All Chapters of The king of Ashes : Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

(Isabella’s POV) My world had shrunk to the size of a glowing laptop screen. From our makeshift command center in the quiet, warm chalet, I watched a live thermal camera feed showing two figures—Alessandro and Marcus—standing on a narrow, windswept ledge high on the side of a frozen mountain. They were just two small heat signatures against a backdrop of immense, cold darkness. My heart was a frantic, terrified bird beating against the cage of my ribs. Anya’s face was on another screen, a calm, digital presence connecting us to her base in Chicago. Behind me, Lucian paced the floor, his silent, restless energy adding to the unbearable tension in the room. I watched as Alessandro, my king, the man I loved more than life itself, prepared to rappel into a dark, vertical shaft that was an entrance to a place that defied God and nature. He was descending into a nightmare of Liliana Moretti’s making, and a part of me was screaming, a primal, silent scream, for him to stop, to come back

(Isabella’s POV) The sounds coming through my earpiece were a symphony of hell. The sharp, brutal impacts of body blows, the scrape of a knife, Alessandro’s pained grunts, and his desperate, heartbreaking calls to his brother. I was watching the fight on the video feed, a silent, helpless observer to a nightmare. I saw Cassian, a monster wearing the face of a beloved brother, move with an inhuman speed and a terrifying, empty purpose. Then, I saw him slam Alessandro against the wall. I saw the knife. My own scream was a raw, silent thing, trapped in my throat. I saw Alessandro look into his brother’s empty eyes. I heard his final, whispered, desperate plea through the open comms. “Cassian… please.” And then, silence. The video feed from the lab camera went black. The comm link was still open, a dead line of hissing static. There was no sound of a struggle. No sound of pain. No sound of breathing. Nothing. “Alessandro?” I whispered, my voice a pathetic, trembling thing.

(Isabella’s POV) The flight back to Chicago was a journey through a quiet, tense limbo. We were suspended between the frozen, unnatural hell of the Swiss Alps and the impending political firestorm that awaited us at home. I sat beside Alessandro, watching him as he stared out the window into the endless darkness. The grieving, broken man I had held in the escape vehicle was gone. In his place was the king, his handsome face a mask of cold, hard resolve, his golden eyes fixed on a battle only he could see. I thought about the incredible, terrifying journey that had brought me to this moment. Months ago, I was just an art restorer, a woman hiding from her own past, my world small and safe. Now, I was sitting on a private jet, flying back to a war, my hand held by a king of ashes. I was about to face down the most powerful and monstrous woman in our world. I should have been terrified. And a part of me was. But a much larger part of me felt a fierce, unshakeable loyalty. I was no l

(Isabella’s POV) I woke on the morning of the judgment to the quiet, steady rhythm of Alessandro’s breathing. He was still asleep, a rare and precious sight. In sleep, the hard lines of the king softened, and he was just the man I loved, his handsome face peaceful, his arm a heavy, protective weight around my waist. I treasured these quiet, stolen moments, these breaths of peace before the inevitable storm. Today, the storm would finally break. I slipped out of bed, my movements slow and careful, not wanting to wake him. I went to the closet and looked at the dress I had chosen. It was not a dress for a date or a party. It was armor. A simple, beautifully tailored sheath dress in a deep, powerful shade of burgundy. It was elegant, understated, and regal. It was the dress of a queen, and today, more than ever, I needed to feel like one. As I was fastening a simple gold necklace, I saw his reflection in the mirror. He had woken and was standing in the doorway, watching me. He wa

(Alessandro’s POV) Time shattered into a million, slow-motion pieces. I saw the cold, dead hatred in Liliana Moretti’s eyes. I saw the small, silver gun in her hand, a toy of death in her elegant fingers. I saw it level, not at me, but at Isabella. A primal, animal roar of pure terror tore its way out of my throat. My world, my kingdom, my entire reason for being, was about to be extinguished in a single, fiery flash. “ISABELLA!” I moved without thinking, lunging across the small space between us, my body a shield I was desperate to place in front of hers. But I was too late. The sound of the gunshot was a deafening, final crack that echoed in the grand ballroom, a sound that would haunt me for the rest of my days. I reached her, my arms wrapping around her, pulling her into me, expecting to feel the wet, sticky warmth of her blood. I frantically checked her, my hands running over her body, my mind screaming, a frantic, silent prayer of no, no, no, not her, please, not her