Chapter 16: God’s Wrath

The scent of ash from the dying stone fireplace was instantly obliterated.

Seraphina had barely taken three steps toward the glass conservatory before the entire terrace garden plummeted into a terrifying, unnatural vacuum.

The ambient city noise of Chicago vanished.

The wind died.

A suffocating, predatory shadow dropped from the sky, carrying the concentrated stench of crushing winter stone, frozen earth, and a dark, boundless gravity.

Alistair was back.

He didn't walk out of the conservatory doors. He didn't make a sound.

Crack.

The space right in front of the kneeling, weeping Kilian violently warped. In a fraction of a millisecond, Alistair materialized out of thin air, his massive six-foot-five frame instantly commanding the entire brick terrace.

He didn't look like an elegant, hidden aristocrat anymore. His immaculate charcoal suit jacket was unbuttoned, his silk tie slightly loose, and his platinum-silver hair was whipped into a dangerous, chaotic mess by the sudden displacement of air.

But it was his face that made the blood run cold.

His civilized, polished Nordic features were completely gone, replaced by a savage, terrifying mask of homicidal fury.

His jawline was locked tight, veins bulging against his pale throat like thick ropes.

And his eyes—they were no longer the deep amethyst violet of a calculating businessman.

They had bled entirely into a pitch-black, predatory dark purple that burned with a wild, uncontrollable madness.

The beast inside the Lycan King had broken its leash. The primal, obsessive jealousy that flooded his ancient veins was a physical entity, demanding blood, demanding the complete eradication of the lesser male who had dared to touch his sovereign mate.

Before Kilian could even process the shift in air pressure, Alistair reached down.

His long, pale hand shot forward with the speed of a firing bullet. His fingers, cold as ice and unyielding as industrial steel, wrapped ruthlessly around Kilian’s thick, scarred throat.

BOOM.

With a single, effortless movement of his arm, Alistair lifted the six-foot-four, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound Alpha completely off his knees, slamming his massive body backward against the brick wall of the hotel facade.

The physical impact was so violent it shattered the heavy red bricks behind Kilian’s head, sending a shower of clay dust and mortar chunks raining down onto the stone pavers.

Kilian let out a choked, wet gasp, his hands instinctively flying up to grab Alistair’s wrist, trying to pull the fingers away from his windpipe. But it was like trying to move a mountain with his bare hands.

Alistair’s grip didn't give a single millimeter.

"You," Alistair whispered.

The word wasn't a shout. It was a low, vibrating growl that rattled the glass panes of the conservatory behind them, carrying a lethal, bone-chilling weight that made Kilian's inner wolf instantly scream in absolute, paralyzing terror.

Alistair squeezed harder, his thumb burying deep into Kilian's larynx.

A sharp, sickening crunch of shifting cartilage echoed across the terrace.

The absolute, god-tier physical gap between a mortal regional Alpha and a centuries-old Firstborn God was laid bare in less than three seconds. Kilian’s hyped Alpha strength, his thick muscle, his clawed fingers—they were entirely useless.

He was being treated like a fragile, meaningless plastic doll by an apex predator who could tear his entire pack territory in half without breaking a sweat.

Kilian’s polar-ice blue eyes began to roll back into his skull, his face turning a dark, suffocating shade of purple as his lungs were completely denied oxygen.

His legs dangled helplessly off the ground, his leather shoes kicking weakly against the ruined brickwork.

"Alistair," Seraphina’s smooth voice cut through the suffocating aura.

The word was quiet. It didn't carry an Alpha command, but the moment it hit Alistair’s ears, the violent, dark purple in his irises slightly flickered.

Alistair didn't let go of the throat, but his head snapped toward her with a brutal, whiplash speed.

His breathing was ragged, his broad shoulders heaving as his possessive monster raged in his chest, demanding that he tear Kilian's head off right in front of her to prove his absolute dominance.

Seraphina didn't look at the dying Alpha on the wall. Her emerald-green eyes remained completely locked onto Alistair's dangerous face.

She slowly walked across the stone pavers, her emerald-green silk gown whispering softly against her legs. She stopped just inches from his massive frame, completely placing herself within the lethal zone of his dark energy.

With a slow, graceful movement of her slender hand, she reached out. Her bare, porcelain-pale fingers lightly, gently pressed against the back of Alistair’s clutched fist.

Hum.

The saint-silver light deep within her eyes flared to life, sending a cool, soothing wave of ancient ice magic straight through his skin.

"Let him go," Seraphina whispered, her voice a chillingly calm melody that acted as an immediate anchor to his unraveled sanity.

She tilted her face upward, her sunlit copper waves catching the city lights as she looked into his dark purple eyes with an unyielding, absolute trust.

"He is already dead, Alistair. His pack is gone. His pride is dust. Don't dirty your hands with a ghost."

Alistair stared down at her.

For three agonizing heartbeats, the possessive beast inside him fought against her touch, claws scraping at his mind, screaming that he needed to spill blood to seal his claim.

But looking into her flat, empty emerald eyes—seeing that she truly felt nothing but absolute disgust for the man on the wall—the manic jealousy inside him finally began to recede.

He didn't need to kill Kilian to prove he owned her. She had already chosen her King.

"You are lucky, dog," Alistair ground out, his voice a low, terrifying hiss against the back of Kilian's skull.

With a callous, decisive movement of his arm, Alistair released his grip.

He dropped Kilian like a piece of worthless, soiled trash.

Kilian’s heavy body crashed onto the brick pavers, his knees buckling as he collapsed into a heap of pure, pathetic agony.

He clutched his bruised, bleeding throat with both hands, gasping frantically for oxygen, his chest heaving as he vomited a thick stream of dark blood onto his ruined white dress shirt.

He was completely broken, his neck nearly snapped, his Alpha soul reduced to cinders.

Alistair didn't give him another look.

Before Seraphina could take a step back, Alistair reached down. With a fluid, breathtakingly swift movement, he swept his large, pale arms beneath her knees and her lower back.

He lifted her up bridal-style into his massive chest.

Seraphina didn't gasp.

She didn't flinch away from his touch. Her long copper curls spilled over his dark velvet lapels like a wild fire, her slender fingers naturally gripping the fabric of his black silk shirt.

The heavy, dominant scent of ancient stone and dark violets enveloped her like a royal shroud, erasing the last trace of crushed mint from her senses.

Alistair clutched her against his chest with a fierce, silent intensity, his pupils still dark with a residual, protective possessiveness.

He turned on his heel, his heavy handmade boots thudding against the stone pavers as he walked past the ruined fireplace, stepping over Kilian’s outstretched, trembling hand without a single pause in his stride.

He walked out of the garden terrace, heading straight toward the private elevator that led to the underground hangar where his armored black limousine was already idling.

Behind them in the dark garden, Kilian lay in the dirt, weeping blood into the cracks of the stone, watching the platinum-haired god carry his fated mate away into the infinite night.