The Lunar Curse: A Second Chance With Alpha Draven Chapter 671: Together at the Palace

Randall ignored her entirely. He swept by without a single word, his aura flooding the room with an icy, suffocating pressure.

Rosalie remained seated inside, utterly serene amid the commotion, clutching an apple. She took a slow, deliberate bite, as if his entrance was utterly insignificant.

That sight alone stoked his irritation even more.

With one swift step, he closed the distance and yanked the apple from her grasp, hurling it away. It smacked the floor and spun off into the corner.

Rosalie whipped her head around, eyes blazing as they fixed on him. Her composure shattered. Lips twisting, fangs flashing, she sprang at him—but Randall proved quicker.

He seized her arms, keeping her pinned at arm's length, his hold unyielding yet effortless.

She thrashed against him, yet he stood rock-solid.

A scornful huff escaped him, laced with icy disdain. "You must be very pleased with yourself."

Her fierce stare held steady.

"You’ve been waiting for this, praying for this day to come," he pressed on, voice hushed yet seething with rage as his fingers clenched tighter.

"I should have killed you back then instead of sparing your life out of pity... because you gave me the son I wanted," he growled, his words growing even more ominous. "

For an instant, silence hung heavy. Then Rosalie burst into laughter—a wild, piercing cackle that sliced the tension.

"Regret is not something you can erase even if you want," she gasped out between laughs.

That only ignited him further. His hand slid up from her arms to her throat, seizing her neck and hoisting her slightly off the ground as fury boiled over.

"I can still kill you even if Draven ordered me not to," he murmured, voice sinking low. His grasp constricted just enough to underscore the danger.

"And then I will retire, sit at home and do nothing for the rest of my days," he added with frigid detachment.

Rosalie’s laughter rang out louder now. "Then perhaps that life would suit you. But unfortunately, my son will not allow it," she retorted, voice hoarse yet taunting. Her eyes sparked with keen malice.

"He won’t let you live if you touch even a strand of my hair."

Randall sneered, yanking her nearer until their faces nearly touched. "He is my son."

Her mirth cut off abruptly. "And he is mine," she shot back, her tone shifting to lethal menace. "And he knows. He knows everything. Not just about what he is... but about our entire history."

Gradually, Randall loosened his hold on her neck. Rosalie drew herself up, masking the lingering strain behind her poise.

A subtle, victorious smirk played on her lips. "Do you think he will spare your life if you touch me?" she murmured softly.

Randall eyed her a beat longer, then exhaled sharply in dismissal. "Deranged woman."

He spun to depart. But before he could stride away, she struck. Her hand whipped out, claws elongating as she raked across his face with feral accuracy.

The sharp crack echoed through the room.

Randall froze. Crimson bloomed instantly from the gashes her nails had carved.

Even he seemed stunned for a heartbeat. Then rage flared anew. He whirled back, hand rising—but Rosalie went still. Her burst of strength ebbed as suddenly as it had surged.

Her form slackened, slumping onto the sofa. Out cold.

Randall loomed there, breaths ragged, the fresh slashes burning on his cheek. His eyes lingered on her motionless body, the frailty lurking under her boldness.

"Pathetic." He spat the word. With one last venomous look, he stormed from the room.

Outside, the caregiver lingered in tense anticipation.

As Randall emerged, she bowed her head low, avoiding his gaze while he passed. Only after he vanished did she release a shaky sigh of relief.

She swiftly shut the door and dashed back in, hurrying to Rosalie’s side.

"My Lady..." she whispered gently, dropping to her knees to scan for injuries.

---

The fury Randall bore from the underground quarters trailed him across the estate.

Servants shrank back, eyes downcast as he prowled by, but whispers of the blood streaking his face spread like wildfire.

Dennis caught wind almost immediately. Spotting his father vanish into the study from the hallway, the thin trail of blood on his cheek told the full tale.

No point confronting him, so Dennis pivoted and fished out his phone.

—

In the palace study, Draven’s phone buzzed. He checked the caller and picked up promptly.

"Any news?"

Dennis skipped the pleasantries. "Father actually went to see her. And he has just come back," he reported.

A short silence, then he continued with subtle humor, "And it didn’t go well. There is a cut on his face, deep enough to bleed." He concluded, "I would say she struck him."

"Seems like she finally got to take a little revenge for herself," Draven replied evenly.

"I thought you would say something like that." Dennis chuckled softly. "He didn’t expect it. That much is obvious."

Draven’s voice stayed even. "Good." Not a trace of pity.

Dennis leaned against the wall. "He is really not taking this lightly."

"Good luck to him," Draven said icily. "He will need it."

***

Two days passed, and the palace gates swung wide.

Rumors had rippled through the elite guards about a key arrival, though none voiced it aloud. They formed ranks, poised and mute, as a single vehicle rolled in under heavy guard.

Randall exited first. The strain etched into him was unmistakable, despite his ironclad facade.

The scar on his face was fading, yet not fully gone. It persisted—faint but telling of the clash from before.

Rosalie followed. She descended with measured grace, a subtle frailty shadowing her stance.

Her isolation hadn’t crushed her spirit, though it had drained her. Still, an unbreakable resolve radiated from her.

The guards averted their eyes in deference as she glided past.

Suddenly, Randall barked curtly, "Move."

He offered no arm, and she sought none.

Side by side, they entered the palace.