Marked By The Mad King Alpha (Phoebe and Perry) novel Chapter 63

Standard POV Format

Somehow, I listened to Flynn. My grip loosened. The warrior crumpled to the floor, clutching at his throat, gasping like a drowning man breaking the surface.

He should’ve been grateful to still be breathing. He wasn’t strong enough to shift—terror froze that instinct. Only seasoned wolves could force a transformation under fear. He was too young, too weak.

“You crossed a line,” Flynn warned, then hesitated when he saw my face. Even he knew better than to challenge me when the bloodlust took hold.

Timothy stepped in, waving the warrior toward the door. “Go. You’re done here.”

The man bowed shakily and turned to leave.

He never made it.

In one smooth movement, my hand punched through his back, bone and flesh giving way. His eyes widened, uncomprehending, as I pulled free his still-beating heart.

He fell dead before the blood hit the floor.

The heart throbbed weakly in my palm before I crushed it.

Silence followed—a heavy, awful silence. Even Timothy and Flynn hadn’t realized what I’d done until it was over. No one could have stopped it.

“Clean this up,” I ordered and walked out, leaving them with the corpse.

Outside, the air thickened with fear. Every warrior, every servant who crossed my path dropped to their knees. They’d seen this before—my dark moods, my “Mad King” days.

They knew what came next.

Whispers would spread through the halls like smoke: the king had snapped again, the palace floors would run red until he calmed, and the gods help anyone who drew his attention.

But I didn’t want to kill more. Not tonight. Not after her.

I needed to see Phoebe.

Only she could still that roaring inside my chest—if only for a moment.

Standard POV Format

I was in the walk-in closet, arranging the new clothes Timothy had bought me. They were too elegant, too bright for my taste, but still… I couldn’t deny how beautiful they were.

Owning something this lovely felt surreal. Like I’d stolen a life that wasn’t mine.

Then a crash shattered the quiet.

My heart stopped. The sound was unmistakable—my door kicked open.

I stepped out and froze. Perry stood there, covered in blood. His hands, his shirt, even the collar of his coat were crimson.

I stared at him, heart pounding, trying to make sense of what he’d just said.

“Do you… believe me now?” My voice cracked under the weight of hope. “Do you have proof?”

He didn’t speak right away.

The silence stretched until I couldn’t stand it anymore.

Finally, he answered—softly, but without hesitation.

“No. I don’t have proof. He denied it until the end.”

The air between us turned heavy, suffocating.

So this was his belief—bloody and brutal. He hadn’t killed because of evidence. He’d killed because of me. Because, somewhere deep down, he wanted to believe me, even if he didn’t know how.

And that was somehow worse.