All Chapters of Wolves Of Berlin The Cursed Hybrid : Chapter 71 - Chapter 80

Beatrice’s POVJagdschloss Glienicke stood before me, its French Baroque grandeur a slap in Velan’s undead face. Prince Carl von Preussen snagged it in 1859 as a summer palace for his son—Velan Preussianheardt himself.Now, it sat smugly in wolf territory, and I couldn’t help but smirk imagining Velan grinding his fangs over it. Principal Dietrich had picked this spot out of pure spite, I’d bet, a subtle knife twist, just his style. Not that he’d admit it; he played neutral, but I saw the mean streak twinkle in his eye.“Velan used to own this place?” I muttered, clutching Charles’s arm as we stepped into the grand foyer, my sweaty hands sticking to his navy sleeve, his burgundy handkerchief a perfect match to my red silk dress.“Indeed,” Charles said, his voice dripping with amusement. “Bought by his father, then remodeled by Ferdinand von Arnim in full Baroque splendor. Now, thanks to Principal Dietrich, it belongs to the wolves.”“Think Velan’s screaming inside?” I smirked, my

Beatrice’s POVThe morning light filtered through the cracked blinds of my Giraffe Nr. 13 apartment, casting jagged patterns across the bare floor. I woke with Charles’s warmth still lingering on my skin, the bloodstone pulsing faintly on the nightstand like a heartbeat. My phone buzzed, dragging me from the haze of last night’s auction triumph—55.2 million euros, a number that still made my head spin. I grabbed it, squinting at the caller ID: Linda.“Beatrice, you’re awake!” Her voice burst through, bright and insistent. “You have to buy the Stahl Gallery. It’s perfect to restore your family name, keep it in the family, even help Isabell out, though she won’t see it that way.”I sat up, rubbing my eyes. “Linda, slow down. The Stahl Gallery? It’s a wreck and Isabell ran it into the ground.”“Exactly!” she chirped. “That’s why you should take it back. Your mom’s legacy, Lena’s spirit, it’s yours to reclaim. And think about it: if you bail Isabell out indirectly, maybe she’ll stop be

Beatrice’s POVThe knock at the door came early, sharp and deliberate. I’d known it was coming, even before the sound echoed through the apartment. Even before the tension from Isabell’s phone call had reached my father’s ears and twisted everything into something unrecognizable.A heavy knock that was sharp, relentless shattered the stillness. My stomach dropped. Charles shot up, shirtless, his dark hair tousled, and padded to the door.“Who the hell—” he muttered, peering out. His shoulders tensed, a growl low in his throat. “It’s Eric.”I pulled on a robe, my heart thudding. “Let him in,” I said, stepping beside him. Charles’s eyes narrowed, protective, his body a wall between me and the door.“He’s furious, Beatrice. You don’t need this.” His voice was firm, but I touched his arm, steadying him and myself.“It’s okay,” I said softly. “It was about to happen eventually anyways.” Isabell’s call must’ve lit this fuse. I nodded, and Charles relented, swinging the door open.The cool

Beatrice’s POVThe night was meant to be a celebration an evening where I would see my hard work finally pay off, where the steel walls of my past would dissolve under the weight of success. The grand reopening of the Gallery Stahl was supposed to mark a new chapter for me, the curator, the artist, the new visionary. At least, that’s what I had hoped for.My heart is a wild drum beneath my pink silk dress. Months of relentless work during my year at Morgenlicht Kunsthaus , fueled by the fifty-five million euros from the Jagdschloss Glienicke auction, had turned this fiasco into a defiant shrine of art.Tonight was the reopening, and the presence of honored guests like Principal Dietrich and Fritz Müller added a layer of prestige and pressure.The murmur of voices—critics, collectors, and wolves filled the room. Charles stood beside me, his dark eyes vigilant, his hand a steady weight against my lower back. But my joy was tempered by wariness, Velan had accepted Angelica’s invitat

Angelica’s POVThe air in Charlottenburg’s dungeon was thick with damp stone and the metallic smell of iron—Beatrice’s blood. She sat bound to a chair, wrists raw from the ropes I’d tightened myself, her golden hair matted with sweat and grime. Her eyes, those fierce hybrid eyes that once met mine with trust, now glared at me through a haze of pain and betrayal. I hated this. I hated every second of it. But Velan stood behind me, his platinum hair glinting under the flickering torchlight, his dark eyes boring into me like he could see through my soul. I had to play the part, or we’d both be dead.“Where’s the bloodstone, Beatrice?” I snapped, my voice sharp as a whip, forcing a sadistic edge into it. I leaned in close, gripping her chin hard enough to bruise, my fingers trembling despite the act. “Tell me, or I’ll carve it out of you.”She spat in my face, a weak glob of saliva hitting my cheek. “You’re a monster, Angelica,” she rasped, her voice hoarse from screaming. “I truste