BARBARIAN: The Mad Alpha Is My Mate. のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 21 - チャプター 30

Adrian’s eyes tried adjusting to the light that slipped through the curtains, his head was throbbing like he had just been hit with a metal. “Damn the moon.” He cursed, holding his head as he tried to sit up. Every fiber in his body screamed at him to lay down back in the bed but he refused, forcing his legs to stand as he paced around the room. It wasn’t the time to be weak, he needed to know if Caierre was fine. ‘Cai! Are you okay?’ He tried to mind linking Caierre but got no response, just silence except from the whistle notes of the birds. Everything is fine, he’s okay… right? He tried convincing himself, but the harder he tried the more he became anxious. He slid on his boots and took his blade to storm off, the door opened and Lady Morwen walked in. “Oh, you’re awake?” She said, sighing. Was it relief or fear? Adrian wondered but brushed it off, it was not the time to start thinking about other’s feelings when Caierre is in danger. “I have to go.” Adrian said, it wasn’t

“I deny all accusations,” Alvar said, voice steady. “Caierre is innocent. He had nothing to do with my sister’s death. He is not capable of dark magic.” A gray-haired councilman leaned forward, frowning. “High Alpha, are you sure? This boy is unknown to us. He has no roots, no history. How can you claim certainty? Perhaps your grief clouds your judgment.” Alvar’s eyes cut through him, cold and unwavering. “Grief does not blind me. I know the truth. Caierre is not guilty. He could not have done this.” The councilwoman sitting across the room spoke sharply, her voice carrying through the chamber. “Your curse has already caused chaos before. How do we know you are not projecting your pain onto this boy?” Alvar’s hands clenched at his sides, veins flexing, but his voice remained calm. “I am not projecting. My sister’s death deserves truth, not assumptions. Caierre is innocent. That is the fact.” Esmeralda stepped forward, her steps slow and measured, her face composed, but her eyes gl

Caierre pressed his hands harder over his ears as Angel Caierre and Spiky-Horn Caierre kept circling inside his head like two noisy chickens fighting for the same grain. His real body stayed still, but his mind was full of wings and arguments and nonsense. “You are thinking too much again,” Angel Caierre said, floating around lazily like he had all the time in the world. “Your heart does this every time. It dances too fast.” “It doesn’t dance, it malfunctions,” Spiky-Horn Caierre snapped, stabbing his tiny spear toward Caierre’s forehead. “You should be thinking about the damn mission. Not his face. Not his voice. Not his shoulders. Nothing romantic. Nothing stupid.” Caierre groaned softly. “Please… stop talking for one minute. Just one.” “I would,” Angel Caierre said sweetly, “but you don’t let me.” “And I won’t,” Spiky-Horn Caierre added proudly. “Because you’re being dumb again.” Before Caierre could argue with either of the useless creatures in his mind, the door slammed open

Caierre didn’t wait for the healers. He moved forward, ignoring the warriors who tried to block him. The Alpha was chained but still fighting, growling low and deep. Each movement tore at the chains like they were paper. Dust and stone fell with every strike. “Stop!” one warrior shouted. “He’s dangerous!” “I said move,” Caierre snapped. His voice was steady even though his heart hammered. He ignored the little Angel and Spiky-Horn versions screaming inside his head. They were useless right now. Alvar’s head lifted. His eyes met Caierre’s. There was fire there. And something broken. The monster inside him writhed, muscles bulging, claws scratching at the chains. “Kill me and set me free,” Alvar whispered. His voice was low, raw, almost like begging. Caierre froze. His fingers brushed over Alvar’s chest. The chains rattled and pulled, but for a moment, the monster seemed to hesitate. “Come back,” Caierre said softly. “Please… come back.” Alvar’s claws flexed, shaking the chains

Lady Morwen stood near the entrance hall, her fingers resting lightly on the edge of the wooden table as she watched her guards escort the small visiting pack inside.They looked tired. Dirty. Hungry. Their clothes were old and patched, and their steps showed days of travel. She knew the look well. Refugees always carried the same look in their eyes, the weight of running, the weight of losing everything except their own skin.The guards bowed lightly to her before stepping aside. The visiting pack leader, a man in his late forties with worn boots and a strong jaw, stepped forward. His hair was grey in streaks, and his eyes were sharp, even though tiredness clung to them.“Lady Morwen,” he greeted, bowing his head with respect. “Thank you for allowing us passage.”“You came to seek more than passage,” Morwen said softly. She motioned toward the inner chambers. “Come inside. We’ll talk where the rain cannot interrupt us.”The man exchanged a quick look with his warriors, then followed