Claiming Emerald: Four Alphas At Her Feet -
Chapter 61: Not Going As Planned...
Chapter 61: Not Going As Planned...
"Lucien didn’t inherit his title," Kieran finally said in a low voice, almost like he was whispering. "He... took it."
Emerald’s stomach turned. She paused for a moment, sitting quietly as her mind went blank. "You’re serious?"
"I wouldn’t bring it up if I wasn’t," Kieran replied. "It’s not public knowledge, not exactly, but I’ve heard enough from trusted sources over the years."
"But how?" Emerald blinked. "There was no war, no rebellion. His name didn’t even pop up in any uprising."
"That’s the thing," Kieran said. "The Midnight Fang’s borders are tight. You’d be hard-pressed to get a whisper past their wards, let alone full news. Anything that leaves is only what Lucien wants to leave. He controls the narrative... he has for years."
She sat in stunned silence, her fingers curling into the blanket on her lap.
Her thoughts drifted back to the way the pack members had looked at her. The little boy’s voice echoed in her mind again. "Tyrant."
Lucien hadn’t flinched at that word, nor had he defended himself or denied it.
"Thank you," Emerald said after a long pause.
Kieran hesitated. "You okay?"
"Yeah."
"You don’t sound fine, Em, but I won’t press. Just... call me if there’s anything."
"I can take care of myself, Kieran."
"I know," he replied softly.
She ended the call and tossed the phone beside her, letting the silence of the room settle in again.
She didn’t know what she felt. Betrayal? Disappointment? Confusion? She’d expected discomfort, awkward silences, and a bit of tension, but not secrets carved in blood or a pack ruled through fear.
A quiet knock pulled her from her thoughts.
"Come in."
That evening, a soft knock came at her door.
"Come in," she called.
A young maid entered, no older than sixteen. She carried a tray with her meal, eyes lowered. But as she set the tray down on the table, Emerald noticed something different.
The girl looked at her with a gaze that was neither cold nor disdainful, but rather filled with something that looked like curiosity and concern.
Their eyes met, and for a moment, Emerald almost spoke. But the girl dipped her head and backed away.
"Thank you," Emerald said gently.
The girl paused, then nodded once before slipping out the door.
"She doesn’t look like the others," Viola murmured.
"No," Emerald agreed. "Maybe she doesn’t know enough to be afraid of me."
"Or maybe... she’s not afraid of you at all."
Emerald stared at the closed door for a long moment, wondering if it was possible to get the truth from someone inside the pack. But even if the girl wanted to talk, Emerald doubted she’d be willing to risk it.
That night, sleep evaded her.
She tossed and turned in her sleep, feeling as if the heat from the fire yesterday was still on her skin. In her dreams, the flames became more real, chasing her through hallways that seemed to go on forever.
And every time she looked back, that same shadow was there, lurking just behind the smoke.
When she jolted awake, her throat was raw from a scream that never made it out.
After that, she couldn’t sleep again.
By morning, she was already dressed and pacing the room when a knock came.
"Alpha Emerald," a servant called. "Alpha Lucien requests your company for breakfast."
She sighed, already exhausted. "Tell him I’ll be there."
She tied her cloak and headed down the stairs.
The dining hall was the same: perfect, quiet, warm, but it was way too quiet.
Lucien stood as she entered, offering her a small smile. "You look better this morning," he said gently.
"I feel fine," she replied, though her tone was cool.
He gestured to her chair. She sat, but the space between them felt like a canyon, and the silence between every word was louder than anything spoken.
"I asked the staff to reinforce the door with protections," he said. "It won’t happen again."
Emerald gave a single nod, not bothering with pleasantries.
He tried again. "I had the kitchen make rose tea. I remember you said it helps you sleep."
She lifted the cup but didn’t drink from it.
He tried to keep the conversation light, asking about her room, her sleep, and the weather. Emerald replied, but her answers were clipped and neutral.
She stared at her food, untouched.
After several more attempts at conversation fell flat, she stood. "Thank you for the meal," she said. "I think I’ll head out for a walk."
Lucien stood too. "Emerald, wait."
She turned halfway, watching him.
Lucien rose. "I know this week isn’t going the way it should have. But I still want to make the most of it."
Emerald turned slowly. "Are you finally ready to tell me what’s going on in this pack?"
He hesitated.
She nodded. "That’s what I thought."
Without another word, she turned and left, boots echoing off the stone floors as she marched past the main wing.
She didn’t know where she was going; she just walked.
But her feet led her past the main quarters, down toward the market square near the village entrance. It was busier there, vendors calling out prices, children weaving through adults, and carts of goods moving in both directions.
The air was different here... less tense, less curated.
She wandered through the stalls until she caught sight of the boy from yesterday. He was standing beside a baker’s stand, half-hiding behind a barrel.
When their eyes met, he flinched.
"Hey," she said softly. "It’s okay."
He hesitated.
"I won’t hurt you."
Emerald smiled and pulled out a bill. "Want a snack?"
He stared, unsure, but eventually stepped forward. She led him to a stand and bought him a sugar-dusted pastry.
He took it, bit into it, and mumbled, "Thank you, miss."
As she stood, her eyes scanned the street. The atmosphere here was different. Without Lucien beside her, the people didn’t seem as guarded. There were no awkward stares, and no tension in the air.
She watched a group of mothers laughing over fruit baskets and felt her stomach twist.
Is it really him? she wondered. What if the boy was right? Is Lucien the reason they’re afraid?
She didn’t want to believe it.
She really didn’t.
Viola was quiet, but she could feel her listening. Can we even help them... if he’s the problem?
Then something hit her... hard.
Pain bloomed across her scalp as something sharp struck the back of her head. She staggered, one hand flying to the injury. When she pulled it back, it was wet with blood.
The world tilted.
A voice shouted, "It’s the tyrant’s mate!"
Everything came to a halt.
People turned their heads. The crowd, which had been caught up in their own lives, suddenly glanced at her with a different intensity, and their eyes were filled with anger.
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