All Chapters of My Husband’s Brother Is My Mate?!: Chapter 151 - Chapter 160

"You look tired," Corvin said.It was the strangest thing. In the violet glow of the burning stone, with the dark pressing down like a lid and the whole valley screaming behind him, he stood easy and relaxed, his hands loose, his head tilted. He might have been greeting a guest at a garden party."I have been busy," I said."So have I."He glanced past my shoulder. His pale eyes passed over Rhys, who stood with his sword drawn and his jaw set. Over Kestrel, crouched at my left with a knife in each fist. Over the dozen Redfang warriors with their guttering torches. And finally over the small, frail group at my center.Maeve. Ryn. Dov. Elowen.His gaze stopped on the old woman."Ah," he said softly. "One of the originals."Maeve lifted her head.She was standing. I do not know how. Her face was the color of old candle wax, and her thin chest rose and fell in short, laboring gasps. But her silver eyes were clear, and fixed on Corvin's face with a terrible, quiet attention."I know you,"

(Cain's point of view)I had held a line before.I had held a hundred. I had stood on the northern border in a winter blizzard with a sword in my hand and no wolf in my chest, while rogues came over the ridge in the dark. I had held a village against a dozen. I had held a pack for eleven years.But I had never held a line like this.The ridge ran for half a mile along the western rim of the valley. A long, curved spine of rock and birch, with a steep drop on one side and a steeper slope on the other. Three thousand wolves were strung along it, crouched behind boulders and fallen trees, with their weapons ready and their faces gray.Below us, in the violet gloom, the Hollow Pack was dying.I will not describe it. I have tried, in my dreams, to forget. A vast tide of white-eyed wolves, streaming toward the stone, falling into the cracks, vanishing in silent flashes of violet. Thousands. They did not scream. They did not resist. They only ran, and fell, and were gone.And the ones we had

She had known.I understood that now, in the long, shimmering instant before it began. She had known from the moment she sat up in that healer's tent and said, Take me to the stone. She had known when she told me the price would fall on the Warden. She had known all along that the oldest silver wolf would not walk away.She had never meant to."Maeve," I whispered."Hush, child." She did not open her eyes. "Do not spoil it.""You said...""I said what you could bear." A faint, wry smile. "I have been doing it all my life.""I did not want...""I know." Her fingers tightened on mine. "It is a good price. A fair one. I have had a very long life, and most of it was a cage. I would like the end to be a song."I could not speak. I could only hold her hand.She began to sing.She did it with everything she had. I felt it, a vast, deep, rushing pour of strength, flooding up out of her small frame and into the air. The thin note that had been a thread became a river. It rose. It spread. It fi

I saw Corvin lifted off the ground.It happened in a slow, dreamlike blur. The black sphere tore itself out of his hand and shot toward the stone, and the cord of shadow connecting it to his chest snapped taut. His boots left the grass. His silver cloak streamed behind him like a banner. His face, in the white glare, was still and almost peaceful.He did not struggle.He only whispered something, a single word, so low that I did not hear it. His eyes were fixed on a point in the empty air, a few feet from the stone, as though he were looking at someone I could not see."Uncle!" Rhys shouted.He lunged.He caught Corvin's boot in both hands and held on. For one long, straining moment, he hung there, his feet skidding on the grass, his face white with effort. The pull dragged them both. Rhys's knuckles whitened. His shoulder, the wounded one, tore open. Blood ran down his arm."Let go!" I screamed. "Rhys! Let go!""I cannot...""Let him go!""He will die!""I know!"Rhys shut his eyes.

They buried Maeve on the third day.There was no body. She had gone to the Moon in a shower of silver sparks, and the stone had taken every one. But there was her blanket, a thin gray wool thing, threadbare at the edges. There was her walking stick, a plain length of birch wood worn smooth by thirty years of hands. There was a long silver braid of hair, cut from the end of her plait by Ryn that last night, and kept.We laid them in a shallow grave beside Alina's cairn.It was a bright, clear, windless morning. The sky was a deep blue. The grass was green and wet with dew. The birches along the stream shimmered in the light. It looked like the first day of the world.Three thousand wolves stood on the hillside in silence.Redfang. Ashford. Blackthorne. The Court's riders. The Eastern Hills. Beyond them, in a wide ragged crescent across the slope, stood seven thousand of the freed, thin and shabby and bewildered, wrapped in borrowed cloaks, with their children at their knees.They had c