Chapter 310

Chapter 310:

I froze. Dallas shifted beside me, his body radiating a heat that was both protective and dangerous.

“Who said?” I asked.

“Young Mr. Hyde,” Mr. Henderson said, nodding approvingly. “Such a loyal lad, that one. A true Alpha p>

The name hung in the air like a foul odor. I felt Dallas’s hand tighten on my waist, his claws threatening to break through the fabric of my shirt.

“Braydon?” My voice was barely a whisper.

“Aye,” the old man continued, oblivious to the suffocating tension around him. He gestured to the bouquet of white flowers resting against my parents’ headstone — flowers I had been too distraught to examine closely before. “Every week for ten years. Rain, snow, or shine. He never missed a Sunday. Always brings those — what do you call them? Moonflowers p>

My stomach lurched violently. Moonflowers. My scent. The scent that drove wolves mad, the scent Braydon had always claimed was his drug.

Reаd t𝘩e 𝗅𝖺𝗍еs𝘁 𝗍𝗿e𝘯𝖽𝗌 on

“He sits there for hours,” Mr. Henderson rambled on, mistaking my horror for awe. “Talks to your folks like they’re still here. Tells them about his plans for you. How he’s keeping you safe in his heart.” He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Just last week, he was kneeling right where you are now. I heard him asking your father for a blessing. He said p>

Mr. Henderson paused, leaning in as if sharing a heartwarming secret. “He said he finally ‘broke you enough to mold you.’ Said you were finally ready to be the wife he made you to be p>

The world stopped.

Broke you enough to mold you.

It wasn’t love. It had never been love. It was a project. A sickness. For ten years, while I was running and fighting to survive, he had been coming here — to the only family I had left — desecrating their memory with his twisted fantasies of ownership. He didn’t want a mate. He wanted a doll.

A wave of bile rose in my throat. I looked at the moonflowers on the grave. They didn’t look beautiful anymore. They looked like chains — shackles painted white.

“Adella,” Dallas’s voice was a low rumble, a grounding force in the spinning chaos of my mind. He smelled of ozone and impending violence. “Breathe p>

But I couldn’t breathe. Not while those flowers were touching my parents.

I broke away from Dallas and lunged at the grave. My hands, trembling with a rage so pure it felt like fire, snatched the bouquet of moonflowers. The stems snapped audibly in the cemetery’s silence.

“Adella?” Mr. Henderson took a startled step back.

I didn’t answer him. I marched to the metal trash bin near the entrance, my grip so tight the thorns bit into my palms and drew blood. I didn’t feel the pain. I only felt the need to purge him from this holy place.

With a guttural cry, I hurled the flowers into the bin. They landed among the decaying leaves and trash — exactly where they belonged.