Semua Bab Claimed by the Forbidden Alpha: Wild Bond : Bab 81 - Bab 89

The rebuilt loft was no longer just a home; it had become the center of a fixed universe. Outside, Adreas’s city continued its frantic cycle of lights and shadows, an ocean of ephemeral lives that no longer held any power over him. Within those walls, time had been folded and subdued by the will of a man who had surrendered his humanity and a wolf who had found his redemption in the fragility of a mortal. The blood pact, the battles for honor, the pack’s betrayals, and the terrible awareness of mortality had all been distilled into one absolute truth: they were no longer two beings, but a symbiosis of flesh, soul, and instinct.Adreas stood by the window, feeling the rhythmic pulse in his neck. The mark—that permanent ridge of scars Sam had imprinted under the full moon—was now his most vital part. Through it, he sensed Sam’s heat approaching, a wave of possessive protection and insatiable desire that wrapped around him like a second skin. He no longer feared tomorrow. The dread of ag

The sound of metal scraping against the stone floor echoed off the damp walls, a shrill lament that seemed to embody the despair of everyone who had ever passed through there. Freya felt the impact before she even realized she had been dropped. The dungeon floor was icy, an unforgiving granite surface covered by a thin layer of slime and mold. The smell down here was different from the burning of Oakhaven; it wasn’t smoke, but the stagnant odor of wet earth, urine, and the rancid fear of centuries of suffering.“Stay here and rot, human,” growled a guard whose face bore deep scars that deformed his upper lip, permanently exposing his canines.The heavy iron grate slammed shut with a force that shook the air, and the sound of the key turning in the lock sealed Freya’s fate. She rose slowly, ignoring the pain in her knees and the trembling that refused to leave her limbs. Her hands, still smeared with the ashes of her home, gripped the iron bars. The corridor was lit only by sparse torc

The throne room was not a place of comfort, but a monument to oppression. Columns of obsidian rose like the ribs of a colossal beast toward the vaulted ceiling, where crimson velvet banners bearing the rampant wolf hung in sepulchral silence. The air there was thin, laden with the scent of ancient incense and the weight of centuries of lupine sovereignty. Seated upon the throne of polished bones, Queen Isolde appeared carved from the very ice that covered the northern mountains. Her eyes, an arctic blue that had never known the warmth of compassion, fixed on Cedrik as he crossed the central corridor.“My son,” she said, her voice sharp as a silver dagger sliding over silk. “Oakhaven has fallen, the flames have died, and the dust has settled. Yet I hear rumors that unsettle me. They say you brought within our walls a living reminder of our victory. A prisoner who breathes our air and occupies my dungeons.”Cedrik stopped at a reverent distance, but he did not kneel. The tension between

The vapor rose in slow, lazy curls, carrying the aroma of essential oils of pine and rosemary that contrasted with the roughness of the stone walls of the hidden chamber. In the center of the room, a polished copper tub had been filled with steaming water, a luxury Freya hadn't known since the flames of her village had consumed the little she possessed. Cedrik was leaning against the side of the fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest, the light from the embers carving the shadows of his face with ruthless precision."The dirt from Oakhaven is still ingrained in your skin," he said, his voice a smooth baritone that seemed to vibrate against the humidity of the air. "Wash yourself. I won't allow the smell of death to contaminate my quarters."Freya looked at the water and then at him, her chin trembling not from cold, but from an indignation that fought against her imminent nudity. She was exhausted, her skin burning under layers of dust, dried blood, and the sweat of fear that had

The heat emanating from Freya's body was not the vital glow that Cedrik had learned to observe in recent days; it was the sickly fire of fever. She lay on the furs of the bed, her breathing short and shallow, while a darkened stain began to seep through the thin fabric of her night tunic, just below her rib. The blow she had suffered during her capture, neglected under the adrenaline of the dungeon and the stubbornness of imprisonment, had finally taken its toll. The wound, a deep cut caused by a metal edge or a dull blade, was inflamed, its edges swollen and tinged with a sickly purple.Cedrik entered the hidden chamber carrying a silver basin with warm water and a velvet case containing ointments distilled from the rarest herbs of the mountains. The wolf within him was restless, scratching at his consciousness with an anxiety he hadn't felt even in the bloodiest battles. Freya's scent had changed—the sandalwood and rain were now muffled by the metallic odor of infected blood and the