Marked By The Mad King Alpha (Phoebe and Perry) novel Chapter 51

Standard POV Format

A sharp knock jolted through the bathroom door.
My pulse spiked so fast I thought I might choke on it.

“Y-Yes?” The word came out shaky. Thank the Moon I’d locked the door. The poison bottle was still clutched in my hand.

“Why is this locked?” Perry’s voice rolled through the wood—low, irritated, far too close. The knob rattled. “What are you doing in there?”

He didn’t mean to sound threatening, but his suspicion was understandable. I had a record—blood on mirrors, frantic cries for death. If I stayed silent, he’d break the door without a second thought.

“One minute,” I managed. I shoved the vial deep into the bottom drawer, then forced my voice calm and opened up.

He filled the doorway like a storm. “What were you doing?” His gaze swept the space, cataloguing everything—shards, water, razors. Finding nothing.

“Nothing.”

He didn’t look convinced. His eyes tracked down my body, pausing at the red marks blooming across my skin. A flicker—guilt? desire?—crossed his face before his hand lifted. His thumb brushed the faint bruise on my collarbone.

“Does this hurt?”

I shook my head, though the touch made me shiver.

“Mhm.” He caught my wrist gently and tugged me back toward the bed. “Come. Sleep.”

He pulled me down beside him, his face pressed into the curve of my neck. The heat of him pinned me still. When I shifted, his warning came in a rough murmur:

“Don’t move. You’ll get me worked up again.”

I froze, body rigid until exhaustion dragged me under.

Morning came quietly.
His side of the bed was cold; a food tray waited near the window—Mason’s doing.

Embarrassment prickled when I realized I was still naked. Had she seen me like this? I forced the thought away, dressed quickly, and ate without tasting a single bite.

The closet—large enough to house a family—mocked me. I’d escaped one prison only to find another.

Cartoons flickered on the screen, bright colors that couldn’t drown the thoughts clawing at my skull.

“I don’t,” I said flatly.

“Really?” His easy grin faded, replaced by something sharper. “That’s strange. You two grew up in the same house.”

“I said I don’t know. Ask him yourself.”

He studied me, then shrugged, the playful mask sliding back into place. “Fair enough.”

But then his tone softened, oddly serious. “What happened to you in the Obsidian Claw pack, Phoebe? I’ve heard stories—but never from you. What’s your truth?”

The question hit harder than any blow.
I hugged my knees to my chest, staring at the flickering TV, but all I could see was blood, and glass, and every lie they’d ever told about me.

And I wondered—for the first time in years—if I even remembered what my truth really was.