The Freak Is The Mate Of The Lycan のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 31 - チャプター 40

​I didn't sleep.​The moon, my only witness, carved a slow, cold path across the stone floor, and I watched it. I watched the silver light creep from the door to the foot of my bed, and I watched it retreat.​When Ares left, he hadn’t just left me alone. He’d left me with the truth. It was a physical thing, a block of ice that had replaced my heart, my lungs, my stomach. It was cold, and it was heavy, and it was the only thing I had.​I was a tool.I was a fact.​The words echoed, not with the fiery rage of before, but with the hollow, final thud of a cell door slamming shut.​I didn't cry. I didn't pace. I just sat. I sat in the cocoon of blankets I had wrapped around myself, my back pressed to the cold headboard, and I... accepted it.​Tiana had used my love.Greta had used my hope.Ares had used my pain.​It was the same story, just a different monster. And I was tired. I was so, so tired of being the fool.​So I wouldn't be. Not anymore.​A tool doesn't hope. A tool doesn't love.

​The silence he left behind was worse than his roar.​It was a suffocating, absolute vacuum, a void where his power had been. I sat on the floor, my legs tucked under me, and just... breathed.I had lost.My little war, my silent rebellion, it had all been a child's game to him. A boring little game. And he had just swept the pieces off the board.He hadn't broken me. He had just... changed the rules.Or I will have my new guards dress you, carry you... and tie you to the saddle.I felt a cold, sick lurch in my stomach. The image of that humiliation, of being carted out of my room like a sack of grain, of being tied and displayed for the entire pack to see... it was a thousand times worse than his hand on my throat.He knew it, too.The bastard. He knew that, for me, the shame was a deeper wound than the violence.He hadn't given me a choice. He had given me a sentence. I could either walk to my execution, or be dragged to it.And I would not be dragged.​I don't know how long I sat t

​The smile was gone. The monster was back.​He didn’t wait for me. He just turned Fenrir toward a path I hadn’t even seen—a tiny, treacherous-looking goat track that wound down the face of the cliff. He didn’t just ride down it. He flowed.​Hela, seeing him go, tossed her head and gave a sharp, impatient whinny. She wanted to follow.My heart hammered against my ribs. "Oh, no. No, no, no."The path was barely wide enough for a single person, let alone a half-ton warhorse. It was all loose shale and sheer drops. One slip, and we'd be a red smear on the rocks a thousand feet below.Let's see if you can keep up.His words echoed in my head, a cold, sharp challenge.Bastard.I yanked the reins, a sharp, angry tug. "Fine. You want to kill us, Hela? Let's go."I nudged her with my heels, and she stepped onto the path.​The descent was a new kind of terror. It was slow, agonizing, and every single second was a test of will. Hela’s iron-shod hooves slipped, sending small cascades of rocks ski

The thud of the great hall door slamming shut echoed in the courtyard, a sound as final as a gavel.And then, silence.The vast, cold, empty silence of the courtyard, with only the snorting of the horses and the distant, muffled sounds of the keep.He had left me.He had actually left me. On the ground.I was a heap of agony and filthy linen, my hair fanned out in the muck, my palms stinging from where I’d caught myself on the sharp gravel.The tears I'd held back finally came. They weren't tears of sadness. They were a hot, seething, frustrated rage. I pounded a fist against the cobblestones, a weak, pathetic thump."Bastard," I sobbed, the word a wet, broken sound. "Sadistic, arrogant, bastard."I lay there for a long, humiliating moment, just existing. A pile of nothing, just as I’d been in my room.But that was a lie.I wasn't a pile of nothing. I was a pile of pain. And the pain was earned.Your legs will be stronger tomorrow.His voice. His damned, cold, certain voice.A stable

The pain of the previous day had been a fire. The pain I woke up to was a cold, hard stone.My entire body felt like one solid, immovable block of bruised, protesting meat. I didn't just ache; I felt dense, heavy, like my bones were suddenly made of lead. When I tried to sit up, it wasn’t a matter of muscles. It was a matter of leverage, of physically hauling my own dead weight against the pull of the thick mattress.My legs… he was right. They were stronger. They held me when I finally stood, but every step was a grinding, agonizing reminder of the price. I was a new, raw, untested thing. A statue carved from wood, the chisel marks still visible and bleeding.When Wendy came, she didn’t bring broth. She carried a heavy wooden tray laden with food: a thick slice of dark blood sausage, a hunk of grainy bread, and a wedge of hard, sharp cheese. It was the breakfast of a warrior.I ate every last scrap. I needed the fuel. I knew, with a dreadful, shivering certainty, that today would be