The Wolf King's Reluctant Mate

Chapter 7: Treason

If my blood can heal a wolf, what could it do for a dying human?

That single, desperate question pervaded my mind; it wasn't a logical choice; it was a primal instinct, clawing its way up from the deepest part of my soul.

Before Rowan could stop me, I grabbed a sharp silver scalpel from the medical tray and dragged it deep across the palm of my left hand.

Because my wolf was fully awake, my invulnerability fought back. The skin resisted for a split second before the sharp silver sliced through, releasing a thick, heavy stream of liquid.

It wasn't normal, dark-crimson blood. The fluid glowed with a luminous, ethereal shimmer, and an intoxicating scent of raw celestial power filled the air.

Darius gasped, his knees buckling as if hit by a physical wave of pressure. He collapsed to the stone floor, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and religious awe. "The blood of life..." he whispered, his voice trembling.

I jammed my bleeding palm directly over the deep, jagged tears marring Sarlen’s chest. The cold replacing his fading body heat shocked my skin.

I pressed down with all my body weight, leaning over the table, forcing my glowing blood to seep directly into his open wounds, driving it straight toward his paralyzed heart.

"Adele, stop! It will drain you!" Rowan’s voice roared through the room, laced with a panic I had never heard from the Alpha King before.

Before I could reply, his powerful arms wrapped around my waist, his muscles straining as he attempted to yank me backward.

"Let me go!" I screamed, the sound tearing from my throat as tears finally blurred my vision. I kicked and thrashed against his iron grip, refusing to let my hand slip from Sarlen's chest.

The golden light from my palm was already spreading, branching out across Sarlen’s pale skin like wildfire, mapping his veins in a brilliant, glowing grid of celestial energy. It was rewriting him from the inside out.

"Live, damn you! LIVE!" I shouted at the silent man, pouring every ounce of my soul, my wolf, and my life force into the wound.

A massive, blinding flash of golden light exploded from Sarlen's chest. The sheer force threw both Rowan and me completely backward. We crashed heavily onto the cold stone floor.

Then, the room went dead silent. The only sound was the ringing in my ears.

I scrambled back to my feet, my boots slipping slightly on the smooth stone. My chest heaved as I stared at the table through the dissipating golden smoke. Sarlen’s body suddenly convulsed, arching violently off the mattress.

A massive, ragged gasp of air tore from his throat, a sound so desperate it sounded like a drowning man breaking the surface of the ocean.

His eyes flew wide open. His irises, which had always been a gentle, familiar human grey, suddenly flashed with a luminescent, predatory gold.

Beside the bed, the metal pulse monitor beeped once, paused, and then began to strike a frantic, rhythmic pace.

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

He was alive. Relief washed over me for a fraction of a second, but it was instantly crushed by horror as I took a step forward.

Sarlen gave out a harsh, tremor-producing roar. It wasn't the sound of a human man or a normal werewolf.

His fingernails elongated into dark, razor-sharp claws that tore through the fabric of the medical bed.

Right before our eyes, the mortal wounds on his chest knitted together, the shredded flesh closing and healing completely in a matter of seconds, leaving behind nothing but smooth, unblemished skin.

He looked down at his hands, his chest rising and falling in rapid pants, absolute terror reflecting in his newly turned golden eyes.

My blood hadn't just saved his life. It had completely rewritten his species. I had created a monster.

Before my brain could even begin to process the horror of what I had done, a deafening explosion rocked the room as the heavy iron doors of the medical bay were blasted off their hinges.

Through the billowing curtain of dust and acrid smoke, Elder Eric stepped into the room. He didn't come alone.

Flanking him were fifty heavily armed executioners, their silver-plated armor gleaming menacingly in the dim light, their halberds raised. Behind the small army stood Theresa. A wicked, victorious smile played on her lips as she took in the chaotic scene.

Eric didn't look angry. Instead, his face contorted into an expression of pure, unadulterated glee. His cold grey eyes locked onto Sarlen’s glowing gold irises, tracing the claws, before shifting to my dripping, bleeding hand.

"I knew it," Eric whispered, a low snake-like hiss dripping with pure, maniacal triumph.

He slowly pulled a heavy velvet scroll from his robes, unrolling it with a sharp, dramatic snap. He didn't look at me. He looked directly at Rowan.

"By decree of the High Council, Alpha King Rowan is hereby declared mentally unfit to rule," Eric announced, his voice echoing off the stone walls like a death sentence.

For the safety of the realm, your crown is suspended, and the realm of Dravenwood is transferred to the direct management of the council."

Rowan bared his fangs, a low, rumbling growl vibrating in his chest that shook the floorboards.

He stepped directly in front of me, shielding my body with his own, his massive broadsword raised and ready to spill blood.

"You have no power here, Eric," Rowan snarled, his eyes darkening to a dangerous pitch. "I am the King. My word is law in Dravenwood."

"You were the King, Rowan," Theresa said, stepping out from behind her father's shadow with confidence. She raised a small, glittering crystal vial, swirling the translucent liquid inside. "Your physician’s secret logs have already been intercepted and copied.

Everyone in the pack knows your mind is rotting. They know about the blackouts. If you fight the council executioners now, you will be committing open treason against your own people. Your warriors are loyal, Rowan, but they won’t follow a madman into ruin."

Elder Eric ignored them both, his chilling gaze snapping directly to me.

"An undocumented anomaly who turns humans into beasts is a threat to the realm," Eric said, his eyes burning with a dark, twisted hunger. "She is a prisoner of the High Council. Take her."

At his signal, two massive executioners stepped forward, their gauntlets clinking against heavy, silver-lined suppression chains that hummed with anti-magic runes.

Rowan tightened his grip on his broadsword, his muscles locking, but Eric merely tilted his head, his voice dropping into a deadly, soft whisper.

"Drop the blade, boy," Eric warned. "If you take even one step to fight for her, we execute her new monster of a father right there on that table. Right now."

And you, former King, will spend the rest of your short, miserable life locked in a dungeon, watching us drain your fated mate until she is nothing but an empty, lifeless shell."

Rowan’s grip on the hilt of his broadsword trembled. His midnight eyes darted frantically around the room—from the silver spears pointed directly at Sarlen’s exposed throat to the guards holding the heavy chains moving steadily toward me.

Looking down at his arms, I could see the terrifying reality of our situation. The suppressed purple veins, the telltale sign of his failing mental stability under immense stress, were starting to show faintly at his wrists again, creeping up toward his forearms.

He couldn't fight without losing his mind entirely, and I couldn't run without causing Sarlen's death.

He was trapped.

We were both utterly trapped.