Crowned by Fate Chapter 156

Adrian's POV

Maxwell and my mother walked through the door, laughing together like they didn't have a care in the world. Their eyes found me immediately, standing frozen in the middle of the room.

Maxwell's hand dropped from my mother's waist as if burned.

"Adrian?" My mother's voice carried surprise. "What are you doing here?"

I forced myself to breathe normally, to push down the rage that threatened to consume me. "We're all in the maze, aren't we? Nothing strange about running into each other."

Maxwell's brow furrowed. "There you go again with your riddles. You should spend less time reading those useless poems. Poetry only rots a man's brain."

The confusion hit me like cold water.

I looked at them more carefully, taking in details I'd missed in my initial shock. They weren't wearing the competition gear everyone had donned for the Alpha King trials. Instead, they wore casual summer clothes suitable for a beach vacation. My mother's hair fell past her shoulders, longer than I'd seen it in years. Her face looked younger too, the worry lines that had appeared after my father's death notably absent.

Understanding dawned, and I almost laughed at the maze's trick. This wasn't real. None of it was real.

"I need to go," I said, already turning toward the door. "I have things to do."

"Wait!" My mother's voice stopped me. "I've made dinner. Stay and eat with us."

Maxwell moved toward the refrigerator, his movements casual and familiar in this space that should have been sacred to my father's memory. "Your mother made my favorite today. Lamb stew cooked in goat's milk." He pulled out a bottle of red wine, examining the label with satisfaction. "You have to try it."

Lamb stew cooked in goat's milk?

I'd seen the pot on the stove myself just minutes ago. It was fish stew, halibut and salmon, the way my father always made it.

But arguing would be pointless. This was all an illusion, a trap designed to break me. I wouldn't give it the satisfaction.

"I'm not hungry," I said, heading for the back door. "Enjoy your dinner."

Maxwell strode across the room and planted himself directly in my path, blocking my way to the back door. His hand caught my arm, his grip firm. "How can you be so rude to your mother?"

"Rude?" The word came out as a bitter laugh. "What about your private meetings? Is that polite to my father?"

My mother's face went pale, her eyes darting between Maxwell and me. "It's not what you think, Adrian. Your uncle and I..."

She turned to set the pot of stew on the table, her hands shaking so badly she nearly spilled it.

I wondered if they'd been meeting secretly before my father died. If they'd used this fishing cabin for their affair, tainting every good memory I had of this place. The thought made me sick. My childhood sanctuary, the place where I'd learned to love the ocean and trust my father's strength, all of it felt contaminated now.

Maxwell settled into a chair at the table as if nothing had happened, ladling stew into his bowl with practiced ease. "Let's not argue. Come, sit down and have some stew first."

He filled another bowl and held it out to me. "You know, Adrian, the Bible says you shouldn't boil a kid in its mother's milk. But lamb cooked in goat's milk is actually the most delicious thing. Here, taste it."

I didn't take the bowl. The smell alone made my stomach turn. The wrongness of it all, the perversion of taking something meant to nurture and using it to cook the very creature it should have fed.

"Get out," my wolf urged. "This place reeks of betrayal."

I turned toward the door, determined to leave this twisted illusion behind.I was halfway to the door when footsteps pounded on the porch. The door burst open, and my father's Beta stumbled in, his face flushed with urgency.

"Alpha!" He addressed Maxwell, and hearing my uncle called by my father's title made my jaw clench. "Alpha Stormhowl is under attack. He needs reinforcements immediately!"

I stopped in my tracks, every muscle in my body going rigid.

Maxwell didn't even look up from his stew. "No rush. Let me finish this bowl first."

My mother's reaction was even worse. She showed no concern at hearing her mate was in danger. Instead, she reached for the wine bottle, filling Maxwell's glass with steady hands.

"The wine pairs perfectly with the lamb," she said, as if we were discussing nothing more important than dinner arrangements.

Something inside me snapped. I crossed the room in three strides and grabbed Maxwell by the collar, hauling him up from his chair. The bowl of stew clattered to the floor, spreading its contents across the worn wood.

"The day my father died," I snarled, my face inches from his, "did you deliberately choose not to save him?"