Lahat ng Kabanata ng Killed and Reborn: My Alpha’s Obsession : Kabanata 91 - Kabanata 100

*Aria*Six months after the battle, Blackmoon felt like the same pack in new bones.The border villages that had once been half‑ruined and half‑abandoned now stood solid again. Fresh‑cut timber framed new roofs, smoke curled from chimneys that hadn’t seen use in years, and laughter spilled from doorways at dusk instead of the hushed, fearful murmurs of people waiting for the next surge.The training ground had grown too.What had been a worn patch of dirt and a few half‑rotted dummies was now a leveled field with reinforced posts, proper archery targets, and a small, roofed structure at the side stocked with weapons that weren’t rusted or twice‑mended cast‑offs.When I watched drills now, I saw more than just muscle memory being shaped.I saw possibility.“Again,” Rhea barked, her voice cutting cleanly across the field.A line of female warriors—lean, focused, eyes sharp—reset their stances and repeated the maneuver she’d just corrected. Shields up, spears angled, step, pivot, thrust.

*Aria*I woke up wrong.Not nightmare‑wrong.Body‑wrong.The room was dim and quiet, Lucian’s arm heavy over my waist, his breath warm against the back of my neck. Nothing looked out of place. The window was cracked, the curtains stirred by a soft breeze, the faint smell of woodsmoke and morning dew threading the air.But my stomach rolled as I lifted my head.I swallowed hard, lay still, waited for it to pass.It didn’t.“Mm,” Lucian murmured, tightening his arm, dragging me back against him. “Too early.”“For you,” I said. My voice came out rough. “I think my insides have declared rebellion.”That got his attention.He practically levitated off the mattress, giving me room to bolt for the washroom. I made it to the basin just in time.Attractive, I thought distantly, when the worst of it passed and I was left shaking, clinging to the porcelain.Lucian’s hand gathered my hair back from my face, fingers careful.“You okay?” he asked quietly.“Define ‘okay,’” I said, spitting and reach

*Aria*The dream found me on a night when everything felt almost too normal.No festivals.No witches.No border crises.Just the manor’s hush, a sentry’s scolded bark somewhere outside, Lucian’s arm a familiar weight over my waist, his hand resting unconsciously over the gentle curve that was only just beginning to soften my belly. The faint smell of banked embers and someone starting breakfast downstairs threaded the air.I fell asleep with his breath warm against my neck and the steady hum of his heartbeat at my back.When I opened my eyes again, I was standing in the clearing.Not *our* forest clearing.It's not the place of my first death.The other one.Endless white sky pulsed faint silver‑gold threads overhead. The ground beneath my bare feet felt like packed earth‑cloud—solid and yielding at once, warm from no discernible source.No trees.No stone.Just that infinite, quiet space.“Back again,” a familiar voice said.I turned.She stood where she always did—like she’d been t

*Aria*The next few weeks settled into something that felt dangerously like peace.Not idleness—packs never stopped needing food, repairs, mediations—but a steady, breathable rhythm. Plans that went beyond next week. Days that ended because the sun went down, not because we collapsed.The kind of days I used to think only happened to other people, far away from curses and blood moons.Maybe that was why, when Lucian suggested a trip to town, my first instinct was to say no.Too far. Too exposed. Too… much.But the thought lingered like a stone in my shoe.What if I could walk those streets and not flinch?What if I could see who I used to be and not feel like I was about to be dragged back into her life?“Let’s go,” I said finally, a week after the pup’s first kick. I shifted my weight, grounding myself before the words could retreat. “To town.”Lucian glanced up from the ledger he was annotating, pen pausing mid‑stroke.“Now?” he asked.“There’s no ‘less terrifying’ later,” I replied

*Aria*The world didn’t end.It turned.Seasons came and went. Roofs leaked and were fixed. Pups were born who didn’t wake screaming with borrowed nightmares.A year passed.Then another.On a bright, wind‑soft afternoon, I stood on the balcony outside our rooms and looked down at what we’d made.The courtyard was full.Not with warriors braced for attack or healers triaging the wounded, but with life.A knot of older wolves repaired a cart wheel, arguing cheerfully about the best kind of spoke. Rhea ran drills in the corner, her voice sharp but her stance loose, correcting a teenager’s grip with a tap instead of a bark. Fen emerged from the kitchens carrying a tray of something that steamed and smelled like peace, only to be ambushed by three pups demanding tastes.Beyond the walls, I could hear the muted thud of training on the field—controlled, paced, more about form than frenzy. Shouts of delight drifted up between the rhythmic impacts.The manor no longer hummed with secret terro