All Chapters of Forbidden by the Triplet Alphas: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

The shadow lunged, wearing my mother's face, her black eyes empty, her hands transformed into claws of darkness. I raised the Kingslayer, but I could not swing. Not at her face. Not at my mother. The blade trembled in my grip, its symbols flickering as if confused by my hesitation.Cassian intercepted. His blade caught the shadow's claws, steel scraping against darkness with a sound like breaking bones. He drove it back, his feet sliding on the stone floor, sparks flying where his boots scraped.Ravenna, he shouted. Do not freeze. That is not your mother. You know this.I knew. But knowing and feeling were different. My mother's face—the face that had smiled at me, held me, sold herself to Marcus to protect me—was twisted into a mask of rage. Her mouth stretched too wide, her teeth too sharp. The thing wearing her skin wanted me to hesitate. It was counting on it.Theron shifted, his wolf form slamming into the shadow's side. His massive shoulders drove it against the wall, and cracks

Lorna stood in the doorway, her eyes black as pitch, her body perfectly still. The ritual candles flickered, casting dancing shadows across her pale face. The mark on her wrist—the one we thought had faded—was glowing again, pulsing in rhythm with a heartbeat that was not her own. The air around her shimmered with cold, and the bond recoiled as if touching something rotten.The shadow did not bind to you, she said again. Her voice was flat, empty, as if someone else was speaking through her vocal cords, using her mouth like a puppet. It bound to me. It was waiting. It knew you would try to transfer it. So it hid. In the one place you would not think to look.My blood ran cold. Lorna had been in the great hall during the ritual. I had seen her standing in the shadows near the back, her face blank, her hands folded. I had assumed she was still weak from the mountain, still recovering from the shadow's possession. I had assumed she was healing.I was wrong.Lorna, I said. Can you hear me

Cassian's body lay still, the darkness still pulsing against his chest like a second heart. The bond flickered—weak, thready, but alive. He was not dead. Not yet. But the shadow had marked him. Black lines spread from the wound, crawling up his neck, down his arm, toward his heart.Theron roared. His wolf form exploded from his skin, fur and fangs and fury. He launched himself at Lorna, at the shadow wearing her face, his jaws snapping. The shadow sidestepped, moving with inhuman speed, and drove its claws into Theron's flank. He yelped, crashing into the wall, but did not shift back. He rose again, bleeding, and lunged again.Lysander was at my side, the dagger from the chest in his hand. Its blade was dark—the light had not returned since the ritual. But he held it like a promise.We need to get Cassian out of here, he said.I cannot carry him and fight.Then I will carry him. You fight.I looked at the Kingslayer on my back. At the dagger in my boot. At the bond that connected me t

The peace was strange.Three weeks had passed since the shadow dissolved into the black pool. Three weeks of silence where there had always been whispers. Three weeks of sleep without nightmares. Three weeks of watching Cassian heal, of watching Theron learn to be still, of watching Lysander put down the dagger and leave it on the table.But the peace was also a cage.I had spent so long fighting that I did not know how to stop. My hands twitched for the Kingslayer. My ears strained for sounds that were not there. At night, I lay awake, waiting for the shadow to return. It did not. The bond hummed, warm and steady, but I could not relax.Cassian noticed. He always noticed.You are restless, he said. We were in the great hall, the fire crackling, the pack asleep. He was sitting across from me, his grey eyes soft.I am not used to quiet, I said.Neither am I. But we will learn.He reached across the table and took my hand. His fingers were warm, his palm calloused. The touch was simple,

The days after the watcher's death were quiet in a way that felt false.Theron healed. His wounds closed, the burns faded to silver scars, and his strength returned. But the rage that had lived in him since childhood was gone. He moved through the manor like a different wolf—calmer, softer, his eyes no longer searching for a fight. He sat with my mother in the garden. He helped Soren train the young rogues. He even smiled at Iris without a hint of sharpness.Cassian watched him with something like hope. I watched him with something like wonder. But Lysander watched him with something else.Fear.I noticed it first at breakfast. Lysander sat at the end of the table, his hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had gone cold. His honey eyes were fixed on Theron, who was laughing at something Cassian had said. But Lysander was not smiling. His gaze was sharp, calculating, as if he was waiting for the other shoe to drop.Then at training. Theron sparred with Cassian in the yard, their blade