All Chapters of The Mafia Alpha's Forbidden Mate: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

The sacred mist of the Violet Spring was long gone, but the cold weight of the words spoken beneath those amethyst crystals remained, freezing the air of the master suite into solid iron. The suite retained its familiar, suffocating luxury—the sprawling charcoal silk bedding, the towering arched windows revealing miles of jagged black pines, and the low roar of the stone fireplace. Yet, an impenetrable silence had descended upon the room.Serena had retreated entirely into herself.Since returning from the cavern, she had not thrown a single accusation, shed a tear, or demanded an explanation. She sat motionless in the deep velvet armchair by the window, knees pulled tightly against her chest, staring blankly out at the snow falling over the peaks. Her damp garments had been discarded, replaced by a thick woolen sweater, yet no amount of heat from the hearth could thaw the chilling detachment settling deep into her bones.Zayden stood framed in the arched doorway of his private study,

The Victorian-style glass greenhouse at the western edge of the inner courtyard became Serena’s sanctuary—and the foundation of her unseen war.Stepping inside, the freezing mountain air gave way to a dense, humid warmth smelling richly of crushed ferns, damp peat, and blooming winter jasmine. The soaring glass panes looked out onto the rugged, snow-capped pines, but along the rear brick foundation ran what she had truly come to see: a series of heavy, cast-iron ventilation grates half-buried behind overgrown medicinal herbs and wild ivy. Directly beneath them lay the subterranean runoff canal leading past the perimeter wards.To make her presence routine, she knew she had to give the guards a reason to look away."I'm losing my mind staring at empty walls, Martha," Serena had said casually that morning, leaning over the low wooden workbench as the elderly headmaid poured hot tea. "The greenhouse is quiet, but sitting with folded hands is driving me mad. I want sculpting clay. A potte

The heavy charcoal silk sheets felt suffocating against Serena’s skin.Beside her, Zayden slept. His colossal, battle-scarred frame radiated an oppressive, furnace-like heat that filled the master suite. One of his heavy, corded arms rested over the edge of the mattress, his breathing steady, deep, and rhythmic—the calm sleep of an apex predator who feared nothing under the moon.Serena, however, was wide awake.Her body still felt electric, humming with a lingering warmth that made her stomach twist in bitter disgust. Whenever Zayden touched her, her physical defences crumbled without her permission. Her pulse raced, her skin burnt, and her senses betrayed her every survival instinct. It was humiliating how easily he commanded her flesh, while her mind remained locked in a cage, screaming for an exit.You're letting him win, she scolded herself in the dark, her jaw tightening. His touch is a leash, and you're letting him pull it.She couldn't afford to lose her focus now. Not when th

The glass mortar shattered with a pathetic, high-pitched ping.I stared down at the wooden workbench in the corner of the greenhouse, clutching the smooth riverstone pestle in my numb, soot-covered hand. A pool of murky, dark-green sludge was oozing across my notes, drowning my carefully scribbled ratios of nightshade and pine pitch."Fine," I hissed through my teeth, using a damp rag to aggressively wipe the counter. "Double nightshade was a stupid idea anyway."I grabbed the spare stone mortar, slammed it onto the table, and threw in a handful of crushed juniper needles, double the silver-leaf thistle, and three generous splashes of camphor oil. The fumes hit my nostrils instantly—a violent, eye-watering assault that smelt like a bonfire built out of old cough drops and wet dog.If it makes my eyes water, I reasoned, grinding the pestle until my shoulder burnt, their over-sensitive wolf noses won't stand a chance.I scraped the thick, greasy concoction into a ceramic jar, uncorked i

The glass conservatory smelt like a chemistry lab collided with an ancient apothecary.Beakers, copper condensers, and vials of viscous amber liquid cluttered the long cedar potting bench, pushing the ruined pottery clay and neglected flower pots to the floor. Steam curled in steady violet plumes from a glass retort, illuminated by the bright morning sun pouring through the high glass arches."Lower the flame, Serena," Zayden commanded, his deep baritone cutting through the hiss of the alcohol burner. "You're scorching the thistle resin. It needs to simmer at seventy degrees, not boil like a witch’s broth."Serena hastily pinched the brass turn-valve, dialling the flame down with smudged fingers. "I'm adjusting it! It’s hard to monitor the heat when this antique thermometer keeps fogging up.""Then wipe the glass," Zayden said smoothly, leaning his tall frame against the edge of the workbench.He had rolled his black dress shirt sleeves up to his elbows, revealing corded forearms lace