Lahat ng Kabanata ng Blood And Desire: Kabanata 61 - Kabanata 70

The words landed like a slap. Dixon’s head snapped toward him. A low, guttural growl rumbled from deep in his throat—raw, involuntary, the sound of an Alpha whose patience had just been shredded. His scarred hands curled into fists on the table; the knuckles bleached white. The young man across from him was still wet behind the ears, arrogant in that careless way only youth and unchecked power could breed, and clearly too stupid—or too reckless—to read the room.Leander’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it widened, as though he found Dixon’s reaction entertaining rather than dangerous.Dixon gritted his teeth so hard the muscle in his jaw jumped. For one burning second, regret surged through him—hot and bitter—like bile. Why had he ever joined hands with this boy? This posturing child who treated the slaughter of a woman like a joke, who spoke of Winter’s brutality as though it were theater rather than a declaration of war.But then the hatred rose again, familiar and grounding, hot

Scarlett lay on her side in the wide bed of the Luna’s chambers, propped against a mound of pillows, the heavy furs drawn up to her chest. The room smelled faintly of lavender and bitter herbs; a small brazier in the corner pushed back the worst of the chill. It was quiet except for the low crackle of the brazier and her own uneven breathing. Sunlight fell in pale bars across the floor through the tall, narrow windows. The fire had burned low hours ago, leaving only embers.She was awake—barely conscious. Every breath felt borrowed. Her stomach still churned; she had already vomited twice since the physician arrived, the little broth and bread she had managed to swallow coming back up almost immediately. Her body refused to keep anything down. Weakness pinned her to the mattress like iron weights; even lifting her hand took effort. Sweat dampened her hairline and the back of her neck.The female physician—older, gray-streaked hair pulled into a neat knot, hands steady and gentle, slee

The training grounds of Castle Holgah were bathed in the harsh light of midday, the sun a cold, unyielding eye overhead. Dust hung in the air, kicked up by the boots of the new Delta recruits as they drilled in tight formations—swords clashing, grunts of effort, sweat gleaming on their brows, the rhythmic thud of shields meeting steel. Another Delta, older and scarred from years of service, voice like gravel, barked orders from the center of the field, his voice carrying like a whip, correcting footwork, stance, timing.August stood on the elevated platform overlooking the grounds, arms crossed, shoulders squared, boots planted wide. He paced slowly back and forth, boots scuffing the worn wooden planks. To any onlooker, he was the picture of focus—watching, assessing, correcting posture or technique with a sharp word when needed, commanding respect with every slow pace he took along the railingBut his mind was far from the recruits.Many women had come and gone through the harem—beau

Hunger.Not the cold, mechanical hunger of a predator dispatching prey, but something hotter, more personal—something alive in a way it hadn’t been for years. The Lycan’s lips kept curving at the corners, small and sharp, every time August’s sword rang against his own. Every time their bodies closed distance, every time August snarled through gritted teeth, Winter’s gaze sharpened with dark delight.He was enjoying this and August hated that most of all.The blades met again—hard, high, locked at the crossguards with a metallic screech that vibrated up both arms. Both men leaned in, faces inches apart, breath exploding in hot, ragged bursts between them. Sweat dripped from August’s brow and landed on Winter’s collarbone; neither blinked.“You’re angry,” Winter said softly, almost conversationally, as though they were discussing the weather over wine instead of trying to batter each other into the dirt.“You’re distracted,” August growled back, voice scraping low and rough, the words v

In one of the deepest dungeon cells beneath Castle Holgah, River lay almost lifeless on the cold stone floor. His back rested against the rough wall—painted now with streaks and smears of his own blood that had dried in dark, uneven patterns. The wounds on his body were a brutal testament to Winter’s fury: deep slashes across his ribs that wept steadily, a broken forearm bent at an unnatural angle, a gash across his left thigh that had soaked his torn breeches black, and a ragged cut along his collarbone that still oozed whenever he breathed too deeply. His face was unrecognizable—eyes swollen almost shut, one cheek split open, lips cracked and crusted with blood. His hair hung in matted clumps across his forehead.The cell was lit by a single torch set high in an iron bracket outside the bars. The flame guttered weakly, throwing long, restless shadows across the stone. The air was thick with the smell of iron, damp, and old straw.His breathing came in slow, wet heaves—each inhale a