Claimed by the scarred Alpha

MARGAUX

Alpha Dorian caught up to me before I had put any real distance between myself and the infirmary doors. His presence announced itself with a kind of gravity that seemed to gather the corridor’s dim light around him, and when he spoke, his voice was softer than I expected, almost stripped of its usual authority.

"I did not get to thank you," he said, and there was something honest in the way he held my gaze, as if he were trying, for the first time, to address me as an equal rather than as someone to be managed or dismissed.

A first time for everything, I guessed.

I turned to face him fully, squaring my shoulders. "You do not need to thank me. I did it for Theodore, and perhaps also for my own selfish reasons. Neither of those motives requires gratitude."

He regarded me for a long moment, his expression unguarded, the usual veil of condescension absent. For once, he was simply a man speaking to another, not an Alpha addressing someone he deemed a subordinate or even lesser. I saw in his eyes the flicker of something like understanding—perhaps even remorse.

"Regardless," he replied, "it helped me." His voice carried a weight that made me believe him. After a pause, he added, "Céline has been taken into custody."

I let that information settle, feeling the complexity of it coil through my thoughts. "I am not sure that is what Theodore wanted."

"She still committed a crime," he said, his tone hardening just enough to remind me of his position. "She tried to kill me. Whatever Theodore’s wishes regarding her ultimate fate, I cannot ignore what she did. I intend to ensure that grand disrespect is not overlooked and, of course, honor his last wishes."

I nodded, slow and deliberate, absorbing the reality of the situation.

Dorian turned and walked away, his steps measured, almost cautious, as if he, too, was weighing the meaning of what had just passed between us. I watched his retreating figure and considered the strange symmetry of it all.

I fixed my gaze on the infirmary doors, the sterile white frame luminous beneath the corridor’s dim glow, and then forced myself to look away. Hope and dread tangled themselves together in my chest, and I found it easier to focus on the next necessary task than let myself linger on what I could not control.

Laurent appeared at my side, his presence as steadying as ever. He offered no empty reassurances, only a gentle promise that seemed to settle in the space between us, fragile but real. "Your mate will be alright," he said, and though I knew he could not guarantee it, I let myself believe him, if only for a heartbeat. That slender hope rooted itself in me, delicate as new growth in frost.

Then, as often happened when exhaustion finally made room for memory, another thought came rushing in—two, actually, colliding in the back of my mind and jolting me into motion. "Chris," I said aloud, startled by the urgency in my own voice. "And Shanelle. I left them in the room. I cannot believe I completely forgot about them."

I set off down the hall, Laurent falling into step beside me, and Prim’s apparition shadowing us, a silent presence only I could sense. It was a reality I would not have believed possible days ago, yet now it felt less extraordinary than simply necessary, another fact in a world that no longer obeyed its old logic.

As we walked, I directed my next question to Prim, not bothering to lower my voice. "About the marks Séverine put on those Omegas—do you think the light I used on you could break them?"

Prim’s answer came with a weary honesty that I had come to trust. "I genuinely do not know. I am mostly in the dark, the same as you are."

I pressed on, not willing to surrender to uncertainty. "The people who gave you information about whisperers and spirits... Could you reach out to them again?"

Prim shook her head, her features drawn with regret. "The rule is you cross the threshold twice. Once in unrest, once in peace. I have already made my first crossing. I cannot access that knowledge again until I am ready for the second, which is me accepting peace and ascending."

Laurent glanced over at me, brow furrowed. "What did she say?"

"She cannot help with that," I replied, pushing open the bedroom door. "Which means Chris is still under whatever Séverine put on him."

We entered a room saturated with apprehension, the air so thick with expectancy that each breath felt weighted. Shanelle stood at once, urgency propelling her across the floor before I had even crossed the threshold. Her fingers wrapped around my arms, not with aggression but with a need to ground herself, her grip steady, almost trembling. Her eyes roved over my face, searching for evidence of injury or deception, as though cataloging every nuance with methodical precision.

"Margo." She spoke my name with a tremor that betrayed the composure she fought to maintain. "I have been genuinely worried all morning. What has been happening in this estate?"

I allowed a measured pause, then spoke with a candor sharpened by fatigue. "The estate has been subject to more than you know. The most urgent piece—Séverine is a witch. Every attack, every manipulation, every accusation against Prim traces back to her."

Her disbelief flickered like a candle guttering in a draft. "But she was the one attacked."

Laurent’s voice entered, calm yet edged with the knowledge of a man who has seen too much. "She orchestrated the attack herself, a performance intended to mislead us. The crisis is contained now." He motioned toward Chris, a subtle gesture that redirected the current of attention. "Mostly."

Shanelle’s attention snapped to her brother, anxiety threading her posture. "What does ’mostly’ mean?"

"Séverine placed a spell on Chris," I replied. The words felt heavy, as if confessing a betrayal. "I do not know its full consequences. I cannot say how or when he will recover."

At my side, Prim’s spectral form materialized, her voice a quiet echo. "It is a seal of silence. He bears a mark of sacrifice, but the seal is what binds him."

I turned, focusing on Prim, seeking a clarity that seemed just beyond reach. "Explain. What does that mean? What does it actually do?"

Shanelle’s alarm surfaced, sharp and immediate. "Margo, who are you speaking to?"

Laurent answered for me, his tone gentle yet unyielding. "A spirit."

The word hung between us, reframing the impossible as undeniable fact. Shanelle blinked, momentarily at a loss. "A spirit?"

I lifted my hand, the practiced gesture that had become my shield against the avalanche of questions I could not answer yet.

Prim continued, matter-of-fact in her otherworldly way. "The seal forces secrecy. If he attempts to speak what it hides, the spell resists, inflicting pain."

Without further hesitation, I moved to Chris. He sat slumped against the wall, face shadowed with exhaustion, the lines around his eyes deepening with both guilt and the fragile relief of seeing me alive.

"Did you discover something about Séverine?" I asked.

He nodded, mouth opening on a word that never formed. In an instant, crimson sigils ignited across his throat, and he doubled over, hand clawing at his neck as if to tear away an invisible collar.

I watched the struggle, waiting until the spasm subsided, studying him for the truth he could not utter aloud.

"You knew," I said, voice reduced to a hush. "You already understood what she was, long before this morning forced us to see it."

He held my gaze, pupils shadowed with knowledge that pressed against the boundaries of his silence, anguish flickering in the tautness of his jaw.

"What else do you know? What else did you uncover?" My voice sounded foreign to my own ears, brittle with hope and dread entwined.

He managed a single word, or a fragment of one—"The Archam—"—before his body convulsed, every muscle straining in rebellion. His skin flushed, the veins at his temples standing out as he struggled to articulate the truth the spell refused to release. The effort left him gasping, defeated.

A chill unspooled through my core, spreading outward in deliberate, merciless increments.

Archambault. He had tried to speak the name.

Did he know Theodore was actually Étienne?

Fuck! That had to make sense.