Semua Bab Witch Among Wolves - The Alpha's Enemy Bride: Bab 21 - Bab 30

Rowan POVI sit alone in my office, the hour just before dawn, when the world is at its thinnest and every shadow feels like an omen. A single lantern burns low, casting more darkness than light. The packhouse is still, but I can feel the tension in the walls—the way fear creeps in between the stones.My desk is a mess of reports: hunting yields, border disputes, endless council complaints. But my eyes are fixed on two letters, both sealed and dirt-stained from hard travel, lying heavy in the lamplight.I know before I break the wax that the news will be bad. It always is, these days.The first is written in a healer’s careful hand—thin ink, blunt sentences. I read it three times, searching for hope and finding only dread.To Alpha Rowan of Silverpine,The sickness we spoke of is spreading faster.First, they lose the shift—bodies ache, fur will not come. Fever, confusion, pain.Then some die. The lucky ones, perhaps.Others—gods forgive us—do not.The madness sets in: rage, hunger, l

The council chamber always feels colder than the rest of the packhouse—a stone box half-buried in the earth, where secrets and old grievances hang in the air like stale smoke. Tonight, the fire in the hearth does little to warm the stone walls or the hearts of those gathered. Shadows flicker and crawl along the ceiling. The heavy table at the room’s center is pitted and scarred, its surface gouged by the claws of generations, a mute witness to the blood and arguments spilled atop it.Rowan stands alone at one end of the table, arms folded across his chest. He looks every inch the Alpha in the firelight—broad-shouldered, scars thrown into sharp relief—but I see the tautness in his jaw, the careful way he breathes. He is surrounded, and he knows it.Councilors Marek, Bryndis, Osric, Linden, Tamsin, and Jessa sit arrayed like judges. Livia is there too, but she sits back, arms folded, eyes unreadable. She does not speak. That, somehow, is more unnerving than any accusation.I pause in th

ThaliaI know I’m being watched before I ever reach the river.It’s the prickle on the back of my neck, the way the trees hush each time I pass, the faintest whisper of footsteps that never quite match mine. I slow, listening. Livia’s scent is barely there—wind, wild mint, and something sharper, metallic and cold.She’s better at hiding than most of the pack, but she’s never had to hide from someone like me.I crouch by the riverbank, basket in hand, pretending to search for watercress and sweet flag. The stones are slick, the water running higher than usual. I spot it—the snare line, fine as spider silk, stretched tight across the path where I always step.Well, that’s almost clever, I think, lips quirking. But not clever enough.I ease around it, scooping up a handful of riverweed for show. When I stand, Livia is there, leaning against an ash tree, arms crossed, eyes sharp and amused.“You’re up early, outsider,” she says, voice syrupy. “Careful near the water. The river’s fast—easy

Absolutely! Here’s Chapter 27: Waiting for the Wild Girl — Rowan’s POV, threaded with anxiety, sharp internal monologue, and a mounting sense that both danger and Thalia are slipping beyond his reach.Chapter 27: Waiting for the Wild GirlRowanSilverpine doesn’t sleep when its wolves go missing—especially not me.I pace the hallways before sunrise, boots echoing off stone and wood, each hour stretching tighter and thinner. Thalia’s absence thrums under my skin, every instinct screaming to track her scent into the woods and drag her back by the scruff of her stubborn neck. But the note she left, cryptic and sly—Trust the roots, not the branches—isn’t for chasing. It’s a warning, and a promise, and a knife edge I don’t dare walk.Fen corners me by the storeroom before breakfast, arms crossed and face stormy. “She’s not in her room. Mara says her bed’s cold. You know where she’s gone?”His tone is cautious, but I hear the accusation in it—Alpha or not, you let your mate vanish.I keep m

Three days gone, and Silverpine feels both too small and far too big.The woods part at last, the pines opening to the familiar clearing—smoke curling from the packhouse, chickens squabbling by the door, Fen hauling firewood while Agatha kneads bread on the porch steps. Nothing’s changed, and everything has.The air is thick with damp earth and dogrose, a faint undercurrent of fear. My feet drag, cloak filthy, heart pounding. The moment I step into the clearing, all eyes are on me. Conversations stutter, then start again with careful, guarded cheer. I catch Fen’s grin—relieved, but wary. Mara hugs me, fast and fierce, before stepping back to give me a once-over.“You look like you’ve been sleeping in ditches,” she snorts.I smirk. “And you look like you’ve been baking for three days straight. How much bread can one wolf eat?”She grins, worry melting to genuine warmth for a heartbeat. “Go wash. Rowan’s been impossible since you left. And Agatha’s wild garlic rolls are getting out of h