Novel & Cerita Matriarch

My mate. My mate? A werewolf? The moon goddess must be mocking me. First, she took my brother. Then my mother, took my family? She kept me without a mate for a thousand years, only to choose a mate for me from my enemies. That’s most likely ridiculous, cruel, and insane. “Let me check this room. You should go and handle the others,” Charles suggested. I nodded my head and went to the other side. I don’t think I'm ready to face my mate. Not yet. Not when the bond felt like a storm in my chest.

She stepped into the light of the searchlights, the emeralds in her tiara flashing. "Mr. D’Amici," Elara said, her voice projecting to the back of the crowd. "I am Elara Thorne, the Matriarch of this House, recognized by the Council of Five Families as of three hours ago." Cesare inclined his head slightly. "A beautiful bride. But a mother’s feelings do not override a Patriarch’s contract."

Heads turned toward Elara, then back to Ariana. “My son?” someone whispered. Robert stepped forward, fury flashing. “You mean to replace—” “Replace?” Ariana’s laugh was velvet and venom. “I simply recognize strength where it lives. An heir should be…stable.” Her eyes focused on Elara’s scorched fingertips. “Not… combustible.” Derek chuckled under his breath. “Ice meets fire. Delicious.” Elara’s heart thundered. The goddess stirred, molten and eager. Heat crawled up her arms, begging to ignite.

I had spent years wondering whether the memory of her was even real. My fingers went cold. “No.” The wolf laughed. “What's wrong?” I didn't answer. I stepped closer and took the paper from his hand. The woman in the picture wore a dark ceremonial dress, her expression cold and commanding. Around her were the symbols of Moonstone, and beneath the image were several words. ANATORIA — MATRIARCH OF MOONSTONE. My heart slammed against my ribs. Matriarch. I looked at the picture again. Then back at the palace rising beyond the street. My mother.

I needed to see what was on that drive. ​But as I reached for it, the door to the suite swung open. ​I shoved the drive into my pocket just as a tall, elegant woman walked in. She looked like an older, more lethal version of Liam. Her white hair was pulled back into a bun so tight it looked painful, and her pearls glowed like predatory eyes. ​Eleanor Sterling. The Matriarch. ​She didn't look at me. She looked at the children playing on the floor. Her gaze landed on Mia, and her face contorted into something resembling physical pain.

"You’re not a 'Functional Asset' anymore. You’re just a man with a hammer." He gestured toward a small, isolated shack at the edge of the cavern. "Take your woman and the boy. You have your week. But don't get comfortable. The Matriarch doesn't just use the grid to find people. She uses the 'Legacy.' And you brought it right into my house."

The Matriarch of the auxiliary line the old female currently celebrating her sixty-winter cycle—swept into the sector, flanked by a defensive wall of blade-warriors and bloodline descendants. "Grandmother! A completely rabid stray has breached the inner sanctum!" Sorelle Mistfang wailed, launching her physical form directly to the old female’s flank. The old matriarch, a lifelong border mistress who prided herself on preserving her youthful pheromonal allure, retained pitch-black hair strands despite her sixty winters and projected the arrogant, untouchable aura of old territory wealth. She deployed a withering, lethal evaluatio

I turned slowly back to the wooden wheelchair sitting beneath the looming shade of the ancient ironwood tree. Sitting in the chair was the Matriarch of House Argyros—the high elder who held the final power to break or seal the sacred mate bond between me and the Supreme Alpha. "Gorgo..." the old matriarch whispered, her fragile, withered hands trembling against the carved armrests.

Ophelia Rook's voice answered from the study doorway, and every head in the room turned in startled surprise as the Council Matriarch stepped inside, flanked by two of her own guards, her expression grave despite the exhaustion visibly carved into her own features from the journey. "Matriarch," Damian said, rising quickly. "We weren't expecting—" "I imagine not," Ophelia said, settling into the offered chair with the careful, deliberate movements of someone whose entire body ached from days of hard travel. "I came the moment word reached me of the attack on the ruins, and I brought something I think this room needs to see, given

M. The pieces were finally locking together, but they didn't form a picture I wanted to see. My mother wasn't a victim who had escaped a fire. She was the one running the ledger. She was the Matriarch. And Julian wasn't a savior; he was just a warehouse manager keeping an eye on the inventory.