with woodsmoke and something green, almost wild, laced with the musk of distant wolves.Thalia heads to the far paddock, boots squelching softly in the wet earth. The trees loom in shadow, their trunks slick with moisture, their branches hung with the tattered remains of last season’s leaves. Somewhere in the undergrowth, a fox yips, quick and nervous.She isn’t alone. At the fence stands a man she doesn’t know—lean, broad-shouldered, with dark hair shot through with grey and a jaw lost beneath a few days’ st