Marked By The Mad King Alpha (Phoebe and Perry) novel Chapter 21

There was a stark contrast between sharing a bed with Kevin and lying awake beside the king. With Kevin, every touch had felt like a violation—cold, deeply unsettling, a disgust that burrowed into my bones and made me recoil even at the mere mention of his name. But with Perry, the emotions tangled into something far more complex. The revulsion I had known was absent; in its place sat fear, tangled with something undefinable—raw, unwanted—a magnetic pull forged by the bond the Moon Goddess had imposed on us.

I fixed my gaze on the gilded ceiling above, trying to steady my ragged breaths. My hand moved almost of its own accord to the mark on my neck before I could stop it. Heat blossomed beneath my fingertips, the skin pulsing with a dull ache. I yanked my hand away and gripped the sheets tightly, as though they were a talisman. A small, steady voice whispered inside me: Don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t give him any reason.

A faint scrape of a key sounded. The door swung open silently, unnoticed by my tense senses, and before I could even plan my next breath, he was there—solid and imposing. He didn’t linger by the doorway but climbed into the bed as if it were his rightful place. Panic coiled tightly in my throat.

I tried to slide away, to vanish into the shadows, but his hand clamped down on my shoulder like a vise, pulling me back until his weight settled over me. My limbs went numb, and the old reflex of submission I had learned under Kevin clicked into place. I became like a marionette, my breath shallow and automatic.

This time, there was no cruel laughter, no biting insult. That absence made my skin crawl more than any abuse ever had. Perry’s eyes were not hungry in the terrifying way I’d feared before; instead, they burned with an intensity that felt like pressure pressing through my skull. His gaze drilled into me until I could sense nothing else.

“Why won’t you look at me?” His fingers found my chin, lifting my head with a firm but measured touch. The bed shifted beneath us, and my eyes stung from the sudden movement. “Why do you always wear that expression? Am I so repulsive to you?”

I wanted to answer him. I wanted to pour out the nights that had hollowed me, to tell him how hands had stripped away my sense of self until only an echo remained. But the words wouldn’t come. A wave of panic constricted my throat, blurring my vision, and my voice dissolved before it could form.

He tightened his grip just a fraction—not enough to hurt, but enough to remind me of what he was capable of. Fear had always been his blunt instrument, the tool he used to extract answers and bend others to his will. It was how he understood control. My breaths came quick and shallow; my body trembled under the weight of it all.

Then, as suddenly as he had pinned me down, he pulled away. Rising slowly, he sat back on his heels while still kneeling on the bed, his eyes never leaving mine. I hunched forward, gasping for air as if I had been dragged from the depths of the ocean.

“You really can’t stand my touch, can you?” he said quietly, more observation than accusation.

I didn’t see him leave; all I heard was the door slamming with such force the entire room seemed to shudder. The sound left behind a ringing silence, like the echo of a struck bell. I lay there for a long time, counting my breaths until my heart slowed enough for hunger to return.

When someone knocked with breakfast, I moved, but my appetite had vanished. I ate only to survive, the food tasting cold and foreign against my tongue. Even that small comfort felt fragile, hanging by a thread.

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