Revenge to the Alpha Mate novel Chapter 243

Chapter 243: Chapter 243

Celena’s Perspective

The velvet curtain fell closed behind me, sealing off Jacob and the dusty world outside. Inside was another space—larger than I’d imagined, and far more... private. The light was a soft, warm gold from several wall sconces and a floor lamp with intricate brass filigree. The air held a clean, crisp scent of herbs and woodsmoke, like cedar blended with a faintly bitter floral note I couldn’t name.

Tall, antique clothing racks stood arranged throughout the room, each holding only a few garments, all meticulously shrouded in breathable dust covers. Mannequins stood in corners, draped with exquisite, unfinished pieces. A massive floor-length mirror with a frame carved in vines and flowers stood against one wall, its surface preternaturally clear. Against another wall was a heavy cherrywood worktable strewn with pincushions, spools of thread, measuring tapes, and several thick, open notebooks filled with fashion sketches and watercolor illustrations.

Jacob remained beyond the curtain. I could feel him there, a silent, anxious guardian statue, his presence a palpable heat even through the heavy fabric. That he hadn’t insisted on following was a relief, but it also laced my desperate courage with a thread of sharp, inexplicable guilt.

The woman glided to a rack and ran her hand lightly over the top of a dust cover, her gesture as elegant as stroking a prized cat.

"So, girl, tell me," she began, her voice even clearer and more pleasing in this intimate space, "what sort of dress are you looking for? For everyday? Or a particular occasion?" She turned to look at me, her grey-blue eyes holding a look of pure, sartorial inquiry, as if we were truly just a customer and a shopkeeper.

I took a few steps closer, my gaze skimming the shrouded silhouettes. My heart beat a little too fast. My palms were damp. I knew the rules of this game. Some things couldn’t be asked directly. Not at first.

"I’m... not entirely sure," I said, striving for a natural, indecisive tone. "Something comfortable? Not too dramatic." I reached out, my fingertips brushing the nearest cover. Through the thin fabric, I could feel the fine texture of the material beneath. "What’s this made of?"

She gently pulled back a corner of the cover, revealing a section of skirt. It was a grey-green fabric with a subtle sheen, heavy and soft, like moss soaked in moonlight.

"A wool and silk blend. Hand-dyed." She pinched a bit of the cloth between her fingers, demonstrating its fineness. "Very warm. Drapes beautifully. The color is timeless. Suitable for autumn and winter... and it would complement your hair." She paused, then added, her tone matter-of-fact, "And of course, should the occasion require, it can ‘withstand’... unexpected strenuous activity." I understood the quiet implication in her final words—the fabric was durable enough to survive the occasional, uncontrolled shredding of a werewolf’s change.

I nodded, letting my fingertips linger on the cool, smooth material for an extra second. "Any patterns? Special details?"

"This one is quite simple. Just some shadow-work embroidery along the edges." She drew the cover back further, showing me the almost imperceptible vine pattern stitched in matching thread along a side seam. "Subtle, but there is depth for those who look closely. Like many things, isn’t that so?" She looked up at me, her expression serene.

I drew a breath. An opening. "Like... the things that have happened to me recently?" I ventured, my voice low, my eyes fixed on her reaction. "Those... unexpected ‘strenuous activities.’ You know about all of it, don’t you? About that... thing."

The woman didn’t answer immediately. She smoothed the dust cover back into place, her movements still unhurried, and moved to another rack. Her profile in the warm light resembled a fine cameo.

"‘Know’?" she repeated the word softly, as if tasting it. "Girl, when you live long enough and see enough, you naturally learn the courses of many rivers. You hear the echoes from the deepest parts of the forest. Some commotions... cannot be hidden." She finally looked at me, her grey-blue eyes like twin pools of deep water. "Yes, I ‘know.’ The tremor of that untimely awakening. The bloody stench of Hunters gathering. The fearful whispers of witches... and the scent of two young wolves, wounded and heartbroken, fleeing it all." She stated it all without embellishment or emotion, yet a chill crept down my spine. She knew with unsettling specificity.

"So..." My throat was dry. I took a step forward, almost forgetting the pretense of shopping. "This outcome... did you know it from the start? That it would be... like this? That Brett would..." I couldn’t finish. The word stuck, a burning coal in my throat.

She watched me in silence for several long seconds. Then, she let out a very soft sigh, almost a laugh—not mocking, but tinged with a weary sort of pity.

"‘Know’?" She shook her head, her deep brown hair shifting against her shoulders. "Girl, what do you imagine I am? A god scripting a play? A witch weaving fate’s threads?" She reached out and traced the intricate pattern on an ornate brass clasp adorning a garment. "No. I am not a god. Even the most powerful witches see only chaotic possibilities—fleeting whirlpools in a raging current. Which specific leaf gets caught in which whirlpool, when, and how... that is the most chaotic, unknowable part of fate. What I saw initially was the ‘seed’ dormant in your bloodline. The ‘potential’ for that being’s awakening. The ‘omens’ of darkness drawing near. I could not foresee whose body would ultimately become its vessel. Nor could I foresee the precise ending you would find." She paused. "In truth, that you left alive, with clear understanding... that is somewhat better than many of the possibilities I glimpsed."

A flicker of hope, then a deeper plunge of disappointment. Like a pinprick deflating a balloon. I should have known. If she could see everything, she might have said more, done more to stop it. But hearing her admit this powerlessness made my heart sink. My shoulders slumped. My fingers unconsciously tightened on the dust cover of a nearby garment, the fabric whispering in my grip.

"...Then," I began, my voice hoarse with stubborn hope, "why me? Why did that thing choose *me*? Why was that ‘seed’ hidden inside *my* body?" The question had haunted me. Why did I have to bear this?

She didn’t answer right away. She moved to the worktable, picked up a small pair of silver scissors, and began meticulously trimming a stray thread from a spool. The *snip* was quiet, precise. For a moment, the only sounds were the faint sigh of the incense and the nearly inaudible rustle of Jacob shifting his weight beyond the curtain.

"Why you..." she echoed my question, her gaze on the fine thread as if the answer were coiled within it. "That is a good question. But the answer may lie somewhat beyond the usual understanding of your kind." She looked up, her gaze profound. "To witches, to the ancient schools that study the essence of soul and energy... intense emotion, profound pain, deep obsession, or... pure love and sacrifice—these are not intangible things. They act like chisels, leaving marks upon the soul. Like catalysts, causing latent ‘qualities’ to manifest. Like beacons, attracting... certain wandering ‘attentions’."

Her words froze me. Emotion? Pain? Obsession?

"So... it was because of my ‘emotions’?" I asked, my voice rough.

"In part. Perhaps a crucial part." She set the scissors down, folding her hands. "A particular state of soul is like a weak ember in a dry forest, meeting the right wind." She paused. "Of course, this is merely my speculation based on fragments of knowledge. The true ‘why’ likely only that being itself, or records long lost to time, could say."

I digested her words—confusing, yet offering a strange, cold clarity. It wasn’t random misfortune. There was a reason, however unbearable.

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