Todos los capítulos de QUEENS DO NOT BEG FOR THRONES : Capítulo 11 - Capítulo 20

Elouera "He’s trying to put you into heat." Jace’s rough whisper shattered the stagnant air of the bedroom. My lungs completely forgot how to work. The terrified breath I had been holding died instantly in my throat. I looked up to Commander Corowa’s storm grey eyes, my body completely paralyzed. He knew. He didn't just know I was the Weaver. He knew what I was. Before I could form a single word of denial, before I could even begin to beg for my life, a heavy, booming sound echoed from the far end of the stone corridor. Footsteps. Not the careful, measured steps of an Imperial Guard. These were heavy and aggressive, each stomp making the floorboards tremble beneath me. The temperature in my bedchamber seemed to drop instantly. A cold, suffocating scent of ice and raw leather pushed through the cracks in the broken door, drowning out the faint traces of Jace’s ozone and my own wild honey. Callan. Jace’s jaw tightened, and his eyes immediately snapped toward the do

Elouera Stirling didn’t take me to the dungeon. He didn’t call the Imperial Guards either. He grabbed my wrist and twisted it hard. The pain made my fingers open, and the poisoned dagger fell from my hand before it could touch his coat. Then he grabbed my other arm and held it tightly. He didn’t say a word. He pulled me out of the cold aviary and dragged me toward the North Tower. We went down a narrow, dark spiral staircase. I could barely see anything as he pulled me deeper into the darkness. Every step sent a sharp wave of pain through me. My broken rib hurt badly under the tight bandages, while Holden’s poison still burned through my body, fighting against the medicine. By the time Stirling kicked open the heavy oak doors at the bottom of the stairs, I was struggling to breathe. Dark spots filled my vision, and I could barely see. We spilled into the Imperial Archives. The old, forgotten room smelled of rotten leather, old paper, and dust. But a few seconds later, Stirling

Jace Corowa The curved surgical needle punched through the thick edge of my palm with a wet, biting crunch. I didn't flinch. I sat on the edge of the narrow iron cot in my private quarters, staring blankly at the stone wall as I pulled the heavy black thread tight. Fresh blood instantly welled up, spilling over the fresh stitch to run down my wrist, but I ignored it. I tied off the knot with my teeth, cut the excess thread with my hunting knife, and reached for the bottle of harsh medicinal alcohol sitting on the crate beside me. I poured it directly over the jagged, three-inch gash bisecting my right hand. The chemical burn was blinding, a searing white hot agony that finally managed to cut through the deafening roar of my own pulse. I dropped the empty bottle. I leaned my elbows on my knees, burying my face in my good hand, and dragged in a ragged, shuddering breath. I was losing my mind. I was the Commander of the Imperial Guard. I had spent twelve brutal years clawing my wa

Elouera I didn't move. My spine remained perfectly rigid against the heavy oak door of my bedchamber, my fingers digging so hard into the fabric of my dark cloak that my knuckles ached. Archduke Holden didn’t shout. He didn’t call for the guards standing just fifty feet down the stone corridor. He simply sat in his wheeled chair, the bloody leather of Jace’s bracer resting on his lap right next to the torn strip of my cheap silk shirt. "I am not a patient man, Elouera," Holden murmured. The use of my true name, a name that had been buried in the dirt of the royal cemetery eight years ago felt like a physical blow to my stomach. "I don't know what you're talking about," I lied. My voice was a ragged, pathetic scrape. Holden sighed. It was a hollow, disappointed sound. He slowly reached into the inner breast pocket of his tailored velvet coat and withdrew a small, dark glass vial. He popped the cork with his thumb and tipped a single, heavy black pill into his palm. It didn't look

Elouera The air in the Under Market smelled of wet coal, roasted burnt coffee, and old sewage.I kept my head down, pulling my oilskin hood farther over my face so the flickering shadows of the underground streets could hide me. Every step across the wet cobblestones felt like a struggle against my own body. The terrible heat caused by Holden's black pill had faded into a dull fever, but my skin was still painfully sensitive. Even my linen shirt brushing against it felt rough, like sandpaper.Stirling and Callan's fight in the gallery had given me the small chance I needed. While the two Alphas were arguing over rules and bloodlines, I slipped away through the forgotten sewage tunnels and made my way into the hidden parts of the city.I was running out of time.The pill Holden had forced down my throat wasn't a suppressant. It wasn't just causing a temporary reaction. My body was changing.Deep inside my stomach, a strange cold feeling was spreading through me. It pushed against the