Chapter 610
He spun his wheelchair with brutal force, positioning his own body as a shield between the lethal trajectory and the rest of us. In the same breath, his hand shot out to the bar cart beside him, fingers closing around a heavy crystal decanter.
With pure, explosive Lycan instinct, he hurled it like a bullet.
CRASH.
The heavy crystal collided perfectly with the obsidian vial in midair. A shower of deadly yellow liquid rained down onto the lawn. The grass instantly blackened and melted, hissing with soul-burning smoke.
A few drops splattered onto Dosha’s ankle. She collapsed, unleashing a blood-curdling scream as her Inner Wolf howled in agonizing torment. The Dire Guard swarmed her in seconds, pinning her to the ruined earth.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by Dosha’s pathetic whimpers.
Sloane slowly stepped out from behind Anson. She stared down at the writhing woman, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears, her posture rigid with finality.
“You are a monster,” Sloane said, her voice trembling but carrying clearly across the lawn. “In the name of the Moon Goddess, I reject you. You are no longer my mother. I sever this bloodline tonight.”
Dosha sobbed, reaching out, but Sloane turned her back completely.
Suddenly, Elder Malcolm scrambled out from the terrified crowd. He dropped to his knees beside Dallas’s wheelchair, his face pale with terror, and grabbed the metal wheel with both hands, tears streaming down his wrinkled face.
“Alpha King, please,” Malcolm begged, his Inner Wolf cowering. “Speak to the Justicars. For the stability of the Pack, we can handle this internally. Don’t let them take her—”
Dallas looked down at the Elder with absolute, freezing disgust.
“She used a silver weapon against my Mate and my allies on Pack grounds,” Dallas said, his voice devoid of mercy. “That is high treason. And you, Malcolm, are a coward. Get out of my sight before I let Ragnar tear your throat out.”
Malcolm recoiled as if physically struck, crumpling into a pathetic heap as the Justicars dragged Dosha toward their flashing vehicles.
Anson Fowler slowly turned to Dallas. The arrogant smirk was gone, replaced by a look of genuine, grudging respect. “I still hate your guts, Marshall,” Anson muttered. “But that throw was incredibly impressive.”
Dallas ignored him completely. He spun his wheelchair around, his eyes frantically scanning the patio until they locked onto me. The cold Alpha King vanished, replaced by a desperate, terrified mate.
“Adella?” he demanded, his voice rough as he reached out for me. “Are you okay? Did any of it touch you?”
Dallas POV
“I’m fine, Dallas. Not a drop touched me,” Adella whispered, her hands frantically checking my arms and face.
The suffocating terror in my chest finally receded, leaving behind a cold, lethal clarity. Dosha was gone, handed over to the Justicars. But there was one last loose end to sever.
I left Adella in the safety of the Warriors and wheeled myself down the corridor to the private study. The heavy mahogany doors were wide open. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old parchment, leather, and the sour, acrid stench of pure despair.
.
.