All Chapters of Chosen by the cursed Alpha king : Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

By bedtime, my body felt heavier than usual, not just with exhaustion, but with everything I had swallowed and not said. Aria helped me slip into my nightgown in silence. She adjusted the straps gently, smoothing the fabric over my shoulders and then over my stomach, where the faintest curve now existed. Her hands lingered there for a second longer than necessary. “You should rest,” she said softly, as if afraid I might break. I nodded. She gave me a small, reassuring smile, then hurried out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Damon was already on the bed. Shirtless. As if my day hadn’t already been difficult enough. He sat against the headboard, one knee bent, laptop balanced on his thigh. The glow of the screen cast sharp shadows across his chest and face. His scars were faint but visible and caught the light, reminders of how close I’d come to losing him. I didn’t look at him for long. I slid onto my side of the bed, pulled the covers up to my chin, and tur

The sun was sinking slowly, painting the sky in shades of orange and bruised purple, when Aria rubbed warm olive oil into my skin. Her hands were gentle, circular, careful around my growing belly. The scent of olives and herbs filled the room, calming and familiar, yet my heart refused to slow. Outside, I could hear movement. Boots and deep voices. The low clink of weapons. Something was happening. Aria’s fingers paused for a fraction of a second before she continued. “You should stay still,” she murmured, but her voice lacked its usual cheer. It trembled, just slightly. I turned my head toward the open balcony doors. Down below, in the wide courtyard of the pack house, Damon had assembled them. Fifty warriors. Not just any warriors, the strongest. The ones whose names were whispered with respect and fear. I recognized many of them even from above. They had broad shoulders, hardened expressions, weapons strapped across their backs. Antonio moved among them, giving instructio

By dawn, the camp was already stirring. Antonio’s howl tore through the clearing, loud and sharp, cutting through sleep like a blade. Warriors groaned as they rose, stiff and slow, eyes heavy with exhaustion. Bedrolls were rolled quickly, fires stamped out, supplies secured with practiced hands. No one complained. Sleep clung to us as we mounted our horses, breath fogging in the cold morning air. The world was wrapped in a thick gray mist, the kind that swallowed sound and distance alike. Shapes blurred. Edges softened. Even the trees seemed unsure of themselves. I pulled my cloak tighter around me as my horse stepped forward. Damon rode at the front. He looked as if he hadn’t slept at all. His posture was rigid, shoulders squared, eyes sharp and scanning constantly. There were dark shadows beneath his eyes, but his focus hadn’t dulled. If anything, he looked more dangerous, coiled, restless, like a wolf who had stood guard all night and dared the darkness to try him. Because

I wasn’t there when Damon began to break, but I felt everything through the bond, through the grief that echoed between us and I learned how it happened. They searched for me without rest. They crossed a canyon where the wind screamed through jagged stone, carrying warnings no one could afford to heed. Beyond it, the land turned wrong. Even Damon felt it. The trees no longer stood straight. Their trunks bent at impossible angles, bark stretched tight like skin pulled over bone. Some leaned inward, branches crooked like claws. Others seemed to breathe. Watching and Waiting. Antonio was the first to say it aloud. “You should rest, Alpha.” I know Damon ignored him at first. He always did when it came to me. Something inside him had already begun to unravel. The curse, long restrained by my presence, surged freely in my absence. His wolf thrashed inside him, confused and feral, reaching for me and finding nothing. He tried to reach me through the bond. Again and again. But ther

The witch waited. Her dark eyes roamed over me slowly, sharply, as if she could peel my skin back with her gaze and see what was happening inside me. She tilted her head, listening not to my breath, but to my body, to the magic she believed should already be taking hold of me. I felt dizzy. The cave spun gently at first, then harder. I rubbed my eyes again and again, forcing them open, terrified that if I slept, I wouldn’t wake up. The stone floor felt colder now, seeping into my bones. “Don’t fight it,” the witch said irritably. “Let it work.” I swallowed thickly, my stomach churning, but there was no sharp pain. No tearing. No warmth. No blood. Minutes dragged by. One. Two. Five. Nothing happened. The witch’s fingers tightened around her wand. Her lips thinned. “Impossible.” She strode back to the pot, anger sharp in every movement, and poured another portion of the dull liquid into the calabash. This time, the smell was stronger, more bitter, and more violent. She turne