The Alpha's Silent Bride: Seventh Time's The Charm novel Chapter 103

Chapter 103: 103: What’s in the closet?

~ ROSELLE ~

"We are not monsters, no matter what they call us, Roselle," Irina says in a low whisper as she returns to her chair, gesturing for me to take the empty seat across from her.

I lower myself onto the soft cushion, my eyes still locked on hers.

"Yes, I turned him into a Lycan. He was a rogue, barely more than a teenager, when he was attacked by a rival group and left dying. His wounds were too severe for normal healing, and I had to step in."

She explains after I ask her about the Lycan in Ronan’s.

It’s all too much for me to process, but I’m trying my best not to lose it—to stay sane.

She reaches across the desk and gently takes my hands.

"We don’t convert people because we want to, Roselle. That’s a lie the werewolf packs spread to justify hunting us. Lycans aren’t mindless monsters. We are... survivors. Stronger. Our kind was born from necessity—from ancient bloodlines that adapted when the world tried to wipe us out. We heal faster, sense more, and fight harder. But the transformation is painful and dangerous. It only works if the person is strong enough to survive it. Most don’t."

I feel my chest rising and falling rapidly as I nod, her words sinking deep into my mind, soothing every question that has been piling up inside me.

My biggest fear is becoming a monster.

I mean, after seeing how massive that Lycan was... and the deadly look in his eyes... I can’t help but be terrified that one day I’ll turn into that form too, with my sanity slipping beyond my reach.

I pull my hands away from hers, my other hand still clutching the strands of hair I stole from her, even though I doubt I’ll be needing another DNA test.

"Then why was he here? If not to kill?"

"He was trying to protect you, Roselle. He was on reconnaissance, watching over you from the shadows. Making sure you were safe."

Her eyes soften as her hands come to rest on the table. She brushes her red hair back before meeting my gaze.

"Ronan is going to execute him soon. He’s already tried to squeeze information out of him, and if he keeps trying without getting any answers... he’s definitely going to kill him."

I exhale shakily. Deep down, I already knew the Lycan was going to die, but I have no idea how I’m supposed to help... or what I could possibly do.

A heavy silence settles between us before my heart suddenly slams against my ribs.

I jerk my head up, staring at her in disbelief.

"How?" My voice comes out barely above a whisper. "How am I supposed to help with that?"

Irina holds my gaze for a long moment before leaning closer, lowering her voice to a tense whisper as if the walls themselves might be listening.

"The key to the dungeon cells is kept in Ronan’s room. Your room." She pauses, letting the words sink in. "He keeps it locked in the top drawer of his desk, hidden under some tool box. You know the layout better than anyone. You can get it without raising suspicion."

She searches my face desperately, her fingers curling tightly around the edge of the table as she waits for my response.

My eyes widen as the full weight of her words crashes into me. She’s asking me to steal the key. To betray Ronan’s trust.

A knot forms in my stomach.

I instinctively start to shake my head. I mean... I’d never even imagined stealing from Ronan, let alone betraying him like this.

"I know this is a lot to ask of you, Roselle," Irina says softly, her voice trembling with desperation. "But please... there’s a life at stake. His life is at stake."

It would mean sneaking into our room to steal the key. Helping a Lycan escape right under Ronan’s nose.

Fuck. Fuck it. Fuckity fuck.

I should’ve just said no. It would’ve been easier than making a promise my weak, trembling legs might never have the courage to keep.

With a frustrated groan, I drag both hands through my hair before collapsing onto the edge of the bed.

Everything feels wrong. If I help Irina, I betray Ronan. If I don’t... an innocent man dies.

I end up skipping lunch altogether. The thought of food turns my stomach, and I spend the afternoon trapped inside my own head, replaying the conversation over and over, hoping the answer will somehow come to me.

By the time evening rolls around, I find myself doing the very thing my brain has been screaming at me not to do.

It’s almost as if I’m wired to act only when the pressure becomes unbearable—when the risk of getting caught is at its highest.

My feet carry me across the room before I can talk myself out of it.

I stop in front of the walk-in closet, my pulse hammering in my ears.

This is it.

I swallow hard and reach for the wardrobe Irina had described—the one with the toolbox tucked inside. A part of me can’t help but wonder how she knew it was there, but now isn’t the time to dwell on that.

Taking a slow, steadying breath, I pull the door open.

I freeze.

My eyes lock onto what lies inside, and for a heartbeat, I can only stare.