บททั้งหมดของ The Triplet's Bullied Mate: บทที่ 321 - บทที่ 330

Elowen’s POV The academy library was a sanctuary, a quiet haven of hushed reverence and stillness. It was cool, almost chilly, after the simmering tension of the courtyard, its tall, arching stained-glass windows filtering the harsh morning sunlight into soft, dappled patterns of golden light that danced across the ancient wooden shelves. Dust motes, caught in the ethereal beams, floated lazily through the air like tiny, shimmering galaxies as I stepped between rows of towering books, the faint sound of my boots muffled by the thick, plush carpeted floor. I needed quiet. A deep, pervasive silence that could somehow drown out the incessant, cruel whispers that had clung to me all morning, the memory of Lysander’s smirking arrogance, the suffocating weight of a hundred curious stares. More than that, I needed… peace. A profound sense of calm that felt increasingly elusive in my life. Theron followed me silently, his footsteps a soft, steady presence behind me, a comforting counterp

Elowen’s POV The academy courtyard, usually a vibrant tapestry of voices and hurried footsteps, was remarkably quieter than usual. Most of the students had retreated indoors, either finishing up their rigorous combat drills or undergoing the meticulous cleanup after a day of assessments. I, however, found myself drawn to the cooling air, a desperate need for space, a quiet sanctuary to clear my head before the inevitable return to the bustling, sometimes suffocating, atmosphere of the mansion. I sank onto the cool stone bench nestled beneath the sprawling branches of the tall ashwood tree near the gurgling fountain, a thick, leather-bound book resting forgotten in my lap. My fingers idly traced the worn edges of its cover, but my mind was a million miles away, still wrestling with the day's events. Theron’s comforting scent still lingered faintly on my skin—a heady blend of damp earth, the clean tang of a coming storm, and his own unique warmth. His embrace in the library, a quiet

Elowen’s POV The morning sun, usually a welcome beacon of warmth and renewed hope, seemed utterly devoid of its comforting embrace. Its golden rays spilled across the familiar contours of my room, gilding the polished wooden furniture and throwing soft, broken beams across the floorboards, but against my skin, it felt remarkably cold, almost alien. I sat curled at the very edge of the bed, knees drawn up to my chest, arms wrapped tightly around them, my gaze fixed intently on my hands. They weren’t glowing now, nor did they ripple with the visible currents of raw power that had coursed through them in the dream. They looked perfectly normal—steady, soft, pale fingers, bearing only the faint, familiar scars from countless hours of combat training and the minor scrapes of childhood mischief. Yet, I could still feel the phantom echo of the fire, the subtle, insistent thrum of something wild and untamed just beneath the surface of my skin. It was like the distant memory of a burn long s

Elowen’s POV The cool, marble steps outside the training hall seemed to hum with residual tension, the very air thick with the aftershocks of violence. My feet, guided by an instinct I didn't fully understand, led me to him. I found Ranon crouched low, his powerful frame hunched, knuckles split and bleeding, bright crimson droplets staining the pristine white stone beneath him. His academy shirt, usually immaculate, was torn across the shoulder, revealing angry, bruised skin marred by fresh, cruel-looking claw marks. One of his intensely golden eyes was already swelling shut, a testament to the brutality of the exchange. “Ranon,” I breathed, the word a strangled gasp, rushing forward, my heart seizing in my chest. He looked up at me, his remaining visible eye wide and wild, his chest heaving with ragged, desperate breaths as if he’d just run from a war fought on a scale far beyond anything I could comprehend. “Don’t.” His voice was raw, laced with a desperate warning. “Don’t what

Elowen's POV And as I slipped back into Ranon’s room, the hushed quiet of the mansion felt like a stark contrast to the storm that still raged within me. The moonlight, now streaming unobstructed through his large window, cast long, silver streaks across the polished wooden floorboards, illuminating the subtle dust motes dancing in the air. The faint scent of cedar and his own unique, invigorating aroma—wild mint and damp earth—filled my lungs, a familiar comfort. I found him awake. He was lying on his side, one powerful arm tucked loosely beneath his head, his golden eyes wide open and fixed intently on the door, as if he had been waiting, every fiber of his being tuned to my return. His gaze found me instantly, dark and stormy, swirling with a raw, unadulterated mix of relief, anger, and an aching, profound longing. All of it swirled just beneath the surface, a turbulent ocean of emotion barely contained. “You left,” he rasped, his voice rough, hoarse not just from sleep but from