Chapter 60
THIRD PERSON POV
Ronan perched on the side of his bed, a document gripped in his grasp, its fresh sheets undisturbed. His thoughts were distant from the complex matters of the Pack’s administration. They were overwhelmed by Elara.
In spite of her disloyalty, the baffling behaviors that had destroyed their delicate connection, he couldn’t erase her picture from his thoughts.
The inquiry. ‘Why?’ resounded unceasingly in the depths of his soul. He had pondered why she would conceal such a mystery from him, why would she deceive? What precisely was she concealing and what else might she have been hiding from him?
His beta, Theron, stepped into his rooms, interrupting Ronan’s daydream. “Alpha,” Theron declared in a deferential resolute voice. “The gathering is in thirty minutes.”
“Oh?” Ronan whispered, his voice monotone, lacking its typical authoritative edge. I’ll be there soon.”
“Okay Sire.” Theron inclined and then left, abandoning Ronan solitary with his stormy reflections. He stood from his bed and gazed into the mirror. What he observed ignited his fury. He was merely a remnant of his previous lively essence. Since Elara came, she had altered him.. All her actions invariably affected him, he attempted for weeks to move past her but he discovered the harder he strove, the tougher it grew to release her in spite of all.
For the initial occasion, Ronan sensed powerless. His wolf meanwhile had been profoundly furious, desiring to erupt and release his fury but Ronan restrained it, aware of the harm he could inflict.
He had previously been deceived and vowed to never succumb to another until Elara arrived and transformed him. And now, she as well had deceived him, in a manner he never anticipated.
He shook his head, dispelling his ideas. “This isn’t significant at the moment. The gathering is.”
He proceeded to the washroom for a prolonged, warm soak that eased his sore sinews but offered scant relief to his roiling feelings that churned inside him. He attired himself in his standard outfit- exquisitely made Werewolf apparel, typically donned solely by the Alphas. He glanced down at the somber material that now reflected the gloom that had obscured his essence.
As he descended the steps, his sentries inclined. He strode beyond them with a majestic poise, the Alpha’s demeanor indisputable, but also the fatigue that adhered to him like a veil. The throne room beckoned, a site of might and command where he governed with simplicity and supremacy, yet now he sensed completely impotent against his sentimental chaos.
What’s occurring to me? He pondered internally as he advanced toward his throne. He shook his head once more and settled on the throne, his stare scanning the gathered pack associates and seniors.
“Let’s commence.” He ordered. The pack associates and seniors observed the lack of his typical supremacy, but chose to retain it internally as they dreaded the Alpha’s ire. Ronan governed his Pack as an equitable ruler, but one with a steel grip.
The gathering was a haze to Ronan. He engaged sparingly, providing brief responses, a couple of assents and the sporadic murmur of consent. His thoughts wandered to and fro, reliving each exchange with Elara, hunting for solutions that stayed unresolved.
Theron periodically would look at his Alpha with an expression of profound worry, a mute recognition of the internal struggle Ronan was fighting. He understood the cause of the Alpha’s abrupt anguish, the entire pack understood. But there was naught they could accomplish except wish their Alpha reverts to his former self.
Ultimately, the gathering ended and all departed, save Theron and the sentries who protected the throne room. Theron neared Ronan, his look grave in spite of his internal sentiments toward the Alpha.
A compassionate comprehension.
“May I propose a stroll, Alpha? It could assist in clarifying your thoughts.”
The vision of his and Elara’s twilight walks flickered before Ronan’s gaze, clear, tormenting and irritating. He shook his head, the action keen and sudden. He desired nothing that would evoke Elara particularly when he was in such a condition.
“I’d prefer not.” He stated, sending Theron away. He stood from his throne and departed the throne room, proceeding back to his rooms, pursuing sanctuary, but what he discovered worsened his spirits even further. Marceline reclined seductively on his bed. She was an image of meticulously fostered charm, a form that appeared chiseled from winding contours, she reclined there in her silk gown that offered scant coverage for her plentiful features. Her look contained a trace of urgency and anticipation.
“What are you doing here Marceline?” Ronan questioned as he banged his door closed. “What do you desire?” He questioned in a restless voice.
Marceline once was a female he couldn’t decline and that was why he kept her as his consort despite lacking emotions for her. But now, the simple view of her aggravated him to the essence.
She scowled and rose from his bed, advancing a few paces toward him. “What do I desire?” She questioned before encircling her limbs around his midsection, her bosom pressing against his torso aiming to arouse him even minimally. “Ronan,” she whispered against his torso, head inclined upward, “You appear tense and fatigued. I desire to aid you in alleviating that.”
“Yeah, and you’re worsening it,” he answered abruptly, his palms shifting toward her and ripping them from his frame. Her scowl intensified and she encircled her limbs around him once more, more firmly this occasion.
“It’s been weeks!” She stated in a wounded voice, her tone fractured as the tears menaced to stream. “Why can’t you erase that wicked serpent and concentrate on me instead? I’m present, Ronan, I eternally have and eternally will.”
Ronan uttered nothing and simply shoved her away. He proceeded to his bed and reclined, his fatigue ultimately overpowering him. Within moments, he was deeply asleep, his thoughts mercifully empty. He was truly asleep and not pondering Elara or the Pack.
With an exhale, she neared him, removing his footwear and meticulously positioned him on the bed. She draped him with a gentle cover, her actions revealing an authentic gentleness that contradicted her prior efforts at enticement.
This was the sixth effort and Ronan declined to yield. It perplexed her, she pondered what conceivable attraction he must have sensed toward Elara that would cause him to rebuff her so frequently and that idea solely amplified her loathing for Elara and all she could desire was demise. Elara might have been beyond view, but it wasn’t sufficient to excise her from Ronan’s thoughts or soul.
She settled next to him, tenderly caressing his locks. “I didn’t do this for you to be this wretched,” she murmured, her tone brimming with a touching grief. “I hope you grasp I performed the optimal action for you. And I’m regretful for the pain I inflicted before.” She inclined in and placed a soft kiss on his brow before departing his room softly.
Little did she realize that Ronan was already conscious from the instant she took off his footwear and he had overheard her statements.
The implication of the declaration prompted his thoughts to surge, a spark of comprehension ignited in the depths of his dozing consciousness. The kernel of skepticism was sown, and as he slipped back to slumber, he was tormented by the enigma of Marceline’s statements.