Reborn for my Step brother のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 161 - チャプター 170

THIRD PERSON "Stop looking at it, Aria," Trenton said, his voice deep, soft, and completely steady. He reached over, cupping her cold hand in his warm, calloused palm, his thumb stroking the back of her knuckles. "Look at me. Not at the screen." Aria looked up, her amber eyes shining with unshed tears. "They're saying horrible things, Trenton. They are saying I used dark magic on you, that I forced myself into your life to get power." "Let them talk," Trenton declared fiercely, his amber eyes burning with absolute devotion. "I don't care if the entire kingdom screams at us from the rooftops. I am never, ever going to be ashamed of loving you. The Moon Goddess gave you to me, and I would choose you a thousand times over, no matter what anyone else thinks." "It's not just about us anymore, Trenton," Aria whispered, her voice cracking with heavy emotion. "You are the future Alpha. You are the captain of the Ice Wolves. Every single part of your life is being judged right now. They

THIRD PERSON The cold morning mist hung low over the Winterridge campus, casting a grey, gloomy blanket across the stone pathways. The air was freezing, but the atmosphere inside the student center was burning hot with arguments.Groups of students stood around the high wooden tables, shouting over one another, while large television screens mounted on the walls broadcasted constant news updates about the scandal."The Moon Goddess made them fated mates!" a tall girl shouted, slamming her books down on the table to get everyone's attention. "Who are we to question divine magic? If the Goddess says they belong together, then Trenton and Aria have every right to be together, stepsiblings or not!""It doesn't matter what magic says!" a guy across the room yelled back, his face turning red with anger. "They grew up in the exact same household! It looks terrible to the outside world. How can our pack expect neighboring kingdoms to respect us when our future Alpha is sleeping with his own

TRISTANThe air inside the lower holding cells beneath the mansion was heavy, cold, and smelled faintly of damp stone and iron rust. A single dim bulb hung from the high concrete ceiling, casting long, sharp shadows across the dirt floor. I sat on the narrow wooden bench attached to the back wall, my back resting against the cold stone blocks.My arms were folded across my chest, and my legs were stretched out in front of me. I was wearing simple gray prison clothes, but in my mind, I was still sitting on a throne.A heavy set of footsteps echoed down the stone corridor outside my iron-barred cell door. The sound was slow and rhythmic, the heavy boots of the guard clicking sharply against the floorboards. A small metal slot near the bottom of my heavy iron door slid open with a loud, metallic screech.A small tray containing a bowl of cold vegetable soup and a dry piece of bread was pushed through the slot, followed by a tightly folded piece of paper."Your dinner, prisoner," the guar

THIRD PERSONThe frozen air inside the Winterridge Ice Arena felt colder than usual, carrying the heavy, metallic scent of scraped ice and damp leather gear. Up in the high rafters, powerful stadium spotlights cast long, harsh shadows across the wide blue rink. Down below, the sharp, rhythmic crunch of metal skate blades cutting through the ice echoed like gunfire off the empty glass barriers.Trenton glided around the center circle, his heavy breathing forming thick clouds of white steam in the freezing air. His right shoulder throbbed with a dull, burning ache under his thick medical tape, but he kept his jaw locked tight, refusing to let his face show a single flicker of pain. He slapped the heavy black hockey puck across the ice toward his forward, Lucian, with flawless speed.Suddenly, a loud, shrill whistle blasted through the quiet arena, shattering the rhythm of the drill.The senior league referee, a tall man named Referee Miller, skated over with his arms crossed over his ch

TRENTON The night air outside the Winterridge Grand Arena was freezing, filled with the thick smell of roasted peanuts, tailgating smoke, and cold mountain snow. Even though the championship match was still a morning away, thousands of fans and media trucks had already gathered around the perimeter plaza. Bright television lights illuminated the frosted glass front of the stadium, casting huge shadows across the crowd. Inside my private room at the family estate, the world felt eerily quiet, but the noise of the outside world leaked through my laptop screen. Different news channels were playing simultaneously on the sports network. On one screen, a commentator pointed at a graphic showing my face next to a big red question mark, arguing whether I was mentally stable enough to lead the team. On another channel, a panel of experts debated the renewed doping investigation, discussing how a sudden loss tomorrow night would prove that my entire hockey career was built on illegal perfo