All Chapters of The Professor's Mate Clause : Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

GREYA'S POVI'm fighting Asher. Holding my own. Actually winning. My royal bloodline fully manifested. Power coursing through me. I'm magnificent. Deadly. Everything I was meant to be. And Asher is losing. Finally. Deservedly. Permanently. He's going to die. I'm going to kill him. With Adrian. Together. As equals. As mates. As Alphas. Perfect. Complete. Right.But then everything changes. Asher feints. I follow. Mistake. He's not alone. Three of his wolves attack. Coordinated. Planned. Trap. They slam into me. I go down. Hard. Losing advantage. Losing power. Losing everything. No. Can't lose. Won't lose. Refuse to lose. Not when everyone needs me. Not when Adrian needs me. Not when pack needs me. Not ever.I fight. Desperate. Feral. Wild. But four on one is too much. Even with power. Even with royal bloodline. Even with everything. I'm strong but not invincible. Powerful but not unbeatable. Magnificent but not immortal. I'm losing. Actually losing. They're overwhelming me. Destroying

ADRIAN’S POVI’m dying.I can feel it in the way my body refuses to obey me anymore in the heaviness in my limbs, the way my vision keeps dimming at the edges. The wounds are too deep, the blood loss too severe, the damage too extensive. My body is shutting down, piece by piece. Minutes, maybe less.And Freya… Freya is dying beside me.We’re stretched out on the ground, broken, bleeding, barely conscious—but together. At least we’re together. At least we’re not alone. There’s comfort in that, even now. Especially now. If this is how it ends, then this...us will be enough.Then I feel it.Her mouth presses against my throat, right where my mark rests. The place of claiming. Of permanence. Of forever.Her fangs sink in.The pain is sharp, shocking, enough to drag a broken breath from my chest—but beneath it is something else. Something impossible. Something no one has ever done before.She’s marking me.A female marking a male. A Luna claiming an Alpha. Something forbidden. Unheard of.

ADRIAN’S POVFighting beside Freya as my equal is nothing like I imagined.It’s more than instinct. More than training. More than experience. It’s transcendence.Every movement we make is synchronized without effort. When I shift my weight, she’s already compensating. When she pivots left, I’m covering her right. Our attacks overlap, our defenses interlock, our awareness bleeds together through the completed bond until there’s no hesitation only action.We aren’t two wolves fighting side by side.We’re one force.The completed bond hums between us, alive and vibrant, feeding information, strength, intent. When Freya lunges, I feel it before she moves. When I strike, she’s already adjusting to support me. When her power flares, it steadies me. When my strength surges, it fuels her speed.This is what equal mates were always meant to be.Not leader and follower.Not protector and protected.But partners.Other wolves feel it the moment they get close.I see it in their eyes the hesitati

KELVIN’S POVMy father is dying.The battlefield smells wrong. Burned earth. Blood. Ash. The air presses against my lungs like it doesn’t want to be breathed anymore. My hands curl into fists without me meaning them to, nails biting into my palms, grounding me in a body that feels strangely distant. Death is never dramatic up close. It’s quiet. It’s slow. It’s smaller than the legends make it.I stand at a distance, far enough that no one could mistake my presence as interference, close enough that I can see the truth of it. Asher the man who ruled through fear, who bent the world with violence and called it strength is finally reaching the end of his own making.Freya and Adrian stand over him.Not looming. Not gloating.Ending him.The way tyrants always are quietly, finally, without ceremony.I wait for something to hit me. Grief, maybe. Rage. Some deep, primal ache that sons are supposed to feel when fathers die. I search for it in my chest, in my gut, in the bond of blood that on

FREYA’S POVVictory doesn’t feel the way I imagined it would.I used to think winning would feel loud. Like relief crashing through me all at once. Like certainty. Like joy. But standing here now, I realize victory is quiet. It doesn’t cheer. It doesn’t celebrate. It just leaves you alone with what’s left behind, forcing you to look at it without flinching.It doesn’t surge or warm or settle gently in my chest. It tastes like ash, sharp and bitter, clinging to the back of my throat no matter how many times I swallow. We won. Asher is dead. The war is over.And the ground beneath my feet is littered with bodies.I walk slowly, carefully, as if moving too fast might break something fragile inside me. Everywhere I look, there’s proof of what this victory cost wolves lying still where they fell, blood darkening the soil, the quiet aftermath that follows when the fighting stops but the damage remains.So many of them won’t be getting up.The air still smells like blood and burned earth. My