All Chapters of The Alpha King’s Secret Heir: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

Evander's Point of ViewForty-eight hours since a five-year-old walked out of a locked room on my third floor. Forty-eight hours since someone put an arrow through my mate. I've slept eleven of them, in three-hour pieces, in the chair beside her bed, and the rest I've spent on my feet, and I'm no closer to a name than I was on the gravel in the rain.I stand at the head of the long table in the war room with both fists planted on the wood. Between my hands lie a map, three reports, a cup of coffee that went cold at dawn, and a photograph of the clearing where she fell. The window behind me is open an inch. A damp wind comes through it and stirs the corner of the map.They've all come. Wayne stands by the door with his arms folded. Kyle's at his shoulder, pale and unshaven, with the stiff, stunned look of a man who stood outside a locked door for twenty minutes and has replayed it ever since. Troy is seated. Elliot leans against the wall by the filing cabinet with a notebook in his han

Evander's Point of ViewI'm moving before she falls. One moment I'm standing in the middle of the room with my hand still open from the throw, and the next I've crossed the tile in three strides and caught her under the arms as her knees give, and her whole weight comes against my chest. She's so light. She weighs nothing. Her head rolls back over my elbow, her hair swinging, her mouth slack."Amma."Nothing, just her heart beating so fast."Amma. Amma!"Her skin is cold. That's what gets me. I've held her twice in the last three days, once bleeding and once breathing, and each time she's burned like a fever. Now she's cold as a stone left out overnight, and the tube from the drip pulls free of her hand and swings, spattering the floor with clear fluid."Help!" I'm shouting. I don't recognize the voice. "Someone get a doctor! Doctor!""Amma!"It's Jeremy. He's staggered upright against the far bed with a hand at his throat, wheezing, his collar torn, a thin red mark across his neck wh

Noah's Point of ViewNever in my fucking life have I met someone as stupid as this fucking doctor.I'm dragging her down the corridor by the wrist, and she's still talking. She hasn't stopped since the door closed. She has her heels dug in and her free hand pawing at mine, and she's telling me in a low, furious hiss exactly what I can do with my grip and which body part I might put it in.‘She said it to his face,’ my wolf says.‘I heard.’‘I like it.’I almost miss a step. ‘What?’‘I'm saying I like it.’ He's laughing. It's a delighted laugh that I rarely hear from him. ‘Did you see her?’‘She's an idiot for trying to stand up to Evander,’ I retort, pissed that my wolf finds this amusing.‘She's ours.’‘Shut up.’"Let go of me!"The corridor opens on a half-landing, a dead end with a fire door and a rack of folded blankets, and nobody around. The lamp over the stairs is out. I swing her round in front of me and put her against the wall.It's not so hard that I hurt her. But I place a

Amma's Point of ViewWaking up feels like climbing out of a well with stones in my pockets.First the weight, my arms, my legs, my head, all of it pressed into the mattress as though someone has poured lead into my bones. Then the dry mouth, the taste of metal. Then a faint ache in my chest, dull now, though.Something moves beside the bed, and I try to force my eyes to open.A chair creaks. A page turns. And a voice, low and tired and familiar, says, "If you're awake, I can tell, so you might as well open your eyes."I smile before I've done it because I know that impatient tone."Hey," I croak. "You.""Hey, you."Mirabel's sitting by the bed with a magazine open on her knee and her shoes off, her stockinged feet tucked up under her on the chair. She's changed her cardigan. Her hair is clean and bundled up in a knot, and there's a plastic bag of fruit on the bedside table, a paper cup, a tray with a lid."How long?" I ask."Most of the day. It's evening. You're due another bag in an

Evander's Point of View"Who are you working for?"Jeremy doesn't answer. He sits in the iron chair at the center of the cellar with his wrists bound behind him and his head hanging, and a thread of spit and blood swings from his lower lip. The bulb overhead buzzes. Water drips somewhere in the dark behind him, and the room smells of damp stone and rust and sweat.I crouch in front of him. I take his chin and lift it."I'll ask again.""I don't know what you're talking about."His voice is a croak. His left eye has swollen to a slit. There's a long bruise darkening along his jaw, and his shirt has been torn open at the collar, and the neat, rumpled man who sat in my mate's room is nowhere in the face I'm looking at."Who sent you?""Nobody.""Who paid you?""Nobody sent me. I came with her. You know I came with her."I stand. I step back.Troy, by the door, doesn't move. He's got his arms folded and his eyes on the wall above my head, and I can feel him not looking at me. He's seen me