All Chapters of The Alpha's Forbidden Omega: Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

WrenI wait until his breathing evens out.Eleven forty. The pack house is quiet in that heavy, held-breath way it's been for two days, every hallway lit low, every patrol one step from exhaustion. Bron sleeps on his side with one arm flung across my half of the bed. I slide out from under it an inch at a time.He doesn't wake. His fingers curl into the sheet where I was. My chest aches. Not the fever. Something quieter and worse.“You're sure about this?” Vesper asks.“No.”“Then why are we doing it?”“Because Serena said Elara isn't working for Adrien. If that's true, we need to know before the ceremony.” I tug my boots on, one hand braced against the wall. “And because she said not to tell him.”“That's exactly why I don't like it,” Vesper replies. “I know.”

WrenI don't wait for an order.Adrien's still laughing, soft and wrong, his silver-sheened eyes fixed on Bron's face like he's watching a show he's already seen. Bron's got him pinned to the balustrade by the throat. The radio on his belt has gone to static. Somewhere beyond the trees, a siren starts up, thin and far, and I know that sound. It's the pack house alarm.“Wren,” Vesper says. “Don't just stand there.”I step in close and lay my hand flat against Adrien's forehead.His skin is cold. Colder than it should be. Under my palm, I feel it right away: a tight, brittle thread of magic wound through his skull like wire. It hums in a frequency I know. The letter. The tracker. The same careful hand."Wren," Bron warns. "If it's a trap…”"It's not a trap. It's a leash."I push.Gold flows down my arm and into Adrien's head. The wire fights me. It bites back, sharp and bright, and for

BronI don't do it in the clinic. Not with Dad on the cot and Miriam's bloody gauze in a basin. I take Wren's hand and lead her out through the kitchen, past Briar, who looks up from a mountain of boxed supplies and mouths what? at me, and out the back door into the cold.The sun is going down. Gold on the east wall. Long shadows on the lawn where Conrad's men fell, where somebody's already scrubbing the grass."Bron." Wren tugs my hand. "Where are we going?""The roof,” I reply."The roof?” She frowns, repeating my words. "There's a flat part. By the old water tank." I glance back. "You'll see."She doesn't argue. She just follows, barefoot, my shirt swallowing her to the knees, up the iron fire stairs and through the loft hatch. The wind catches her hair at the top. She laughs, startled, and grabs the railing."You brought me to the roof to push me off?&rdq

WrenNobody breathes.Bron's eyes are closed, his hand locked around mine so tight my fingers have gone numb. I can feel him through the bond, reaching, sweeping, a lantern swung through a dark house. Four hundred and twelve rooms. Four hundred and eleven of them answer."Southern wing," he says, hoarse. "Second floor. Maybe third. I can't pin it.""Then we go," Ronan says, already half out of his chair."Sit down," Ariana says.He doesn't. "If there's a traitor in the house…”"There may be one. There may not." Her voice is mild, but it stops him cold. "Think, boy. If you storm the southern wing with a dozen guards, what do you suppose happens?""We find them,” Ronan says. "You frighten them. And whoever opened that door will know you know.” Ariana says, and Ronan's jaw works. He sits."A hidden mind," Ariana says, "is not the same as a guil

WrenThe humming doesn't stop.It follows us out of the orchard, through the gate, past the empty staff houses and down the long gravel drive to where Bron's truck sits idling under the trees. It follows us through the first mile of dark pines. It's so soft I could almost believe I'm imagining it. But Bron's jaw is tight on the wheel, and every few seconds his eyes flick to the rearview mirror like he expects to see someone sitting in the back seat."You can hear it," I say."Every time I stop thinking about it.""Is it loud?""No." He glances at me. "That's what's wrong with it. It should be louder. If it were Elara, she'd be shouting in my skull. This is... polite.""Polite?""Like someone humming in the next room. Trying not to wake us."I shiver. The truck rattles over a pothole, and the dashboard clock blinks 5:42. Sundown is at 6:38. We've got fifty-six minutes.“It's the same melody,” Vesper say