The Feral Alpha's Captive-Chapter 67: Mother Doesn’t Know Best

🦋ALTHEA

The word negotiate hung in the air like a guillotine blade.

Thorne’s hand remained over my mouth, his palm smelling of iron and strange ancient woods, muffling the sob that wanted to tear out of me. My eyes locked onto Draven, his face hardened into a feral leer—his expression carved with madness as he held a claw to Yana’s throat.

They were so close...

I wanted to curl in on myself and die.

Thal’s back bled as he cried for his mother. She could not reach him to offer any comfort.

"There is no need for this," my mother said, taking steps closer, ignoring the encroaching clan, ignoring Draven’s outburst. "I want my daughter back, and you can take your people home. Is that not a fair exchange, all things considered?"

"The war criminal wants fairness." Thorne actually chuckled—the sound jarring in its bitter softness.

There was not just something there. There was a lot there.

I could see the uneasiness my mother tried to mask. Despite her ego, she knew not to underestimate the situation. Her mocking mirth warmed into something that made my skin crawl as she switched her face like a performer. "Althea is innocent in all of this. She would never hurt a soul. I just want her back home. In return—"

Thorne cut her off with laughter. This one sounded almost too genuine, more unnerving and confusing than the first. He let go of my mouth and whipped me around so I would face them fully. Shock seized me when he dipped his head to the crook of my neck and inhaled audibly.

A less-than-terrible shiver coursed through my body, spearing my core enough to make me clench.

The prickle of all their eyes on me was enough to send me into a spiral, but Thorne seemed very far from done with me—with whatever game he was playing.

He sniffed me, trailing down from my pulse, subtly flicking his tongue against my damp skin as he lifted my hand. His head dropped lower, tracing a path unhurriedly down. I glanced at Draven, and he had lost all color.

Thorne finally reached my hand and seemed to stop there, tasting and breathing in. He flexed my fingers, prying them open.

And used them to cup his cheek.

My heart sputtered.

His words carried as he spoke, husky but no less fracturing. "I can smell blood on her hands, Poppy. I can taste it."

My mother shrugged, but not as confidently as she wanted the action to look. "For a hound—it’s disappointing." She tsked. "What good are you now?"

Thorne only smirked, still using my hand to cradle his face. "For the silvermoth’s mother—it’s ironic," he countered, a slow grin splitting his face.

She began to shrug—then she froze. Went utterly still as it sank in.

My blood burned with dread, her gaze meeting mine, her jaw going slack. "What?" The word was a choked whisper that still managed to carry in the terse air.

Despite the distance that cut through us, I still wanted to run and hide.

Then her eyes moved to Thorne, the devilish curl to his lip widening as he inhaled again, as if drinking me in. A soft whine escaped me, echoing throughout—a damning sound.

In the silence that came after, you could have heard a pin drop on sand. My small, pathetic burst seemed to snap my mother out of her horror. "You don’t know what you are saying—" she began to shout, all restraints tossed aside.

"Oh, I do. Your daughter is the silvermoth." Thorne chuckled darkly, the sound daring to raise goosebumps on my skin. "She has killed your soldiers. She took your slaves."

"Thorne—" I tried to interrupt, but a yelp escaped instead.

HE BIT ME!

Draven snapped. "Don’t touch her!" he roared, the sound ripping out of him, raw and unhinged, as he lunged forward, Yana forgotten for a heartbeat. His claw tightened reflexively at her throat as his eyes burned red, fixed on Thorne with a madness that bordered on frenzy. "Get your hands off her—get your teeth off her!"

Thorne didn’t release me. He didn’t even flinch.

Draven’s chest heaved as he turned his head toward me, desperation cracking through the feral rage. "Althea," he said, his voice breaking on my name. "Look at me. I know you didn’t do it. You never hurt Circe. I know the truth now." His gaze searched my face like he could anchor me there, like if I stayed still enough, obedient enough, the world would correct itself. "You didn’t hurt anyone. You hear me? Stay strong. For me."

For him.

My mother hadn’t moved. She stood frozen where she was, her face stripped of performance, of calculation—left bare in something like horror. Her eyes darted between me and Thorne, then back again, as if her mind refused to settle on either truth.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "That’s not—she’s not—" Her breath stuttered. "The silvermoth is a butcher. A phantom. A lunatic." Her gaze snapped to mine, wild and searching for some clue, some proof of their lie or truth. "You’re my daughter. I made sure you—"

It didn’t make sense. The silvermoth was ruthless. Uncaught. A name spoken in terror, a shadow that left bodies in its wake and vanished before dawn. A thing of anarchy and fear that had humiliated the High Gamma, slaughtered soldiers, took cargo in the form of slaves.

And I—

I shook in Thorne’s hold.

Then something hot brushed my neck.

Teeth.

A quiver racked my being, my body betraying me as I arched against him—of all moments.

The hellhound rose behind me, his breath curling along my spine as his mouth hovered at my pulse, promise and threat entwined. His voice slid into my ear, low and viciously calm.

"Do it."

My lungs locked.

"Or they die."

Understanding hit me all at once. This was never about saving me. This was about forcing truth into the open and about turning denial into spectacle.

My eyes fluttered shut.

My fingers trembled as I lifted my hand, palm opening instinctively, skin prickling with a heat that did not burn but simmered. Something answered from deep within me, a hum that had always been there, buried beneath obedience and fear.

Light spilled free from my palm, silver blooming like a ruinous flower.

A moth unfurled itself into existence, wings wide and luminous, its body etched with moonlight. Then another. And another. They rose in a slow, graceful spiral, delicate and terrible all at once.

The world stilled.

Sound fell away as dozens—no, hundreds—of silver moths poured from me, filling the air, their wings refracting moonlight into shards of brilliance. They fluttered gently, beautifully, the glow washing over frozen faces, over horror-struck eyes, over my mother’s collapsing certainty.

They were exquisite. And everyone there knew, deep in their bones, that they were deadly.

A shrill howl split the air, my mother screaming.