Marked By The Mad King Alpha (Phoebe and Perry) novel Chapter 34

“Accidentally hit a mirror?” Helen’s voice was laced with a subtle skepticism as she looked up at me, her hands deftly cleaning and wrapping my injured hand. Despite her curiosity, she didn’t press further—her movements were steady and careful, a reflection of someone accustomed to handling the delicate nature of others’ vulnerabilities.

As she worked, Helen paused, her brow furrowing as if she were attempting to decipher an invisible puzzle. Her frown made me instinctively avert my gaze, feeling exposed under her scrutiny. When she finally spoke again, her tone was soft, almost hesitant, as though she were testing the waters of an uncomfortable conversation. “My lady… forgive my curiosity, but I can’t sense your wolf spirit. Would you mind sharing why that is?”

I bit my lip, suppressing the urge to fabricate a comforting lie. Silence seemed like a safer option, but I knew I owed her at least a brief explanation. So, I relayed the barest truth—the painful rejection I faced during my first transformation, the way it severed the bond that should have connected me with my wolf. Her expression shifted, softening with understanding and pity—an empathy that made me squirm uncomfortably.

“A first transformation is delicate,” she remarked gently. “To be denied at such a pivotal moment… it can wound the spirit. I’m truly sorry you had to endure that.”

“Don’t be,” I retorted, my tone sharper than intended, as pity made me feel vulnerable. Turning my head away, I allowed her to finish bandaging my knuckles. Her touch was gentle and efficient—she understood how to mend not just flesh but also the dignity that can be shredded in moments of pain.

She provided me with clear instructions: keep the wound dry, return for a fresh dressing the following day. “Or,” she suggested, “I could come to your room if that would be more convenient.”

“No, I’ll come here,” I replied firmly. I felt a strong need to move, to escape the haunting memories of the mirror and the crimson trail I had unwittingly left behind. I wanted to clean up the remnants of the chaos I had inflicted upon myself.

Helen called for an omega to tidy the infirmary. I knew other omegas had already followed the blood trail into the hallway and cleaned it up; shame burned within me at the thought of the path I had created. Just as I prepared to rise, Helen pressed one more question gently but insistently about my loss of taste. She genuinely wanted to help.

“It’s unnecessary,” I insisted, struggling to articulate the bewildering sensation of not tasting the world while still craving food. The joy of flavor had been stripped away from life’s small delights long ago. “I’m managing.”

She wouldn’t accept my dismissal. With a firm but kind demeanor, she insisted that I lie back for a more thorough examination. I resisted at first, but the steady concern in her gaze made me relent. Sometimes, accepting help is a necessity, whether one wants it or not.

Perry’s POV

“I still can’t bear to watch you do that.” Flynn’s voice dripped with disgust, his pale complexion revealing his discomfort as he observed me rinsing my hands in the stream. He half-turned away, the sight of blood clearly unsettling him on a level he was reluctant to acknowledge.

“Why shouldn’t I?” I replied, a hint of dark humor creeping into my words as I washed the last remnants of gore from my palms and flexed my fingers. The metallic scent of iron clung to me like a promise of what was to come.

We had taken the wolves into the ancient hunting grounds beyond the palace—packs bred in the wild mountains that answered to me alone. They were the perfect instruments in a world that had grown soft and diplomatic. Despite our endless discussions of kingdoms and laws, nothing dealt with traitors more swiftly than wolves and an iron will.

“People are anxious about your temper,” Flynn remarked, attempting to frame his concern as strategic. However, the tremor in his voice betrayed his true worry—that my anger might engulf the kingdom.

“I’m going to unite them,” I declared, allowing the weight of my words to linger in the air. “The supreme kingdom will rise once more.”

Flynn’s eyes narrowed, skepticism etched on his face. “Or perhaps you desire war simply to satiate your bloodlust.”

“Is there really a difference?” I countered, inhaling the scent of pine and damp earth, the pack’s low, hungry growls resonating like a dark chorus to my intent.

As I returned to the palace, the scent of blood hit me—initially faint, then sharp and unmistakable. This wasn’t the clean spill of someone injured during training; it carried the weight of panic, unmistakably a woman’s blood. My muscles tensed in response.

“What is it?” Flynn asked, too slow to detect the shift in the atmosphere. He couldn’t smell what I could.

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