Semua Bab Witch Among Wolves - The Alpha's Enemy Bride: Bab 31 - Bab 40

The lake holds the dusk like a secret.Mist ghosts the surface, heavy and silver, swallowing the far shore. I come here because the air tastes different—wet pine, rotting leaves, water sharp as steel. The earth is spongey beneath my boots, saturated by a week of spring rains. Every step leaves a print that fills with muddy water. The frogs are silent. Even the wind seems to hold its breath.I draw my coat tighter, though I can’t remember when I started to feel cold all the time. Spellwork leaves a residue—my hands ache, wrists stiff, fingers tingling as if I’ve touched the wrong current. My eyes burn with sleeplessness and the low constant hum of worry. There’s a buzzing in my teeth, a pressure at the back of my skull that never quite relents.It’s so quiet I can hear my own heartbeat, hard and uneven, echoing in my ears.This lake should be a place of comfort—Rowan once brought me here, promising calm, and for a while I almost believed it. Now the water just reflects back a face I ha

The council hall feels colder tonight. I can almost see my breath as I stand there, jaw tight, chin high, shoulders refusing to sag. The air is wound so tight it might snap with a cough. I feel every eye on me: wary, hungry, afraid. It smells of old fur, sweat, wet stone, and the iron tang of too many secrets.My hands are still buzzing from clutching the truth bone. I want to run—just bolt out into the night and never look back—but I hold my ground, trying to remember what it feels like to be safe. Have I ever been safe, really?No one moves to leave, not Rowan, not the council, not the bench wolves who came for drama and have gotten more than they bargained for. Livia’s smile is a scythe; Bryndis, her winged monkey. The rest? Hard to say—fear and suspicion look the same at a distance.Rowan is a fixed point at the edge of the gathering. His arms are crossed tight, chin dipped. I meet his eyes—he’s worried, not for himself but for me. That makes one of us.I try for levity, because i

The world hasn’t had a moment to breathe. The ground outside the battered packhouse is still churned with footprints, scattered feathers, and half-washed blood. The ashes of the burned wards rise on the breeze, stinging my eyes and throat. Even the morning light feels nervous, brittle, ready to fracture with the next blow.I wake with a start, Rowan’s shoulder pressed against mine on the ruined sofa, my head pounding. Mara bursts into the common room, her voice sharp with urgency. “They’re back. Not rogues—Blackrock wolves. Too many.”Rowan is on his feet in an instant. “To me!” he shouts, Alpha authority burning away the last scraps of sleep.The pack surges outside—battered but unbowed, eyes ringed with exhaustion, faces set. I trail after Rowan, my heart a clenched fist. The air hums with the tension before a storm.Silverpine’s border is crawling with wolves, their black-and-grey cloaks marking them as Blackrock—rival pack, all muscle and malice. Among them, strange shadows flicke

The old forest east of Silverpine is heavy with magic—older than wolf or witch, older even than fear. Shadows crowd between the twisted trunks, every step crackling with the memory of fire. We find Fyre waiting in a clearing ringed by blackened stones, a throne of roots rising behind her like the antlers of some forgotten god.She stands tall, wild red hair streaming around her, but her posture is hunched, her eyes hollow. Around her kneel the wolves of Blackrock, their gazes blank, bodies rigid and silent as statues. Even Hael, Blackrock’s Alpha, is bent beneath her magic, sweat gleaming on his brow. When Rowan, Mara, Fen, and I break the edge of the glade, Fyre turns. Her eyes meet mine and the earth seems to shudder.She flicks her wrist—magic crackles in the air, forming a wall of light between me and my pack. Rowan throws himself at the barrier, bellowing my name, but it doesn’t yield. Mara and Fen shout, claws out, but the magic sings with Fyre’s pain and won’t let them through.

Dawn finds us hollow-eyed and raw, standing in the muddy clearing where everything changed.Mara squeezes my hand one last time, rough warmth anchoring me in the real. Fen, his voice gruff, mutters, “Try not to get yourself killed, wild girl.” He claps Rowan on the shoulder, nods at me, and together he and Mara vanish into the trees—back to their lives, their own wounds and promises.The packhouse feels impossibly large as Rowan and I climb the steps. My body is brittle, my mind fogged with loss and too much power. At the landing, I pause, every muscle trembling. Rowan hesitates behind me, a silent question in his eyes.I manage, “Will you stay? Just for tonight. I can’t… I can’t be alone.”He steps inside without a word, sits on the edge of my bed while I kick off muddy boots and peel away my jacket. The silence between us is heavy, but it holds—no performance, no mask.He stretches out beside me, not quite touching, arm draped over my waist. His hand is warm, steady. I sink into the