My Fated Alpha's Cruel Game (Elena and Marcus) novel Chapter 238

Chapter 238: Chapter 238 Unwanted Crown Proposal

Marcus’s POV

Elena shows up without a single warning.

No phone call. No text. No courtesy heads-up that might have given me a chance to brace myself or at least pretend I was ready for this conversation. I catch the sound of her heavy boots hitting the wooden porch before her scent even reaches me, that unmistakable presence that makes the air itself seem to shift and tighten. Some people command attention just by existing. Elena has always been that kind of force. Before she even steps foot inside, the entire cabin seems to rearrange itself around her arrival.

I pull the door open before her knuckles can meet the wood.

She looks different than she did during our last encounter. Not fragile or diminished. If anything, she appears more dangerous now. Like the passing months stripped away every unnecessary softness and left behind nothing but sharp, unforgiving angles. Her hair shows more silver now, yanked back in a severe style that screams function over form. But those eyes remain exactly the same.

Still calculating. Still measuring everything in her line of sight as either an asset or an obstacle.

"You look like hell," she states, brushing past me without waiting for an invitation.

"Always a pleasure, Elena," I respond, shutting the door firmly behind her.

She stops just inside the main room, conducting what I recognize as a tactical assessment. Simple furniture. Empty surfaces. No personal touches whatsoever. No family photos or pack memorabilia tucked into corners or etched into the wooden beams. I know precisely what she’s cataloguing. A space that could belong to anyone. A place built for quick exits and clean breaks.

"You been eating properly," she asks, though it sounds more like inventory than genuine concern.

"Yes."

"Perfect. Because I’m hungry as hell."

That’s Elena’s version of asking for a meal. No dancing around the request. No social niceties. Just raw expectation delivered with characteristic directness. I turn toward the kitchen area and survey my limited options. Nothing fancy or impressive. Some rice in a beat-up container. Vegetables that need to be used before they turn. A piece of meat thawing in the sink because I forgot about it earlier and refused to stress over the oversight.

I fall into the familiar rhythm of meal preparation. Blade in hand. Heat under the pan. Water set to boil. My movements are automatic even as part of my attention stays locked on her position behind me. The way she settles into that chair like she owns it. Her controlled breathing patterns. The subtle physical tells that reveal she’s monitoring every detail while pretending casual indifference.

She claims that seat at my small dining table like she belongs there.

I cook terribly.

Not so badly that it’s inedible. Just carelessly. Hurried. The rice gets overdone until it sticks together in clumps instead of staying light and separate. Everything else ends up under-seasoned and bland. I’m aware of each mistake as I make it and continue anyway. There’s something almost rebellious in that deliberate imperfection. Elena acts like she doesn’t notice the subpar results. She eats with the mechanical efficiency of someone who learned long ago that meals are about survival first and enjoyment second.

"That’s right," she confirms. "Behind closed doors. Very carefully managed. Everyone keeps smiling while they prepare for war."

I dry my hands and turn to face her directly. "What exactly do they want?"

Her expression hardens before she delivers the answer, like she already knows how much damage these words will cause. "Some of them are pushing for your official coronation."

The statement lands wrong in my chest. Not devastating. Not surprising. Just fundamentally misplaced. Like someone trying to force a crown onto a head that was never meant to wear one.

"Absolutely not," I say without hesitation.

Elena arches one eyebrow. "You didn’t even ask for details."

"Don’t need them," I reply firmly. "The answer doesn’t change."

"They believe it would bring stability," she continues, steamrolling over my objection the way she always has. "One clear leader. A figurehead. Someone the packs already respect and follow."