Chapter 591

Dallas shuddered, his gray eyes flashing molten gold. Ragnar’s silent roar echoed through my mind. Sloane’s face twisted — she hadn’t known the full extent of Dosha’s crimes.

“You bitch,” Dosha snarled, lurching forward.

Then she laughed, shrill and brittle. “Priceless. Your crippled King can’t even stand.” She snapped at her four Warriors. “Help him relax.”

Two advanced, knuckles cracking, their grins feral. Dallas released the rail, coiling for a suicidal strike in the water — spine be damned.

“Stop!” My voice cracked like thunder, Luna authority freezing them mid-step.

Dosha sneered. “Wolfless trash—”

I ignored her. I strode to the pool’s edge, grabbed a towel, and draped it over Dallas’s shoulders, my hand pressing flat and possessive against his dripping chest. His eyes met mine — raw gratitude burning beneath the fire of his pain. “Vance,” I commanded, “clear the parasites.”

Vance materialized from the doorway, his flint eyes lethal. His Warriors grabbed Dosha’s men and slammed them to the tiles.

“You have no right!” Dosha shrieked. “The Elders granted supervision!”

“You’re a leech feeding on pain,” I said, my voice ice. “You have no rights here.”

The doors groaned open again. Elder Malcolm hobbled in, his cane thumping against the wet floor. His eyes darted between Dosha and me, calculating. He had tied his fortunes to her — and now he was trapped.

“Enough!” he demanded, though his voice lacked conviction. “Apologize to Dosha for Pack peace, girl.”

Revulsion surged through me. Malcolm paled. He opened his mouth, but no defense came. Dosha had leverage over him — a secret that would ruin his family. He couldn’t back down, even as the walls closed in around him.

Boots thundered in the hallway.

Azalea stormed through the doors, ten Dire Guard Warriors at her back, silver-alloy cuffs gleaming in their hands. In seconds, Dosha’s guards were bound and howling as the silver burned their flesh.

Azalea stepped to my side, her eyes venomous as they swept the room. “Problem solved, Luna?”

Dosha and Malcolm shrank where they stood, utterly powerless. The wing fell silent — save for Dallas’s ragged breathing and the storm raging outside, promising that the worst was still to come.

Adella POV

Azalea’s Dire Guards moved with lethal precision, forming an impenetrable wall of black tactical gear around the edge of the pool and shielding Dallas and me. The steam in the hydrotherapy wing swirled thick with chlorine and the sharp tang of rising panic.

Elder Malcolm thumped his cane against the wet tiles, his face flushed with indignation. His political survival was slipping, and he was desperately clawing to take it back. “Dallas, control your Mate!” he barked, grasping at his Elder authority. “This is a Pack matter, not a stage for a wolfless girl’s tantrums.”

Dallas leaned heavily against my arm. His skin was pale, his muscles trembling from the agonizing burn of the silver in his veins — but his storm-gray eyes were pure, unyielding ice.

“Every word she speaks is my command, Malcolm,” Dallas rasped, his voice vibrating with absolute Alpha authority.

“He’s insane!” Dosha shrieked from her hover-chair, her voice cracking. “He wants to kill me!”