<h4>Chapter 43: Chapter 43: BITCHSTORM</h4>


    <strong>IVAN’S POV</strong>


    Francis reacted first, the surprise of her uninvited appearance cutting through his voice.


    "Serena, you’re not allowed in here."


    But of course, she didn’t stop. She never did.


    She was already halfway across the hall, fury twisting her face into something cruel and ugly. A nightmare in red lipstick.


    She looked possessed. A bull on a mission to gore the nearest man in sight—which, by her luck, happened to be me.


    "Serena! I said you’re not allowed in here! This is a sacred hall!" Francis barked again, stepping into her path with arms spread wide like that would mean a fucking thing to her.


    She blew past him like he wasn’t even there, eyes narrowed into a lethal re. I just arched a brow and waited to see what fresh hell she nned to unleash.


    I should’ve known, the moment she stormed past me without sparing a nce—this was a different kind of tantrum. The kind only haughty, noble-born women could manufacture when their sense of entitlement met resistance.


    She didn’te for me.


    She went straight for Revierrie.


    The poor bastard was still trembling on the floor, muttering apologies for his failure—still groveling, still utterly unprepared for the bitchstorm thundering toward him in streaking mascara and manicured nails.


    Serena grabbed him by the front of his sacred robes, yanked him up like a rag doll—and pped him. Hard. Brutal enough that his head snapped sideways, teeth ttering audibly.


    My brows lifted.


    Revierrie copsed from the sheer force.


    She was raising her hand again for another strike when Francis lunged, grabbing her from behind with both arms.


    But she thrashed like a wild thing. Her body jerked and twisted in his hold, her fists swinging, her voice shrieking through the hall like banshee fire.


    "You fucking fraud!" she screamed. "One job! One! You couldn’t sever a single goddess-damned bond?! What use are you? Useless bottom-feeder! You wrinkled, limp-dicked excuse for a priest!"


    Francis grunted with effort. She wasn’t trained—nothingpared to him—but the strength of her bloodline was boiling through her.


    Rage had made her dangerous. She nearly broke free.


    And that’s when I’d had enough.


    I was on her in a blink. One hand around her throat. One m into the wall.


    The impact snatched the breath from her lungs, pain, no doubt, shooting up her spine.


    "What the fuck is wrong with you?" I snarled, my grip tightening as I pinned her to stone. Her feet barely grazed the floor.


    Finally, some rity flickered in her eyes. Tears came next. Hot, fast, and ugly.


    "I can’t lose you," she gasped. Her voice trembled, already broken. "Ivan—please—I’m sorry for always getting on your nerves. I swear, I’ll do better. I’ll stop talking so much, I’ll be better—but please don’t let her take you from me!"


    My brow furrowed. Confusion bloomed for a heartbeat—then came the revulsion. A cold, crawling irritation in my chest. Her tears meant nothing.


    "I love you," she sobbed. "Please, just... let Maeve go. We can still be happy. We can still be a family—I’m already taking fertility herbs—I’ll take to your bed tonight, just say the word, please!"


    "Shut up," I said, disgust curling in my gut. I dropped her like dead weight.


    She hit the ground hard, folding onto her knees, palms catching the cold tile. Her whimpering sobs filled the hall.


    "Your tantrums don’t give you the right to be a raging bitch, Serena," I said, voice t, dead calm. "I’ve had enough of your delusions. You will get on your knees and apologize to Revierrie. Right now. Or I’ll have him return the favor."


    Her head snapped up. Eyes red. Wild.


    "Why do you always do this to me?!" she shrieked. "Do I get to return the favor to your precious ex-wife who just hit me?!"


    My eyes narrowed. "What?"


    She turned her head, revealing her cheek. Red. Swollen. The shape of a full handprint clear as day.


    My brow actually twitched. Maeve did that?


    Huh.


    Somehow, it wasn’t surprising. She had struck me not too long ago—but still, seeing it? Seeing Serena wear the imprint? I was almost amused.


    That was new.


    "She pped me!" Serena cried. "All I did was invite her to the post-ritual celebration and she struck me across the face! But of course, you don’t care. Because it’s her. It’s always been her. I’m your mate! Not Maeve. I’m your chosen! Not—"


    Iughed. Low-pitched and cruel. Cold enough to stun Serena.


    "You’re not my mate, Serena," I said, stepping closer, lording over her. "You’re my breeder."


    She gasped. Choked on it.


    The hall went still.


    "And at this rate," I added, stepping right over her like she was nothing, "you may never make it to Luna."


    I turned to walk away.


    "Now get on your knees and apologize. Or I’ll take you from breeder to pack ve."


    She trembled. Pride warred with desperation in her bones, battling for control. But in the end, desperation won.


    She knelt. Slowly. Hesitantly. Shoulders stiff with humiliation. She turned toward Rivierre, voice barely above a breath.


    "...I’m sorry," she muttered.


    I narrowed my gaze.


    "That’s it?" I chuckled. "Francis, get the punishment chamber ready. Tell the guards—"


    "I’m sorry!" she burst out, the words tumbling in a rush. "I lost my temper—I shouldn’t have touched you—I’m begging you, please forgive me, Priest Rivierre—I shouldn’t have embarrassed you like that, I’m sorry."


    I raised a brow, then looked to Rivierre.


    "Was that eptable?"


    He nodded quickly, lips pressed into a tight, miserable line.


    "Y-yes, Your Highness."


    I exhaled. "Good. You remain our High Priest. Regardless of this oue. You will carry yourself with the dignity of your station. Understood?"


    "Yes, my King."


    My gaze slid back to Serena. "And you will remember your ce. Just because you sleep in my bed doesn’t mean you get to piss on anyone you choose."


    Her gaze dropped—whether out of shame or rage, I couldn’t be bothered to care.


    I tucked a hand into my pocket. "Francis. I’ll be in the east wing—"


    "Wait!" she cried, scrambling after me, tripping over her own feet in the rush. "Ivan, what happens now? Are you—are you doing the ritual again? Are you going to try ending the bond again? You can’t give up, baby."


    Goddess.


    We had just crossed the threshold into the public hall, her footsteps clumsy behind me, her questions endless and shrill, when the noise hit.


    Amotion.


    Catcalls. Whistles. The rancid scent of lust wafting off the walls.


    Maeve.