All Chapters of His Regret,Her Revenge: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

The word hung in the air between us. A sacrifice. I stared at Elara, my heart pounding, my mind racing through every possible meaning. A sacrifice of what? Of who? My life? My power? My son? "What kind of sacrifice?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. Elara's grip on my hand tightened, and I noticed for the first time how much her hand was trembling. She was afraid. Truly afraid. Elara, who had faced down Ezekiel in the council chamber without flinching. Elara, who had stood beside me when the pack turned against me. Elara, who had never once shown fear in all the time I had known her. She was afraid. "That's the part no one knows," she said, her voice quieter than I had ever heard it. "The Drakos ancestors never wrote it down. They only passed it down through blood. Through whispers. Through warnings." "Then how do I find out?" "You don't." She released my hand and leaned back in her chair, but the fear didn't leave her face. It stayed there, etched into the lines

I didn't give him the satisfaction of a response. I just looked at him—at the cold, calculating man who had married me for my blood, who had stayed with me for my power, who had never loved me—and I turned and walked away. My footsteps echoed on the stone floor of the elders' chamber, each one steady, each one measured. I didn't run. I didn't cry. I didn't let him see the crack in my armor. But the crack was there. It was wide and jagged and bleeding. I made it to the corridor before my legs gave out. I pressed my back against the wall and slid down until I was sitting on the cold floor, my hands trembling, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The letter was still clutched in my fist, the paper crumpled, the words burned into my mind. He never loved me. He never cared. It was all a game. I had known. I had always known, somewhere deep down. But hearing him say it, hearing the words come out of his mouth, was something else entirely. It was like being stabbed, over and over, wit

I didn't answer him. I just looked at Ezekiel—at the cold, guarded man who had just told me he didn't deserve forgiveness—and I turned and walked away. My footsteps echoed on the stone floor, each one steady, each one measured. I didn't run. I didn't cry. I didn't let him see the crack in my armor. But the crack was there. It was wide and jagged and bleeding. I made it to the corridor before my legs gave out. I pressed my back against the wall and slid down until I was sitting on the cold floor. My hands were shaking. My chest was heaving. I could feel the tears burning behind my eyes, hot and insistent, but I refused to let them fall. You can't forgive me. Because I don't deserve it. He was right. He didn't deserve it. But that wasn't the point. The point was whether I could do it anyway. I sat there for a long time. Minutes. Hours. Time stopped meaning anything. I just sat there, my back against the cold stone, my hands pressed against my chest, trying to remember how to breat

The words hung in the air between us. They're going to attack tonight. I stared at Marilyn, my heart pounding, my mind already racing through everything we needed to do. The ritual. The pack. The defenses. We had hours. Maybe less. And I had to decide whether to trust her. She had lied to me before. She had betrayed me before. She had taken my son and tried to destroy my life. Every instinct screamed at me to turn away, to lock her up, to not give her another chance to hurt me. But the fear in her eyes was real. The urgency in her voice was real. And if she was telling the truth, we didn't have time to doubt. I looked at her for a long moment. Then I nodded. "Come with me." --- Elara was still in the great hall when we entered. She looked up from the maps spread across the table, her expression shifting from concentration to alarm when she saw Marilyn. "She's not supposed to be here," Elara said. "I know." I closed the doors behind us. "But she has information.

I woke to the smell of herbs. The ceiling above me was unfamiliar—wooden beams crisscrossing in patterns I had never noticed before, pale morning light filtering through a small window. The bed beneath me was soft, the blankets warm, and the air smelled of clean linen and something faintly metallic. Blood. My blood. I tried to sit up, and the pain hit me like a wave. My ribs screamed. My palm throbbed. My head pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears. I fell back against the pillows, gasping. "You shouldn't move." I turned my head. Elara was sitting in a chair beside the bed, her hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on my face. She looked tired. Worn. Like she hadn't slept since the ritual. "How long?" I asked. "Three days." I closed my eyes. Three days. Three days of nothing. Three days of dreaming. Three days of lying here while the world moved on without me. "Ziki?" "He's safe. He's been asking for you every hour. Xavier has been keeping him company." "Xav