The Alpha King Marked Me. I Still Haven't Told Him I'm A Girl novel Chapter 28

Chapter 28: Twenty Eight

I woke up cold, my panties drenched with warmth. My limbs spasmed uncontrollably and for a moment there, I thought I was dying.

But I’d peered down in abject horror and discovered my fingers between my legs. And my scream could have brought down the stone walls of the castle.

The guards had rushed to my door, looking for the unknown enemy that must have broken into my room and tried to kill me. But I couldn’t tell them. Not as my cheeks burned a bright red with the knowledge that I orgasmed in my sleep.

It was fucking nightmare.

Now, I peer out the window, watching the sun rays fall on the training yard outside. The movement of the wind on those silver tresses as he cleaves the wind in half with a sword as tall as I am.

The trail of sweat that runs down his bare torso painted in line after line of tattoo. I wonder what they mean. I wonder who she was.

Ilya.

I wonder if it is a coincidence that she bears the same name as the thing inside me that hasn’t reared her head since that day on the battle field. I wonder if it is a coincidence that I dreamed of her, too. Can still smell her on myself, can still remember the taste of his lips.

Mint and the underlying taste of something abominably sweet.

Luke, she had called him. Short for Lucien. The man training there in the center of his field, pursuing his parry--a prisoner from the war. One of the elite soldiers who hadn’t made it across the ridge in time. Anton, I think--with swings so hard, you would think he had a vendetta against him to cut his head off his shoulder, doesn’t look like a... Luke.

He doesn’t even look like the man in that dream. That man smiled kindly, his eyes soft and filled with hope and love as he spoke of a treaty to save his people. He had no scars. He was paler, younger, leaner, and untried.

The man below is a force of nature. The darkness to everything good. When he corners his parry, he smiles cruelly and lifts the sword high above his head. "You would make a terrible swordsman, wolf. I have no use for you."

I shut my eyes as he cuts. And cuts. The whirring of the blade reaching my ears even here. When I open my eyes again, there’s not much left of the male and the Dark King is drenched in blood, so much of it, it looks like it is a part of his skin.

His head tilts back to bask in the sun. And even as disgust and hatred churn in my stomach, I cannot help but find him dreadfully beautiful.

If I were an artist, I’d paint this moment and name him a fallen angel, right beside the body he just dissected to pieces.

Just then, he turns, his gaze locking on me all the way from below the tower, like he knew I’d been watching him all alone. 𝚏𝗿𝗲𝐞𝚠𝕖𝐛𝗻𝗼𝐯𝕖𝚕.𝚌𝗼𝗺

My blood runs cold as hard eyes pin me with brimming hatred and he says to no one in particular, "Bring in the next."

Margot lounges like a queen, smoking deep from a pipe,while her dainty maid, Alfie, kneels at her feet, massaging her legs while batting lashes at me. Gods, help me. I’m not a man--don’t look at me like that.

"Out," Margot barks at her maidens.

They scurry like startled mice, heads hung low. On her way out, the brown-haired one, Alfie, leans close. She stares at me through lowered lashes, her cleavage in my face. She then proceeds to brush her fingers down my arm as she takes my cup.

I flinch, skin crawling. What the fuck?

Margot leans forward in her seat, delicate fingers entwined. "For your kind roaming through these halls, you have become something of a hero. They whisper your name, speak of how you brought down an entire city with your fist. Does it surprise you that they quicken at the sight of you?"

My cheeks flame. I guess I never thought about it that way.

"There are sixteen houses, descents of the sixteen children King Tiber had," Margot begins, her voice ever dripping with irritation. "Each possessed one unique ability that made them stand out from each other. We of House Nythorn, are descents of Nymeria, his last daughter. Whisperers, they call us. We do not have the hell flames of the Blackspire or the ice of Draemont. Neither do we have the divinity of Solmire or the brutal strength of House Ironfang--"

I draw up with a pause. "Ironfang. You said House Ironfang."

Her sinful red lips curve into a grin. "House Ironfang is a died out bloodline, all lost during the wars. They were formidable in their strength and as such, they were the Vanguard of every war. Two hundred years ago, I met one on the other side of the wall. He was naught but a carpenter. Making wood to make a living. He didn’t even know what he was, the blood in him too diluted to beat the Omega in him, but strong enough to keep him alive far longer than any mortal man." Her smile deepens. "His name was Eldric."