Marked By the Pureblood Alpha (Deanna and Luis) novel Chapter 307

**Chapter 307: Please Stop!**

**Deanna’s POV:**

As I lay in bed, the minutes stretched into hours, and sleep eluded me like a fleeting dream. The familiar surroundings of my apartment, which had never felt particularly spacious, now seemed to expand infinitely, amplifying the oppressive silence that enveloped me.

The stillness hung in the air, thick and heavy, like a massive curtain of darkness slowly consuming everything within its grasp. It was as if the walls were closing in, and I could feel the weight of my thoughts pressing down on me.

After what felt like an eternity, I could no longer bear the solitude that clung to me like a second skin. With a sudden burst of frustration, I tossed the blanket aside, the cool air hitting my skin like a wake-up call.

I made my way to the closet, my heart pounding in my chest. As I opened the door, my fingers brushed against the fabric of one of Luis’s black shirts—an item that had once felt so ordinary but now held the weight of my emotions. I clutched it tightly, the soft material a small comfort against the turmoil inside me.

Returning to bed, I wrapped the shirt around me, pressing my face into the collar, searching for any lingering trace of his scent. It had been freshly washed, and the absence of his familiar aroma was a cruel reminder of his absence. Yet, even in that moment of loss, a wave of calm washed over me. It was as if I could feel him sitting beside me, his presence a gentle reassurance, as he softly patted my back, coaxing me toward sleep.

With that imagined comfort enveloping me, my eyelids grew heavy, and I finally succumbed to the embrace of slumber.

**Third-person POV:**

The dawn broke, and with it came the much-anticipated press conference for the Mistbane Group, unfolding precisely as scheduled. The venue buzzed with energy as media representatives from every corner of Nordvale crowded the space, cameras poised and ready, their lenses glinting like predatory eyes.

The atmosphere crackled with tension, the reporters’ expressions ignited with a fierce hunger, each one eager to unearth a story that could shake the very foundations of the werewolf market.

At Deanna’s side stood Rachel and Malcolm, their presence a mix of support and apprehension. Rachel, the head of PR, had worked tirelessly to prepare for this moment, doing everything in her power to stave off the chaos that loomed on the horizon.

She handed Deanna a printed sheet, filled with carefully crafted responses to the onslaught of questions they anticipated. “Ms. Wiley,” she began, her voice steady yet urgent, “today’s conference is being streamed live. There will undoubtedly be some sharp and hostile questions later. These are some replies you can draw from.”

Deanna nodded, accepting the paper with a sense of resignation.

Malcolm observed her closely, his eyes searching for any sign of vulnerability. Her expression was a mask of calm, betraying none of the storm that raged within.

“Is he here yet?” he asked, concern creeping into his voice.

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