Breed Me Cursed Alpha (Lyra and Ronan) novel Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Lyra

Warm.

That’s the first thing I feel.

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Not burning, not aching, not the desperate, clawing need that ripped through me for days. Just…warmth. Gentle. Bearable.

Human.

I blink up at the ceiling. The ever–present gloom of Blackfang presses just beyond the warded lanterns–dim witchlight floating in the corners, casting slow–moving shadows. There is no sun here. Just layered darkness and the low, patient glow of magic.

I shift, waiting for the familiar violent drag of heat to hit.

Nothing happens.

No sharp ache. No frantic pulse. No desperation.

Just a dull echo where the fire used to be.

My heart stutters. I press a hand to my stomach, half–afraid I might jinx it.

Still nothing.

1 exhale shakily. “Okay,” I whisper. “That’s…new.”

A movement beside the bed catches my eye.

The mattress dips beside me. I turn–and immediately forget how to think.

Ronan sits there, one arm draped over the back of the chair he’s pulled close. He’s wearing a dark shirt now, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair tousled like he dragged his hands through it a hundred times last night. A thin scar cuts along his forearm, disappearing beneath fabric. His eyes are darker than sleep, brighter than hunger, and every line of him looks like carved protection.

Faint witchlight traces the lines of his face–strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, mouth that still remembers my kiss.

And unfortunately, he is fully clothed.

Tragic.

He notices my staring, a flicker of amusement touching his mouth. “You’re awake,” he says quietly, voice low and roughened by disuse.

I would bottle that voice and drink it if I could..

My wolf gives a sleepy, satisfied stretch, and that’s when it slams back into me–the memory of her, surging up from somewhere beneath my ribs, whispering one word with absolute certainty.

Mate.

My body reacts before my brain can catch up. I jerk upright with a gasp, momentum sending me tipping dangerously toward the edge of the bed.

12:13 Tue, Feb 3 w

Chapter 12

Ronan moves faster than air.

One hand catches the small of my back, the other gripping the mattress to anchor us both.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “Good morning.”

Good morning.

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The sound of his voice tugs at something low in my stomach–but this time the pull isn’t wild and panicked. It’s slower. Heavy. Entirely mine.

Not heat.

Want.

Pure and unforced and undeniably mine.

I press a hand to my heart, half–expecting it to burst. “My heat,” I croak. “It’s gone. What–did you put something in the food? A suppressant? Drugs?”

His brow creases. “No.”

“Then how…?” I trail off, lost.

His expression softens into something that could break me if I let it.

“You slept,” he says. “For a long time. Forty–five hours.”

I stare at him. “I–what?”

He nods once. “Your body shut down. First real sleep you’ve had in…how long?”

I open my mouth.

I close it.

He answers for me.

“You were never safe before,” he says quietly. “Not enough to let your guard down. Not enough for your wolf to rest.” His gaze holds mine steady, a tether I didn’t know I needed. “But she knows now. You’re not a slave anymore. You’re not prey. You’re home.”

That word hits like a punch.

Home.

In a cursed fortress. With a cursed alpha. After a curse of a life.

But…it doesn’t feel wrong.

It feels right in a way that terrifies me.

Ronan clears his throat and stands, offering a hand. “You must be starving. There’s lunch in the gardens.”

Gardens?

I let him pull me up and somehow don’t melt into a puddle. His palm is warm around mine, calloused but careful. Too careful, like he’s afraid I might shatter if he grips too tight.

12:13 Tue, Feb 3

Chapter 12

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He leads me through quiet corridors until twilight spills across broken stone steps. Ivy climbs the walls, flowers pushing stubbornly between cracks. The garden sprawls in remnants of forgotten beauty–statues weathered but proud, archways swallowed in vines, fountains asleep under moss.

“The land used to bloom under my mother’s touch,” Ronan says softly beside me. “She tended every inch. When the curse hit…her spirit wasn’t strong enough to stay solid like Emma. The garden lost its heart.”

“The pack’s getting stronger,” he says. “They can shape more. Hold longer. Yesterday I saw my mother’s form for more than a heartbeat. First time in decades.”

A pang tugs at me. “I’m glad,” I say softly. “That you got that.”

His eyes meet mine. “It’s not a coincidence,” he says. “The land knows. The curse knows. You’re here, Lyra. Things are shifting.”

Because I’m his mate.

Because I didn’t die.

Because there’s a future where maybe, just maybe, this place is more than a haunted fortress and a sentence.

We reach a small wrought–iron table near what might once have been a fountain. Now the basin is dry, but tiny glowing flowers have rooted in the cracks.

On the table sit a jug of cloudy lemonade and a plate of scones, steam curling faintly in the cold, dim air.

My stomach growls loud enough to make Ronan almost smile.

I sink into the chair. He stays standing for a second, watching me like he’s memorizing the sight of me eating.

He finally sits across from me, posture relaxed but still alert. Always alert.

I tear into a scone, buttery and sweet, and moan before I can stop it.

His eyes darken.

I pretend not to notice.

“These are delicious,” I say instead..

“It’s a very serious ancient recipe,” he says, face solemn, eyes nearly smiling. “Step one: ask the omegas nicely.”

“Step two,” I say, “don’t die of hunger before you eat them.”

His gaze flickers to my mouth. “That too.”

Warmth spreads through me that has nothing to do with the food.

“So,” I say between bites. “You told Trade Sport I was your mate.”

He doesn’t flinch. “I did.”

My pulse stumbles. “Because of the curse?”

“Because it’s true.”

Oh

The world tips a little. I grip the edge of the table.

12:13 Tue, Feb 3 G.

Chapter 12

w

“You don’t even know me.”

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“I know enough.” He holds my gaze without hesitation. “I know your wolf recognized me first. I know you fought your whole life to survive. I know you choose what you feel, even when it scares you.” His eyes soften. “I know you taste like sin.”

I forget how to breathe.

Heat curls low in my belly–my heat, not the forced one. Want, not desperation.

I look down at my lemonade before I drown in him.

“Thank you,” I whisper. “For not…taking advantage.”

His jaw ticks at the word. “I wanted to,” he admits. “Gods, I wanted to. But you deserved choice, not instinct.”

I swallow hard.

“And now?” I ask, voice too small. “Now that my head is clear?”

His smile is slow and devastating. “Now…you keep eating. Because the decisions coming next require a full stomach.”

Before I can respond, a sharp crackle of energy ripples across the garden.

The air flickers like a light struggling to stay on.

A boy materializes near the gate–flickering in and out like static. Young, maybe fifteen. Breathless. Terrified.

His form barely holds. “Alpha,” he gasps. “Alpha Blackfang-”

Ronan is already up, chair scraping stone.

“What is it?” His voice drops to steel.

The boy’s outline spasms, stabilizing only long enough for the message to tear free:

“Alpha Kane’s at the border.”

Every drop of sweetness turns to ice on my tongue.

My heart goes silent.

Marcus. My deadbeat father.

Fuck!