Marked By The Mad King Alpha (Phoebe and Perry) novel Chapter 53

Standard POV Format

“I… didn’t do anything.”
The words came out trembling, half-choked, barely recognizable as my own. I needed to sound calm — sane — but how could I when Perry’s fury filled the room like smoke?

Every muscle in his body radiated anger. His jaw clenched, his eyes sharp enough to cut.

“We talked,” I whispered, my voice thin as thread. “We just talked. He was being friendly—”

“Friendly?” Perry laughed — a sound without warmth, raw and bitter. He stalked closer, dropping onto the spot where Timothy had sat just moments earlier. “Was he being friendly, or were you trying to seduce him?”

The accusation cracked something inside me.

No matter what I said, he’d never believe me. Just like everyone before him.
They’d twist my silence into guilt, my fear into deceit.
I was always the problem — always the one blamed for sins I never committed.

And now Perry was no different.

“I didn’t do that,” I said hoarsely. “Why do you think so little of me?”

“Little?” His tone turned venomous as he leaned close enough that I could feel his breath against my skin. “I can smell him on you. Did he touch you?”

I froze. He meant Timothy.

“Yes, but not the way you—”

“How I what?” Perry’s hand clamped down on my shoulder, anger vibrating through him. “What do you think I’m thinking?”

I couldn’t answer. My throat closed, the words trapped behind panic.

He gripped harder, and I winced.

“Are you planning to crawl into his bed now?” he snarled. “Is that how you’ll find comfort?”

Something inside me snapped.
Before I could stop myself, my hand flew up and slapped him. The sound echoed through the room.

“Fuck you!” I screamed, tears blurring my vision. “I wish you were dead!”

For a second, silence.

Perry stared at me, stunned — then his expression shifted into something cruel, dark, and terrifying. He smiled, but it wasn’t kindness; it was a warning.

“Do you think you’re the first person who’s wished me dead?” he said quietly. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

The danger in his calm was worse than shouting.
I backed away, my body trembling, every instinct begging me to run.

His voice dropped lower, more poisonous. “Tell me, are you thinking about fucking Timothy now?”

It was almost poetic — the first thing I’d tasted in months was my own death.

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