Betrayed and Claimed by the Lycan King Chapter 231

ISOLDE'S POV

The cold concrete floor beneath me had become as familiar as my own heartbeat. I'd lost track of how long had passed.

*"He's not coming,"* I whispered to the empty cell, my voice hoarse from crying. *"He believed them."*

The thought sent fresh waves of panic through my chest. What if they had convinced him that I was dangerous? What if the elders had finally worn him down with their constant pressure to choose Evanthe? What if he gave up believing me?

He was the Lycan King. He had an empire to protect, a pack to lead. Maybe... maybe cutting ties with the crazy woman in the basement was the smart decision.

Lyra's silence spoke volumes.

I pressed my face against my knees, feeling the dampness of fresh tears on my cheeks. The sob that escaped me was quiet, defeated. How had I become this pathetic creature cowering in a cell? Where was the strong woman who'd faced down challengers in the arena? Where was the fighter who'd kneed Ollie in the groin and spat in his face?

*"She's still here,"* Lyra whispered, but her voice lacked conviction. *"She's just... tired."*

Tired didn't begin to cover it. I was exhausted, soul-deep and bone-weary. Every hour that passed without Ezra's appearance chipped away at my resolve, at my belief that this nightmare would end.

*"He should be here,"* I muttered, pacing the small cell like a caged animal. *"Even if he can't release me officially, he should be here. He should be comforting me, holding me through this hell."*

But he wasn't. The silence stretched on, broken only by distant footsteps that never came my way and the occasional clang of metal from somewhere in the building's depths.

The realization crept over me slowly, like ice forming on a window. Evanthe had won. She'd played her cards perfectly—getting pregnant, framing me for her poisoning, positioning herself as the grieving victim while I rotted in this concrete tomb. The executives, the elders, even Ezra himself... they were all rallying around her now.

The memory of Sybilla's situation crashed over me like a tidal wave.

My stepsister, locked away for the rest of her life for crimes. She was just a weak werewolf with no one to support her. And what was I? Another weak werewolf, another inconvenient problem that could be swept under the rug.

The difference was that Sybilla had committed actual crimes. She'd participated in real schemes, real betrayals. I was innocent—completely, utterly innocent—and yet here I was, facing the same fate.

My breathing became shallow, rapid. The walls felt like they were closing in, the ceiling pressing down until I could barely draw air into my lungs. Tears flowed freely now, hot tracks down my cheeks that I didn't bother to wipe away.

*"I don't want to die,"* I sobbed into the empty space. *"I don't want to be remembered as a murderer, as someone who killed an innocent child. That's not who I am!"*

But who would believe me? Who would fight for the truth when it was so much easier to accept the narrative Evanthe had crafted?

I had to get out of here. This place, this pack, this whole fucking organization—it's poison. It's been nothing but misery since the moment I walked through those doors.

Ezra didn't need us. Maybe he's better off without the complications we bring.

The sharp staccato of high heels on concrete echoed through the corridor, pulling me from my spiral of despair.

My body was too weak, too drained from hours of emotional torment, to bother standing and walking to the glass barrier as I usually did. Instead, I remained slumped against the far wall, watching through half-closed eyes as the footsteps grew closer.

When the figure came into view, my heart stopped.

Evanthe stood outside my cell in all her perfectly polished glory. Her blonde hair was styled in an elegant updo, her makeup flawless despite supposedly being in the hospital yesterday. She wore a crisp designer blazer in navy blue, tailored to perfection, with matching heels. Her posture radiated confidence and barely contained smugness.

The sight of her hit me like a physical blow. My soul felt like it was separating from my body, my heart plummeting into my stomach with such force that I thought I might vomit.

*"What the fuck is she doing here?"* Lyra snarled, immediately on high alert.

"Evanthe!" The name escaped my lips as barely more than a breath.

She smiled. "The one and only," she said, her voice dripping with satisfaction.

I struggled to find my voice, my mind reeling from the shock of seeing her here, in my prison. "What... what are you doing here?"

Her laugh was like glass breaking. "Did you really think I'd pass up the opportunity to see you like this? After all, it's not every day I get to witness your complete downfall."

The casual cruelty in her tone sent ice through my veins. This wasn't the grieving mother anymore.

My gaze drifted involuntarily to her stomach. Flat. Perfectly flat beneath that tailored blazer.

Thalia's words echoed in my mind like a thunderclap: *"The child wasn't Ezra's... She poisoned herself to frame you... She killed her own baby..."*

Standing before me wasn't a grieving mother or a wronged woman seeking justice. This was a calculating predator who had orchestrated every detail of my downfall. Who had murdered her own child to eliminate evidence and frame me for the crime.

My hands clenched into fists. Every tear I'd shed, every moment of self-doubt, every second of believing I might actually be guilty of harming an innocent child—it had all been orchestrated by this monster standing before me.

What a evil, power-hungry bitch!