Marked By The Mad King Alpha (Phoebe and Perry) novel Chapter 30

She flinched again, that tiny, involuntary twitch sending a sharp pang through me every single time. A sudden noise, a raised hand, a heavier step—each one set her off. I could almost anticipate it now, and with every shudder she made, my chest tightened painfully.

The problem was, I had no clue how to be anything but blunt with her. Kindness wasn’t a language I was fluent in. Violence came naturally; softness felt alien, like slipping into someone else’s coat that didn’t quite fit. My anger had become my armor, worn so long that I’d forgotten how it felt to shed it.

Yet, seeing her shrink away from me stirred something uncomfortable inside—a feeling I hated to name. Usually, fear gave me a rush, a dark satisfaction, the intoxicating certainty of control. But with her, fear gnawed at me instead of feeding me. I wanted her to stop retreating, to look at me without that hollow panic clouding her eyes. That desperate yearning scared me more than any battle ever had.

“I want to go back to my bedroom,” she said finally, her voice small, raw, almost fragile. “I don’t know the way.”

I pushed open the infirmary door. Helen was pacing anxiously, her face lighting up with relief when she spotted Phoebe trailing behind me.

“Thank the Moon,” Helen breathed out, visibly shaken. “I only stepped out for a moment. She must have wandered off while I was gone.”

Phoebe’s apology was soft, tinged with guilt, but Helen waved it away like a bothersome fly. “Lie down. Let me check you again,” she ordered, though her reassurance seemed aimed more at me than Phoebe. She glanced up, clearly worried I might have misread Phoebe’s vulnerability as a sign of danger.

I let Helen examine Phoebe, then dismissed her with a curt gesture. Helen left almost too quickly, eager to return to busier tasks.

Once we were alone, I settled on the edge of the bed, my hand resting lightly on her thigh—not to claim her, but to anchor her, to stop her from fleeing again. The little things mattered now. I needed to hold her still, at least until she could find her footing.

“Are you scared of me?” I asked, trying to soften my tone, though it still came out rough.

She lowered her head, silent. That quiet was answer enough.

I felt irritation flare inside me. I wanted to force her to meet my gaze—to lift her chin with the same rough fingers that could choke a man—but the faint scratch on her neck stopped my hand. Instead, I cupped her face gently in both palms, careful not to touch where it hurt.

“Look at me when I speak,” I said again, my voice low and hard but clearer this time.

She didn’t respond. She bowed her head and stayed still, a faint tremor running through her body. When I let my hands fall away, she visibly relaxed.

“I will not kill you,” I said again, forcing my tone to be smoother, more measured. “Not unless you betray me.”

Her voice was barely audible, a fragile thread. “I won’t.”

I kept my distance but made my meaning clear. “I don’t care how you feel about that alpha. Don’t act on it. Don’t speak his name in this house. I’ll overlook most things—the gossip, the stories—so long as you don’t make this worse. Understand?”

By “everything else,” I meant the filthy rumors—the ones that painted her as a willing plaything, the whispers that tried to reduce her to a single shameful story. That noise grated on me; it sounded like someone had an agenda. Timothy would dig; he always did. Answers would come soon enough.

She nodded, unable to meet my eyes. That was fine for now. The world rarely changed overnight. I rarely asked for much. But this time, I meant to keep my word. I would not kill her. Not out of mercy, but because I had chosen to keep her—for better or worse—and I needed her alive.