Breed Me Cursed Alpha (Lyra and Ronan) novel Chapter 7

Chapter 7

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Ronan

I don’t move until her heartbeat slows.

On the other side of the door, Lyra’s breathing evens out, the sharp little sounds of her heat easing into something softer.

I push away from the wood and force my feet to carry me down the corridor.

.A

The fortress stirs as I move through it- shapes flicker in the corners of my vision. A hand smoothing a torn tapestry. A broom sweeping a floor that never really stays clean.

My pack.

Not ghosts. Not truly alive either.

Emma appears at my elbow without warning, as usual. One second the hall is empty, the next she slips out of a pillar, braids swinging, eyes too bright for someone who isn’t fully solid.

“You look awful,” she says cheerfully. “She loud, or are you just that tired of celibacy?”

“Good morning, Emma,” I mutter.

She grins, completely unrepentant, and half–phases through a cracked suit of armor, metal passing through her like water. “We all felt it, you know. The wards flaring. The heat. The way you parked yourself outside her door all night like a loyal hound.”

I keep walking. “Just making sure the chamber holds.”

“Mm–hm. And definitely not because you like listening to her say your name.”

I stop. “Emma.”

“What? She does. It’s cute.”

I grind my teeth and push into the old kitchen.

It wakes up around me.

Chairs that had been slumped and dusty stand straighter. Pots hanging from the ceiling gleam a little brighter. And my pack -my omegas, my cooks, my cleaners–sharpen into focus.

Lena is at the long table, hands busy kneading dough that isn’t really there, forearms dusted with flour that never quite lands. Mira stirs a pot over an unlit hearth, steam rising anyway. For a few heartbeats, the curse lets them be almost whole- color in their cheeks, edges solid.

“Alpha,” Lena says, smiling wide enough that it aches to see. “You’re up early.”

“Or late,” Mira adds. “Hard to tell these days.”

“Breakfast,” I say. “For the girl upstairs.”

Every head turns.

“The omega in the heat chamber?” Mira asks.

“Yes.”

TUE

3

O

OM

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O

Г

_‘))

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Chapter 7

Emma hops up to sit on the table, feet swinging right through the wood. “Lyra,” she says. “She’s pretty.”

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“She’s strong,” murmurs one of the older males at the back–Tomas, one of my former gammas. His outline flickers, then holds. “Most outsiders don’t feel us. She did. She turned when Emma touched her.”

Hope sparks like static in the room.

“Maybe she’s the one,” Lena says quietly.

“The one the Goddess spoke of,” Mira agrees. “Your mate. The only woman who can take your mark and live long enough to bear your son.”

I feel my jaw lock.

“The only woman who can free us,” Tomas finishes.

There it is.

“The Moon Goddess cursed me,” I say, the words flat from repetition. “She didn’t leave me a miracle tucked in the fine print.”

Emma scrunches her nose. “She kind of did. Only with your true mate will your seed give life instead of death. Only when your son takes his first breath will your mate take her last, and your pack be made whole again.” She lifts her hands. “That’s what she said, remember?”

“I remember every word,” I snap.

Lena steps closer, her form shimmering, apron strings fluttering in a non–existent breeze. “There was something different in the wards when she crossed, Alpha. When Lyra stepped into Blackfang. We felt it.”

“You’ve slept with others,” Mira says gently. “And the curse burned them out. We felt that, too. But this girl… she reached the border and our chains pulled. That has never happened before.”:

“It was a flare,” I say. “Nothing more.”

Emma leans back on her hands. “You don’t look at her like ‘nothing more.”

“I barely look at her at all.”

“Liar,” she sings.

I give her a look that would make most warriors flinch. She just smiles wider.

“She’s not my mate,” I say, more to the room than to her. “There’s no bond. No pull. Just an omega who got caught up in Trade Sport’s games and ran the wrong way.”

“And if she isn’t your mate?” Tomas asks. “You’ll… test it?”

The question hangs heavy.

We all know what test means

“I’m not touching her,” I say. “Not like that. Sleeping with Lyra would be a waste. She’d die like the rest, and the curse would still stand.”

Emma’s smile fades. “You care if she dies.”

I don’t answer that.

TUE

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Chapter 7

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“Make her something light,” I say instead. “Bread. Broth. Fruit, if the valley gave us any this week. She’ll need food between

waves.”

They brighten at the task, drifting into motion. The more purpose they have, the more solid they become. For a moment, it almost feels like before–busy kitchen, quiet jokes, a morning that might turn into a day.

Emma slides off the table and falls into step beside me as I turn to leave.

“You like her,” she says.

“I like that she’s alive,” I answer. “That’s rare around here.”

“She called you Ronan,” Emma points out. “Most people use ‘monster‘ or ‘Blackfang.”

I’m spared from replying by the sudden shudder that runs through the stone.

The whole fortress jolts, like something slammed into its bones. The magic laced through the walls tightens, humming under my skin.

The wards.

A second later, Tomas stiffens, his outline going razor–sharp. “Alpha,” he says. “Border breach. Eastern ridge. Wolves. Armed. Trade Sport insignia.”

My lips pull back from my teeth.

Emma’s eyes widen. “They came for her.”

“Stay here,” I tell her.

“Absolutely not,” she says, already following.

I don’t bother arguing. Instead I let the change rip through me.

Bones grind, lengthen, reknit. Muscles tear and rebuild. Fur erupts along my arms, my spine, my face. In seconds the man is gone, and the beast stands in his place–massive, black as the void above this cursed land, eyes burning bright gold.

My pack flickers out of the way as I launch forward. The fortress doors blow open before my weight, old wood slamming back against stone.

Outside, the air is knife–cold. The forest bends around me, branches leaning. aside like they remember what I am.

I tear through the trees toward the eastern border.

Voices drift on the wind. Boots crunching sno

The oily tang of metal and gunpowder mixes with the heavy, wild scent of

wolves.

Trade Sport.

I slow as the boundary comes into view–a line no one crosses without my permission and lives.

On the far side, three black vehicles idle, their engines a low growl. Around them stand a dozen werewolves in black gear, some in partial shift, claws out, eyes glowing. Red Trade Sport patches mark their arms like bleeding brands.

One of them steps forward. He’s tall, broad, his wolf close to the surface. He smells like power.

“Alpha Ronan Blackfang,” he calls. “I’m Enforcer Hale, representing Trade Sport and the Continental Council.”

I don’t shift back. My wolf stalks closer, hackles high.

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Hale lifts his hands, palms out. Not submissive. Careful. “We’re not here to challenge your claim to this land,” he says. “We’re here for an asset. Female. Omega. Lyra Kane.”

A low growl rolls out of my chest, shaking frost from nearby branches.

“She crossed into your territory yesterday,” Hale continues. “But she is bound to us by contract. Her alpha sold her. Payment cleared. She belongs to Trade Sport now.”

My wolf snarls.

Hale’s gaze doesn’t waver. “We don’t want conflict with Blackfang,” he says. “You hand her over, and we leave. No cameras. No drones. No interference. Your… situation stays off the grid.”

It’s a neat offer.

If I give her back, they go away. The show gets its contestant. My pack keeps its cursed peace. I don’t have to worry about a heat–drunk omega tempting fate under my roof.

She dies either way.

In their arena, torn apart for entertainment.

Or in my bed; the curse takes her like it took the others.

The difference is whose hands are bloodied.

Hale takes my silence as negotiation. “She’s nothing to you,” he says. “A stranger who ran the wrong direction. Don’t make our problem your problem.”

A stranger.

My wolf has been silent for a century, buried under guilt and rage.

Now he lifts his head.

The world sharpens. The scents of the forest fall away until there’s only one–arousal and sweat, pulsing faintly from the fortress behind me.

My wolf slams against my ribs, claws scraping bone.

A growl tears out of me in a roar that splits the air, rattles the trees, and sends snow cascading from the branches.

The Trade Sport wolves stumble back, eyes wide.

‘Mate.