บททั้งหมดของ The Alpha’s Forbidden Omega: บทที่ 61 - บทที่ 70

Juni’s POV“Stay where I can see you.”Kieran’s voice is low under the noise of the east-track fair. Canvas stalls. Livestock. The smell of fried dough, horse, and dust. Neutral colors everywhere. Bren’s people. Contractors. Eyes that flick to the mark at my throat and then away too carefully. The dual current of the bond is tight—claim solid, cooler bloodline thread wound high, as if it already hates the crowd.“I’m at your left,” I say. “That was the deal.”“The deal was also no locked knees and no pretending.” His hand brushes the small of my back once, public enough to be a statement, private enough that the bond eases a fraction. “If it flares, you say so.”“I’ll say so.”We move through the first row of stalls with an escort that does not look like an escort unless you know how Voss men stand. Four days of preparation sit under the morning: redrawn routes, doubled watch, the decision to arrive in daylight instead of ceding the fair to a story. Kieran buys nothing at first. He le

Juni’s POV“You still have flour on your sleeve.”Kieran looks down, then at me, as if the fair dust and the kitchen are the same war. We are in our room. The door is latched. The apple sack sits on the table like a joke that survived the east track. The dual current of the bond is finally coming down from the crowd—claim still tight, bloodline thread sore and humming, the aftertaste of ledgers and wet stone fading each time his hands stay on me.“That is not flour,” he says.“Dust. Fear. Someone else’s schedule.” I step in and fist my hands in his coat. “You promised me an hour. No study. No maps. You’re still standing like the south row is in the room.”A breath leaves him. He lets me push the coat off his shoulders. When my palms slide up his arms, the bond flares warm and the cooler current eases, as if even the bloodline prefers this argument to the market’s.“I keep seeing the contractor’s eyes,” he says into my hair. “The way he looked through you to a story he was paid to beli

Kieran’s POV“He takes the river road after dark. Always after dark.”The scout’s voice is low in the stable yard. Juni stands at my left, cloak on, mark hidden under a collar for the ride. The dual current of the bond is sharp and ready—claim locked, bloodline thread wound tight since Seraphine’s scrap named the debt in writing. Orchard time is over. This is the part where we put a hand on the purse.“Same rider who left the inn stable yard,” the scout continues. “Gray gelding, notched ear. He runs a satchel between the border corridor and the quay under Crane colors. If you want the link that ties the gloves to the strongbox, he is the living hinge.”“Alive,” I say. “Talking. No theater on the road.”Juni’s fingers brush mine. “I’m on the lower path. Same as the high trail. You take the hinge. I hold the line you can feel.”I want to argue. The bond already knows I won’t win cleanly—not after the fair, not after together stopped being a slogan.“Lower path,” I agree. “If I pull, you

Kieran’s POV“You expect me to take a copy as gospel.”Bren’s hall is all timber and old trophies. He stands behind his table with the letter open, jaw set, the face of a man who sent a polite second to my gate and did not like what came back. Juni is at my left—cloak still on, mark visible on purpose. The dual current of the bond is locked and quiet: claim steady, bloodline thread tight as a wire in a room that has already tasted the rumor.“I expect you to recognize the timing marks your own circle was meant to swallow,” I say. “Paid talkers. Counting-house silver. A second wave aimed at your inner names after the fair flinch. The original sits in my strongbox with a hand that signs S. You can pretend that means nothing, or you can clean your house before Crane finishes writing your people into his calendar.”Bren’s eyes flick to Juni. Through the bond I feel her hold still under the look—no locked knees, no performance, only the stubborn presence that corrected his second in my out

Juni’s POV“Keep him behind our seal until Torvin arrives.”Kieran’s order carries across the inner yard. Bren’s talker is thinner than I expected—road dust on his cuffs, eyes that have already sold too much and know it. He sits on a bench between two of ours, not chained, not free. The bond runs taut under my skin: Kieran’s focus, my own unease, and that older current stirring as if it recognizes a hinge about to turn.I stay in the open on purpose. After the fair and Bren’s hall, I will not be a rumor while men decide whether my name is safe to write down.Torvin comes at midday. Neutral colors, no performance, the same careful face from the chamber when he warned us about language that flags instead of protects. He listens while the talker names the plain-coat lieutenant, the counting-house strongbox, the woman with the gloves who paid for bloodline stories after the fair. When Torvin asks for the initial on the satchel note, Kieran opens the strongbox in front of him and sets the