All Chapters of I Woke Up Engaged To An Alpha: Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

The Sacred Courtyard remained frozen in terror. Thousands of pairs of eyes were locked on the gory ruin of Krev’s corpse, as Siren stood panting over the bloody granite. Then he tipped back his massive head and howled to the black night sky. An unnatural frost instantly coated the stone terraces, turning the rising white plumes of breath into thick, freezing fog. High above, the full moon flared with a sudden, blinding luminesce, casting long, unnatural shadows across the mountain amphitheater.The crowd gasped as one, fearful murmurs breaking out at the sudden change in the atmosphere. Screams erupted as three colossal, ethereal forms descended straight through the open night sky.They weren't ordinary beasts. They were direwolves, massive—easily thrice the size of Siren—and shimmering with a radiant, celestial blue light that pulsed like starlight through their translucent, crystalline fur. Their paws didn't strike the ground so much as collide with the earth, sending a violent sho

Two Months Later… SIGRUN The high-arched stained-glass windows of my study were blazoned with light, casting fractured beams of sapphire and violet across the polished marble floors. The repeal of the ancient ban on magic had not brought the apocalypse the majority of the High Council had predicted with whispers. Instead, it had brought life. Construction was moving at a feverish pace for Aethel Citadel—the grand academy and guildhall Varul and I had commissioned to train, register, and integrate mages into the kingdom’s infrastructure. Spellcasters who had spent decades hiding in deep caves or fleeing were flooding back into the territory. Healing-mages worked alongside traditional pack healers. Orasmus had specifically written me a particularly enthusiastic letter about how excited he was to work hand-in-hand with a healing mage. I smoothed the front of my gown—a chic deep indigo velvet thing that cinched just above my waist before falling in heavy folds over my lap. B

SIGRUN Then, his mouth came down. He didn't start at my lips. He dropped to his knees beside the bed and pressed his hot mouth directly to the center of my belly. He kissed the curve of my stomach with agonizing tenderness. Tears leaked from my eyes, my throat tight with an emotion I couldn’t put into words. His stubble scraped lightly against my skin, making me gasp and wriggle against the furs. He moved upward, trailing wet, hot kisses over the ribcage that had expanded to make room for our child, up to the heavy base of my right breast. "Varul—oh!" I cried out as his lips engulfed my nipple. My breasts were exquisitely, almost painfully sensitive from the pregnancy hormones. The moment his warm, wet tongue stroked over the hardened peak, a bolt of pure electricity shot straight down between my legs. I bucked against the mattress, but with my hands bound beneath me, I had no leverage. I was completely at his mercy. He nursed on me deeply, suckling with a heavy, rhythmic

SIGRUN "Varul—" My voice was a breathless rasp as his warm, wet tongue dragged upward, slowly licking from the base of my swollen folds all the way to my aching clít. My knees were parted wide, my hands tied above my head to the headboard. He was on his knees between my thighs, a man saying his prayers. His hands locked beneath my thighs, lifting me slightly to tilt my pelvis directly into his face. A low, gravelly grunt rumbling deep in his chest as his mouth devoured me. The wet, slick sounds of his mouth against my skin were driving me wild. He didn't say a word. He didn't need to. He ate me with the silent, ravenous devotion of a starving man arriving at a feast, completely consumed by the act itself. His thumb pressed against my clít and swirled in steady, rhythmic pressure while his tongue licked, sucked, and drank me in. My hands strained against the ties holding my wrists bound as the first wave of pleasure slammed into me like a tidal wave. "Oh, God—" I gasped

Five Years Later… PRINCESS SIGRUN OF WINDSMOOR “Sorry!” I called out to the honking driver whose car I’d nearly run into while crossing the road. The morning traffic through Lower Manhattan was a special kind of hell, but as far as I was concerned, it was mostly my own fault for overestimating the transit times on the N train. Five years in this loud, metallic realm had taught me one undeniable truth: an art degree was completely, utterly useless when you possessed zero artistic talent. When the soul exchange had occurred, I had inherited this version of Sigrun’s life, her best friend, her apartment, her wardrobe, and her enrollment at NYU. Officially, Sigrun Parker was now an art school graduate. Unofficially, Princess Sigrun of Windsmoor could not draw, paint, or sculpt to save her life. My first attempt at a portrait had looked like a bruised turnip, and my final thesis project was only passed because the professor convinced himself it was a "post-modern commentary on