Marked By The Mad King Alpha (Phoebe and Perry) novel Chapter 30

She flinched again, that tiny, involuntary twitch sending a sharp pang through me every single time. A sudden noise, a raised hand, a heavier step—each one set her off. I could almost anticipate it now, and with every shudder she made, my chest tightened painfully.

The problem was, I had no clue how to be anything but blunt with her. Kindness wasn’t a language I was fluent in. Violence came naturally; softness felt alien, like slipping into someone else’s coat that didn’t quite fit. My anger had become my armor, worn so long that I’d forgotten how it felt to shed it.

Yet, seeing her shrink away from me stirred something uncomfortable inside—a feeling I hated to name. Usually, fear gave me a rush, a dark satisfaction, the intoxicating certainty of control. But with her, fear gnawed at me instead of feeding me. I wanted her to stop retreating, to look at me without that hollow panic clouding her eyes. That desperate yearning scared me more than any battle ever had.

“I want to go back to my bedroom,” she said finally, her voice small, raw, almost fragile. “I don’t know the way.”

I pushed open the infirmary door. Helen was pacing anxiously, her face lighting up with relief when she spotted Phoebe trailing behind me.

“Thank the Moon,” Helen breathed out, visibly shaken. “I only stepped out for a moment. She must have wandered off while I was gone.”

Phoebe’s apology was soft, tinged with guilt, but Helen waved it away like a bothersome fly. “Lie down. Let me check you again,” she ordered, though her reassurance seemed aimed more at me than Phoebe. She glanced up, clearly worried I might have misread Phoebe’s vulnerability as a sign of danger.

I let Helen examine Phoebe, then dismissed her with a curt gesture. Helen left almost too quickly, eager to return to busier tasks.

Once we were alone, I settled on the edge of the bed, my hand resting lightly on her thigh—not to claim her, but to anchor her, to stop her from fleeing again. The little things mattered now. I needed to hold her still, at least until she could find her footing.

“Are you scared of me?” I asked, trying to soften my tone, though it still came out rough.

She lowered her head, silent. That quiet was answer enough.

I felt irritation flare inside me. I wanted to force her to meet my gaze—to lift her chin with the same rough fingers that could choke a man—but the faint scratch on her neck stopped my hand. Instead, I cupped her face gently in both palms, careful not to touch where it hurt.

“Look at me when I speak,” I said again, my voice low and hard but clearer this time.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify