Sold To The Monster Alpha のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 11 - チャプター 20

Rosalie’s POVThe stone corridors of the royal fortress were freezing, but my mind was burning too hot to care.As I slipped out of the Alpha King’s master suite and navigated the long, winding staircases back toward the Crimson Wing, my legs felt like lead. The thin silk of my nightgown offered no protection against the early morning drafts, yet the sheer, suffocating confusion wrapping around my thoughts was far more paralyzing than the cold.Nothing made sense. None of the pieces aligned.Dominic was a walking contradiction—a tyrant of lethal calculation who simultaneously operated on unhinged, unpredictable impulses. He had explicitly told me last night, with a terrifying certainty, that he had a strict, unyielding rule. He never shared his bed. He never allowed a woman to stay the night. He treated the tributes like a temporary convenience, sating his needs and discarding them into the dark hours before dawn. Yet, I had woken up with his face mere inches from mine, tangled in

Rosalie’s POVEvery single step back to the Crimson Wing felt like pulling a rusted blade through my joints.The heavy fabric of my winter dress rubbed relentlessly against the raw, unhealed gash on my left shoulder, sending sharp, dizzying spikes of heat straight to my brain. But the physical agony was nothing compared to the roaring silence echoing in my mind.*Some of us were only ever taught how to absorb the blow.*I had actually said it. I had looked the most terrifying tyrant in the entire territory dead in the eye and bared the ugly, bleeding truth of my existence. I had practically confessed to my own weakness, throwing my lifetime of submission in his face like a challenge. Walking away from him had required every ounce of willpower I possessed, and now that I was out of his immediate line of sight, the delayed terror finally set in.I had survived his bed. I had survived his interrogation. But there was no way a monster like Dominic would let a low-born fraud humiliate

Rosalie’s POVThe silence that followed his question was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest until the air in my lungs tasted like ash.*Who the hell are you?*The words vibrated through the small distance between us, but my lips remained frozen. My pulse hammered so violently against my ribs I was certain his predatory hearing could track every frantic beat. The vacant, unreadable mask I had worn so flawlessly since arriving at the royal castle had completely disintegrated under the weight of my own outburst, leaving my raw, bleeding truth exposed to the most dangerous alpha in the realm.Dominic didn’t pull away. His massive hand remained wrapped around my wrist, an inescapable, bruising anchor pinning me to the spot. His amber eyes bored ruthlessly into mine, searching the depths of my panic for a name, a confession, anything.When I clamped my jaw shut and refused to let another syllable escape, the dangerous stillness in his posture deepened.“Silence?” Dominic mur

Rosalie’s POVThe threat hung in the suffocating space between us, cold, absolute, and heavy with the promise of my own execution.But as the seconds ticked by, the fear he expected to see in my eyes didn't come. Instead, something deep inside me snapped. The humiliating shyness of having my skin exposed, the frozen panic of the interrogation, the trauma-induced silence that had kept my jaw locked for the last hour—it all burned away, replaced by the familiar, sharp-tongued fire that usually kept me alive. He wanted the real me? He wanted the girl who wasn't afraid to be completely rude to a king?Fine. He was about to get her.*Tell him,* my inner wolf growled, her voice gaining a sudden, fierce strength as she thrashed against her fading chains. *Do not let him think we are a pet to be broken. Snarl back.*I didn't cower under his dark shadow. I gripped the leather armrest of the sofa, and forced myself to my feet. A sharp, white-hot spike of agony shot straight up my thighs as

Rosalie’s POV In the werewolf world, weakness was a death sentence, and readiness was a religion. Even for the non-soldiers of a territory, the laws of our society strictly dictated a mandatory minimum of two grueling training sessions a week to ensure every pack member could maintain the physical stamina required to withstand the sudden threat of war. For the soldiers, training was a daily, relentless routine; for the selection tributes, today’s mandatory session on the palace’s grand sand tracking floor was supposed to be a standard, ungraded formality. Failing didn’t mean automatic disqualification. It wasn’t an official test. But as we walked out into the crisp, biting air of the open-air arena, the thick, suffocating tension among the girls told a completely different story. The arena itself was massive—a sprawling, circular colosseum of packed crimson sand bordered by towering stone walls. Dozens of tributes were already spread across the vast floor, preparing for the sess