The Werewolf's Bride のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 11 - チャプター 20

The manor felt different after the poison.Every shadow held teeth now. Every footstep echoed with the ghost of someone else’s intent. Elara moved through the corridors like a deer sensing the hunter’s breath on its neck, slow, deliberate, ears tuned to the smallest sound. The silver scar on her palm from gripping the poisoned stone throbbed faintly whenever she passed certain doors, as though the walls themselves remembered what had almost killed her.Kael had doubled the guards. Silent, stone-faced betas patrolled every wing, their eyes following her with something between respect and suspicion. No one spoke of Rowan’s exile openly anymore, but the silence was louder than any accusation. Pack members who once glared now averted their gazes. Some even dipped their heads when she passed. Fear had replaced hatred, but fear could be just as deadly.She found Mara in the kitchens that afternoon.The young servant was scrubbing pots with furious concentration, knuckles white around the ra

The moon hung low and swollen that night, a bruised plum bleeding silver across the Blackthorn lands. Elara stood on the highest balcony of the manor, the wind tearing at the edges of her new cloak, deep midnight velvet lined with wolf fur that still carried Kael’s scent. It wrapped around her like his arms had earlier, possessive and warm, yet the cold seeped through anyway. Below, the forest stretched endless and black, broken only by the occasional flash of amber eyes, patrols, restless, sensing the same wrongness that crawled beneath her skin. Kael had left her here to “rest” after the tower skirmish, his kiss lingering on her lips like a brand, fierce, tasting of blood and relief. But rest was impossible. The partial shift still hummed in her veins, a low electric current that made every nerve sing. She could hear the distant howl of a lone wolf, not pack, not friendly. A warning. Or a lure. She closed her eyes and let the bond reach for him. He was close down in the armory wit

The forest breathed differently tonight. Under the waxing moon, three-quarters full and hungry, the Blackthorn woods felt alive in a way that set Elara’s newly sharpened nerves on edge. Every leaf rustle sounded like a footstep, every distant owl hoot like a coded warning. The pack hunt had been called at dusk, not for sport but necessity; northern scouts had been spotted too close to the borders again, leaving scent trails laced with iron and arrogance. Darius was probing. Testing. And Kael refused to let the challenge go unanswered. Elara ran at his side. Not behind. Not protected in the manor like some fragile prize. Kael had insisted she join the hunt partly to prove to the pack that his human-turned-hybrid mate could hold her own, partly because the bond screamed that separation right now would be suicide. She felt him through every stride, his powerful heartbeat syncing with hers, his wolfish pride pulsing hot and possessive whenever her silver-flecked eyes met his. She wore

The manor’s great hall had never felt so much like a battlefield. Sunlight slanted through high windows in harsh golden bars, catching dust motes that danced like tiny sparks above the long stone table. Every beta, every elder, every warrior who had survived the night’s hunt now stood or sat in rigid silence. The air reeked of blood, sweat, and barely-leashed fury. Mara’s body lay wrapped in white linen at the far end of the hall, not displayed as a trophy, but as evidence. A silent accusation. Kael stood at the head of the table, shirtless, the dried blood of the scouts still streaking his chest and arms like war paint. His silver eyes burned with a cold, lethal light that made even the hardest warriors shift uncomfortably. Elara stood beside him, close enough that their arms brushed, close enough that the bond thrummed between them like a taut wire ready to snap. She wore fresh black leathers, the silver-threaded mesh glinting faintly. Her braid was tight, her face pale but unyie

The moon had bled into a thin crescent by the time Elara returned to the manor, her boots leaving bloody footprints across the stone threshold. The chase through the forest had been brutal, branches whipping her face, lungs burning, hybrid senses screaming every direction the cloaked figure turned. She had lost them at the river’s edge, the water swallowing scent and sound like a grave. But the cloak she now clutched in her fist, torn from a low branch during the pursuit, was unmistakable; Blackthorn black, edged with the subtle silver embroidery reserved for inner-circle betas. Someone from inside had run. Someone had watched the parley turn to slaughter and chosen to flee rather than fight. Kael met her at the great doors, still in battle leathers, chest heaving from his own fight. His silver eyes raked over her, searching for wounds, for weakness, for any sign the bond had frayed. When he saw the cloak, his expression turned lethal. “Who?” One word. Low. Dangerous. “I don’t kn