All Chapters of CLAIMED BY MY SWEET LYCAN BEAST: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

MARAIt stopped inches from my bare feet as it rolled over the blood-stained floor, its dead eyes widened and accusing. Around it, blood gathered and seeped into the floorboard cracks. A choked scream clawed up my throat, and my heart began to beat rhythmically. I felt like throwing up as the world began to spin around my eyes."Who...Who did this?" I spoke in a raspy mumble.The answer emerged from the shadows like a storm gathering strength. He stepped forward, his presence commanding the room. Despite the sharp features of a man who looked barely twenty, the depth in his cold eyes portrayed a soul burdened with years—sixty-five, maybe more. His lithe movements were swift yet deliberate, a predator among prey.Yet, I couldn’t see his face because the light was still on me. “So, it’s true.” His voice cut through the air like a blade. “This underground ring. You sell female wolves and omegas like livestock. And for what? Your fucking fetishised pleasures?”The room froze. The al

NARRATOR I stand in front of the large mirror in my bedroom with a towel wrapped around my waist, which clings to my damp skin. My eyes are fixed on my reflection, and I can see the loneliness etched on my face. It's been three months since my Luna, Faye, passed away after giving birth to our only heir and every inch of this house reminds me of her. Her laughter used to fill this space, like the sun spilling over a dark forest, chasing the shadows away. Now, it’s just me—Alpha Kalen, mighty in title, pathetic in solitude—lost in a world that seems to have moved on too quickly. The pain of her loss still lingers, and I find myself struggling to cope with the emptiness that has settled within me. The bed creaks under my weight as I lean on it with my gaze fixed on the ceiling. I don’t know what’s worse. Maybe the memories of her or the absence of them. My body aches, not from battle or duty, but from a need I biologically should not starve my body with. It’s been a while sinc

MARA I scramble through the crumbling remains of Ravencrest, my heart hammering in my chest. The scent of blood and smoke hangs thick in the air, choking the life from my lungs. The sounds of chaos—the shrill screams of warriors, the clash of steel against steel, and the guttural growls of wolves—reverberate in my ears. The night was supposed to be a celebration. My coronation rehearsal had gone so well until the first arrow flew. Now, Ravencrest is a war zone. I can barely see through the haze of dust and debris. My eyes sting, but I force myself to look. I have to survive this. I can’t die here—not like this, not with so much left undone. But as I push through the wreckage, something shifts in the air. A strange, unsettling feeling twists in my gut. These attackers—these wolves—they’re different. Their eyes burn with an unnatural fire, their movements too fluid, too precise. These aren’t ordinary werewolves. No, they’re rogues. Lycans, perhaps. Their power and speed ar

MARA As I step off the bus in Seattle, the cool night air slaps me awake, and the city's relentless energy pulses through my veins. I wrap my coat tighter, shielding myself from the biting chilly cold. My feet throb from the long journey, and I clutch the crumpled note in my hand like a lifeline. Well, my life actually depends on it. The address scrawled on it seems like my only hope in this unfamiliar city. As I look around, a man catches my eye. He is leaning against a lamppost, his shadow stretching long and thin on the pavement. He is tall, at least six feet, with a rugged, weathered face and a scar above his left eyebrow. His eyes are a deep, rough brown, and they seem to hold a thousand secrets. His hair is dark and unkempt, framing his face with a messy, endearing quality. He wears a faded black leather jacket, ripped jeans, and scuffed boots that look like they've seen better days. As he turns to face me, a whiff of stale cigarettes and last night's beer wafts

MARA The door creaks open, making a strange and unwelcome sound. My heart jumps as someone steps into the room. “Who’s there?” I sit up, holding the thin blanket tightly like it could actually protect me from whoever or whatever is sneaking into my supposed room in the dead of the night. "It's me, Leona," her familiar voice says softly, but still carrying a creepiness I’ve now come to associate with her. Leona is equal to creepiness, psychopath, witch, anything other awkward name you know. Leona, the Jorge's maid, steps into the faint light, her slender figure outlined sharply in the darkness. “Leona? What are you doing in here?” My voice is sharper than intended, but it’s late, and I’m tired. I just want to sleep! Can’t this girl just fucking mind her business! Leona's eyes scan me with a cold and calculating gaze. Then she tilts her head with a sly smile spreading across her face. "You're in my room," she says. “Didn’t they tell you we will be sharing?” “Sharing?” My