Chapter 487

I shifted my gaze to Duncan Whitaker, who stood near the door. The Beta was deathly pale, his eyes fixed on the floor, trembling under the weight of a secret that was clearly tearing him apart.

I didn’t say another word to my Alpha. I grabbed Duncan by the lapels of his tailored suit, shoved him backward through the heavy oak doors, and slammed them shut behind us.

Out in the cold light of the hallway, I slammed Duncan against the marble wall, my forearm pressing hard against his collarbone.

“What is wrong with him, Duncan?” I snarled, my inner wolf surging forward and demanding the truth. “Tell me right now, or I swear to the Goddess I will tear it out of you.”

Duncan didn’t fight back. The psychological dam holding him together simply shattered. A broken sob tore from his throat, and tears spilled over his lashes.

“It’s the silver from Aleppo,” Duncan choked out, his voice a devastated whisper. “It’s in his marrow. It’s irreversibly destroying his Lycan soul. His organs are failing, Vance. Alistair can’t stop it.”

The marble wall behind me suddenly felt like the only thing keeping me upright.

“And Adella?” I breathed, the horrifying pieces clicking into place. “The public rejection? Yara?”

“A lie,” Duncan wept, shaking his head. “All of it. He thinks hate is a cleaner wound than grief. He wants her to move on—not be chained to a dying King.”

I released Duncan’s jacket and stepped back as the world tilted on its axis. The sheer, noble, suicidal stupidity of it crushed the breath from my lungs. Our Alpha King was systematically destroying his own reputation, his mate-bond, and his soul—just to build a fortress of hatred around the woman he loved, so she could survive his death.

Adella’s POV

Four hours into my new job at the University’s Historical Archives Restoration Lab, I finally felt a fraction of my soul go quiet. The room smelled of old parchment, iron gall ink, and dust—a stark, comforting contrast to the suffocating atmosphere of the werewolf elite.

I leaned over a scarred oak table, carefully brushing debris from an ancient Pack treaty. Across the room, Finn, a bespectacled human graduate assistant, was quietly cataloging a stack of medieval texts. He had no inner wolf, no hidden agendas. It was peaceful.

Then the harsh vibration of my burner phone shattered the silence.

I glanced at the screen. Braydon Hyde.

My stomach churned. I hit decline immediately, but a second later a text message illuminated the glass.

“The Elders are asking questions about your parents’ estate, Addie. Without an Alpha’s protection, things could get… complicated. I’m the only one who knows the truth.”