All Chapters of The Crippled Masked Alpha : Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

​[Anya’s POV]​The air in the study was silent and charged, far heavier than the smog and confusion of the coast. I stood before Ronan, clutching the plastic-wrapped evidence of my father’s treason, the evidence I had risked my life for. However, the political documents were now meaningless. All that mattered was the faded, water-damaged photograph Ronan held in his hand: the image of him and Devon, young and laughing.​This was the moment of ultimate truth, the final shedding of Ronan’s mask.​"You found this," Ronan stated, his voice stripped bare of its command and its performance. It was a raw admission of guilt and grief. "Now, you deserve the truth."​He didn't need to ask why I was here. He knew the photograph was the key.​"We were partners," Ronan began, walking to the secured wall and resting his weight against it, not out of weakness, but out of necessity. "Devon and I met six years ago at a specialised academy. We realised that the traditional Alpha hierarchy, the one my f

​[Anya’s POV]​The small, shielded communications lab in the eastern wing was stark and cold, but it felt safer than my own luxurious suite. Ronan had cleared the room personally, the same way he cleared his conscience: ruthlessly and completely. I sat facing the microphone, the plastic-wrapped evidence of Vesper’s treason resting on the console beside me. The evidence was real, but the voice about to be recorded was a lie.​I was preparing to be the bait.​Ronan stood over the recording console, his presence intensely focused. He wasn't the tyrannical Alpha; he was a surgical strategist, concentrating his entire being on the mission. He spoke softly, coaching me, his voice a low vibration that seemed to bypass my ears and resonate directly in my chest.​"Remember the pitch, Anya," Ronan instructed, his hand resting near the main recording switch. "It must be panicked, but not hysterical. Vesper expects terror, but he won't respond to useless hysterics. He needs to believe you are fri

​[Anya’s POV]​The security room was cold, the digital blue light of the strategic map bathing Ronan’s face in a harsh glow. I had just confirmed my father’s monstrous ambition: Vesper hadn't sold me for security; he sold me for the Alpha crown, a final, absolute betrayal that turned my last thread of filial loyalty into ash.​Ronan and Alaric were finalizing the Delta-7 containment plan, the trap designed to lure Vesper to the border hunting cabin. I should have felt satisfaction, knowing the end was near, but a terrifying new realization had taken root.​The risk is too high.​Vesper was a coward, but he wasn't stupid. He had evaded Ronan’s best surveillance for months and successfully planted a bug in my suite. He would never walk into a simple, unconfirmed trap alone. The distress call, no matter how panicked, was a massive risk. If he sensed the slightest deception, he would vanish, taking the EMO code with him, and Seraphina would be free to strike.​"The distress call is ready

​[Anya’s POV]​My body was a beautifully engineered cage, confining my fury to a silent, constant hum beneath the surface of the emerald gown. I moved Ronan's wheelchair slowly through the crowded ballroom, my posture the picture of fragile, dutiful despair. The scent of champagne and political ambition was overwhelming, but I was focused entirely on maintaining the performance, the "grieving Luna" act that was necessary bait for Vorlag’s eyes. The smooth, cold Obsidian Band on my finger was the only physical reality, a constant reminder of the vow of focus I shared with the man in the mask.​Then, the performance shattered.​My eyes locked onto the main bar, near the opulent velvet curtains, and the blood drained from my face. Two people who, by all rights, should have been imprisoned or under house arrest, stood in the open, dressed in expensive civilian clothes, openly mocking Ronan’s security.​Seraphina was at the center of a small, admiring circle of minor Alphas, draped in a sc

​[Anya’s POV]​The ballroom had dissolved into a sea of confused faces and panicked whispers the moment Ronan began his loud, deliberate "coughing fit." His display of critical health was the perfect diversion, buying me the few precious seconds I needed to cross the floor. My heart hammered against the cold stone of the Obsidian Band on my finger, a relentless drumbeat marking the final minutes before midnight.​I moved against the flow of the crowd, weaving past terrified society women and bewildered pack leaders who were rushing toward the perceived source of danger, Ronan’s collapsing form. I was a phantom in the emerald gown, my focus absolute, my eyes fixed on the shadows beneath the elevated balcony. I could still hear the frantic, muffled noise of Ronan's staged collapse, followed by the sound of the wheelchair crashing away, a sound I knew meant he had deployed his own powerful legs. He’s standing. He’s moving. I have to secure the sniper before he exposes himself.​My only i