Marked By The Mad King Alpha (Phoebe and Perry) novel Chapter 49

Standard POV Format

Something about Reginald volunteering for the front felt wrong. Brave men died in battle for reasons that made sense; men with comfortable lives did not sign up on whims. Two days later I called him in — the training ground, empty and honest, instead of a throne room laced with formality.

“Why are you really here?” I asked, cutting straight to it. Every minute without Phoebe felt like a wound; I didn’t have time for games.

Reginald mirrored calm like a shield. “No hidden agenda, Your Majesty. I want to help the kingdom.”

His voice was steady, but his story didn’t fit. A son of status didn’t come begging for danger, not unless something else drove him. He offered the same story I’d heard before — family friction, being a stepson, never quite belonging — and I listened without believing. Timothy might accept it, but I’d learned to read the spaces between words. Still, I let him into the palace ranks. If he was a threat, I wanted him where I could see him.

That night I went to Phoebe’s room. She was on the couch, lost in an old cartoon — the one childish thing that made her laugh. Watching her like that tore at something I didn’t want to name. The bandage was gone; a thin white line threaded her throat where my fingers had closed too hard. My hand moved before I’d decided to speak. I brushed the scar; she jumped and the smile in her face vanished.

“Dinner?” I offered, and the invitation was more mine than hers.

Phoebe — POV

The place he chose was quiet — a small tavern outside the palace where guards were unnecessary and conversation could be private. He never ate. He watched me the way a predator studies a shape: careful, appraising, unreadable.

He froze, eyes sharp, and for the smallest instant I thought he’d seen the bottle in my hand. Then he stepped back as if from something stinging, but his face betrayed nothing. My heart hammered so loud I couldn’t hear my own breath. The vial was empty now, its promise spent. Whether by luck or by fate, the one drop had not reached the drink. Whether that was mercy or failure I could not say.

We moved past the table and into the corridor, each step noiseless. The palace breathed around us like a living thing, and behind the stillness the war continued to spin its long, patient gears.