Chapter 291

The crisp autumn air carried the scent of fallen leaves as Lillian stepped onto the cobblestone path leading to the Blackwood estate. Her heart pounded against her ribs, a mixture of anticipation and unease coiling in her stomach. She hadn’t seen Donovan in weeks—not since he’d publicly rejected her as his fated mate in favor of Evelyn.

Beatrice, ever the supportive best friend, had insisted on accompanying her. "You’re stronger than you think," she murmured, squeezing Lillian’s hand. "And if he dares to say one wrong word, I’ll claw his eyes out."

Lillian managed a weak laugh, though her fingers trembled. She wasn’t here for Donovan. No, this was about Sebastian Blackwood—the Lycan chairman who had somehow become an unexpected anchor in her chaotic life.

The grand doors of the mansion swung open before she could knock, revealing Theodore Whitmore, Sebastian’s ever-composed butler. "Miss Lillian," he greeted with a slight bow. "Alpha Blackwood is expecting you."

Her breath hitched. Expecting her? She hadn’t called ahead.

The foyer was as opulent as she remembered, the chandelier casting golden light over the marble floors. But her attention snapped to the figure descending the staircase—Sebastian, his dark hair slightly tousled, his piercing gaze locked onto her.

"Lillian," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down her spine. "I was just about to send for you."

She swallowed hard. "Why?"

A shadow crossed his face. "Because Donovan is here."

The words struck her like a physical blow. Beatrice stiffened beside her, her grip tightening. "That bastard has some nerve," she hissed.

Sebastian’s jaw clenched. "He’s demanding to see you. Claims it’s urgent."

Lillian’s pulse roared in her ears. Urgent? After everything? She squared her shoulders. "Fine. Let’s get this over with."

But as she moved to follow Sebastian, a small voice piped up from the hallway. "Lily!"

Oliver, Sebastian’s seven-year-old son, barreled into her legs, his arms wrapping around her waist. The unexpected warmth of his embrace made her eyes sting.

Sebastian’s expression softened as he watched them. "Oliver, give her some space."

The boy pouted but obeyed, though he kept his tiny hand firmly in Lillian’s. "Don’t go yet," he pleaded. "I drew you a picture!"

Her heart ached. This child, so innocent and full of light, was a stark contrast to the storm brewing inside her.

Sebastian exhaled sharply. "We don’t have much time. Donovan isn’t alone—Evelyn is with him."

Lillian’s stomach twisted. Of course. She’d humiliate her further by flaunting their bond.

Beatrice growled under her breath. "Let me handle this. I’ve been itching for a fight."

Sebastian’s lips quirked, but his eyes remained serious. "No. This is between Lillian and them." He turned to her. "But I’ll be right beside you. Always."

The promise in his words steadied her.

Taking a deep breath, Lillian nodded. "Lead the way."

As they walked toward the study, Oliver still clinging to her hand, she braced herself for the confrontation ahead.

But nothing could have prepared her for what waited behind those doors.

Because Donovan wasn’t there to gloat.

He was there to beg.

And Evelyn?

She was crying.

The announcer's voice boomed through the arena, detailing the rules with crisp precision. My ears pricked up, absorbing every word. No killing—not yet, anyway. That privilege was reserved for the final showdown. Until then, one wrong move, one fatal strike, and we'd be out. Disqualified.

The first round was chaos incarnate—a free-for-all designed to test our raw skill, our instincts. Winning wasn't the objective. Survival was. We had to make it through without being so battered that even our wolves couldn’t patch us up in time. The goal? Thin the herd.

Fifty, maybe sixty fighters stood scattered across the arena floor. Shifting was forbidden in this round, so I remained in human form, muscles coiled, senses sharp.

A shrill alarm sliced through the air.

The fight erupted instantly—no order, no strategy, just pure, unfiltered violence. Bodies collided, fists flew. It was less a battle and more a frenzied mosh pit of desperation.

I wove through the madness, dodging wild swings, analyzing my opponents with every breath. I had spent the last few days observing them, memorizing their tells.

Like Eric—his right leg was a fraction shorter than his left. Barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. But I had seen it last night in the dining hall, the slight hitch in his step. Now, I used it against him, sweeping his bad leg out from under him. He crashed to the ground, and I was already moving before he could recover.

Sebastian was here. I didn’t need to look to know his gaze was locked onto me, burning like a brand. He sat in the front row with the other Lycans, a silent observer. I refused to glance his way. Focus was everything.

The arena was thinning. Medics rushed in as bones snapped, as fighters crumpled. One man’s leg bent at a grotesque angle, bone tearing through flesh. He was dragged away, howling.

Mayhem.

A whisper of movement at my back—instinct took over. I spun, fist flying. My knuckles connected with a sickening crunch. Blood gushed from his nose. Before he could react, I twisted his wrist until the snap echoed through the air. Clean break. His wolf might fix it before the next round, but for now, he was done.

I kicked him hard in the gut for good measure, sending him sprawling.

Fighting like this was a dance—a brutal, bloody waltz. Every move had to be precise, calculated. The goal wasn’t just to survive. It was to be seen. To make them remember me.

And it worked.

Two massive fighters lunged at me, underestimating the slender girl in their midst. Big mistake. Within seconds, both were on the ground, groaning.

That got their attention.

Suddenly, the tide shifted. The scattered brawls dissolved into a singular focus—me. They wanted a piece of the girl who had just taken down two of their strongest without breaking a sweat.

They came at me in waves.

But I was faster.

Dodging, striking, flipping one over my shoulder. The crowd roared, gasps and cheers blending into a thunderous cacophony. Every takedown, every perfectly placed hit, was another step toward proving myself.

Then—pain. A blow landed, sending me stumbling.

But I didn’t stay down.

I twisted, using their momentum against them, and in a heartbeat, I had them pinned beneath me, their breath ragged, their eyes wide with shock.

The fight wasn’t over yet.

But I had just made sure everyone knew—I wasn’t here to play.

I was here to win.

The arena pulsed with energy as I twisted away from the charging opponents, my body moving with practiced ease. In one fluid motion, I flipped over their heads, landing gracefully behind them. Their hesitation cost them—by the time they whirled around, fists raised, I had already swept their legs out from under them. The crowd erupted into deafening cheers, their voices blending into a thunderous roar that vibrated through my bones.

I spun on my heel, muscles coiled, scanning the field for the next challenger. The air was thick with tension, the scent of sweat and adrenaline sharp in my nose. They were coming at me now, more cautious, more calculated. I could feel their gazes locked onto me, their strategy shifting—I had become the primary target.

My wolf stirred beneath my skin, her agitation merging with mine, sharpening my instincts until my senses were razor-edged. The thrill of the fight sang in my veins, making me reckless.

Too reckless.

I didn’t see the attack coming.

One moment, I was poised for the next strike—the next, my face slammed into the dirt, a searing pain shooting up my spine. A feral growl tore from my throat as I struggled against the weight pinning me down.

Then, a voice—cold, familiar, dripping with venom—whispered against my ear, sending a chill down my already aching back.

"You won’t win this, bitch."

Evelyn.

My blood ran cold.