Marked By The Mad King Alpha (Phoebe and Perry) novel Chapter 115

115 Chapter 115 His Hand Covered Mine

Phoebe’s Perspective

The searing pain that coursed relentlessly through my body left no room for doubt—Perry was slipping away. The agony wasn’t just physical; it was a harrowing echo of his own suffering, transmitted through the unbreakable mate bond that connected us. It stretched between us like a taut wire, pulling me into the depths of his torment as if I were bleeding from the wound myself.

The warriors who guarded us felt it too—the unbearable anguish radiating from the bond—and they burst into the room, urgency written across their faces. Their eyes landed on the king, who lay unconscious, a cruel, jagged blade lodged deep in his chest. Despite the gravity of the moment, I sat motionless, my expression unreadable, as if I were staring out at a distant, indifferent ocean rather than at my dying mate.

What they failed to grasp was the intensity of the pain I was enduring. Every throb of Perry’s heartache was mirrored in my own soul. The only difference was that I wasn’t the one bleeding out.

Without hesitation, the warriors summoned Marcela, their trusted healer, to evaluate the king’s condition. But the wound was too severe, too deep to be healed quickly. Marcela did what she could—stem the bleeding temporarily—but it was a battle against time.

They rushed Perry to the hospital, where shifter doctors worked frantically to save his life. Against all odds, their efforts bore fruit; Perry clung to life.

Yet, amid the chaos, the warriors drew a swift, damning conclusion: Phoebe had stabbed the king. That was the story they reported to Flynn.

The moment Flynn arrived at the hospital, his voice was sharp, demanding, “Where is she?” He made sure Perry was receiving the best care possible, but his attention quickly shifted to the matter of me.

“She’s at the beach house,” one warrior answered, eyes dropping away from Flynn’s fierce, burning gaze. The raw intensity in the royal beta’s anger was almost terrifying.

Without a word, Flynn spun on his heel and headed straight for the beach house, where I waited, accompanied by Marcela.

Phoebe’s Perspective

Marcela was relentless in her attempts to draw the truth from me. She needed to understand what had truly transpired between Perry and me. Now that the immediate crisis had passed, the idea that I had deliberately stabbed the king made no sense to her—especially since the wound was to the front of his chest, a place he could easily have defended.

“My lady, please, tell me what happened,” Marcela implored, her fingers wrapping gently around mine, squeezing softly to capture my attention. But I remained silent.

Instead, my gaze drifted down to the blood caked beneath my fingernails—Perry’s blood, dark and vivid against my skin.

“What truly happened between you and the king, my lady?” Her voice was gentle, though worry threaded through every word. The warriors’ report was clear and damning: I had stabbed the king. That was the story that would reach the palace.

But Marcela sensed there was more beneath the surface.

“I want him dead,” I whispered, my eyes fixed on the crimson stains. “I want him to die.”

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify