My Sister Stole My Mate And I Let Her (Seraphina) novel Chapter 369

Chapter 369: Chapter 369 ALMIGHTY BITCH FIT

SERAPHINA’S POV

I felt the exact moment the word ‘mate’ landed.

Celeste’s face had been sharp with contempt, mouth curved in that familiar, cutting smile.

But when Maris said it, stepping forward with unflinching, protective fury, something fractured.

It was subtle: A tightening around the eyes. A hitch in her breath. A shiver that did not belong to arrogance or rage.

Shock.

And beneath it...

Something like grief.

I’d watched her carefully since she’d begun unravelling.

Not just with my eyes, but with the sharpened awareness I’d gained these past months—the ability to feel shifts in a room, to sense when emotion rang true and when it was manufactured for effect.

This wasn’t performance.

When Maris claimed Brett, something inside Celeste faltered in a way that did not seem rehearsed.

“You...” Celeste breathed, her gaze on Brett, her voice shaking as if she was still grappling to make sense of the moment. “You said you loved me.”

“I did,” he answered quietly.

“And you moved on?” she demanded.

Brett reached up and pulled his collar aside, revealing the bond-mark at his throat. “Yes.”

I saw the blow hit her harder than Maris’ shove, her very balance shifting under the weight of displacement.

In that split second, I understood something about the two branches of Celeste’s ’love’ life.

Kieran had been status.

Victory.

Crown.

Brett had been certainty.

He had been the one who would wait.

The one who would forgive.

She had never needed to fight for him, had assumed she never would.

She never anticipated in her wildest dreams that she would lose him. Worse, that he would leave her.

She expected him to orbit, even if from a distance. A constant to return to if her schemes failed.

Seeing him anchored to another shattered that illusion.

Her expression twisted—disbelief edged with anguish.

“You think she compares?” Celeste snapped, the old sharpness flaring back, soaked in desperation.

“You think this”—she stabbed a finger at Maris—“this is better?”

Maris did not flinch.

“I don’t compare,” she said calmly. “I surpass.”

That was the final blow.

Celeste surged to her feet, her movement abrupt and unstable. She lunged at Maris, hands outstretched, fingers curved like claws.

But Celeste didn’t move like a wolf.

There was no surge of Alpha-born power. No flash of fangs. No predatory grace.

There was only raw human momentum.

Maris sidestepped effortlessly, and Celeste stumbled past her, off-balance.

Celeste whirled and swung blindly. Maris caught her wrist, twisted gently, and pushed her back.

Not brutal. Not even aggressive or retaliatory.

Still, Celeste collapsed backward, her strength evaporating as quickly as it had flared.

Without her wolf, she had no reserve to draw from. No regenerative force. No instinctive coordination.

Plus, she was probably drained from the almighty bitch fit she had just thrown.

For a split second, I thought she would brace herself.

Instead, her eyes rolled back, and her weight gave way entirely.

Ethan moved on instinct.

He crossed the distance in two strides and caught her before her head struck the stone edge of the hearth.

“Celeste!” he barked, lowering to one knee with her cradled against his chest.

Maya exhaled sharply. “Oh, come on,” she muttered. “Is this the fainting damsel act now?”

Her skepticism was not unreasonable. We had all witnessed Celeste’s theatrical instincts.

But I shook my head slowly.

“No.”

I stepped closer, kneeling opposite Ethan.

Celeste’s skin had the clammy, grey cast of someone deep in shock; her breath came in small, shallow pants, each one weaker than the last.

I did not touch her, but I could feel it.

The exhaustion.

The cumulative collapse.

She had just admitted to orchestrating my assault. Just watched Brett sever the last thread of power she believed she still held. Just been confronted with the reality of her new mortality.

Her body had nothing left.

“She’s not pretending,” I said quietly.

Ethan looked up at me, his eyes starkly vulnerable, a tornado of shame and guilt swirling in them.

“I’m sorry, Sera,” he said hoarsely. “I’m so sorry.”

I didn’t need to ask; I knew what he meant.

He was sorry that our sister had planned for me to be assaulted.

That she had wanted footage of me vulnerable, violated, humiliated, broadcast for the world to consume.

That knowledge existed somewhere inside me.

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