Knotted By The Devilish Alpha Brothers

Chapter 11: Chapter 11: Interogation

The words didn’t land right at first—they slid past her like smoke, incomprehensible. Then they sank in, barbed and cold.

No.

Fear clamped around her ribs, iron bands cinching tight. She coughed harder, fingers scrabbling at her own throat as if she could claw the poison out by will alone. Nothing came. Nothing but that spreading burn, coiling deeper into her chest, her stomach, her veins.

Reid stepped fully into the room, that charming smile fixed in place. He tilted his head, studying her like she was a curious little insect pinned to a board.

”Don’t you want to die?” He gestured vaguely toward her frail frame. ”Starving yourself for a week is a pretty clear sign of that.”

A sharp, twisting pain flared through her midsection. Amelia’s hands flew to her stomach, and she curled inward, breath hitching.

Isn’t this what I wanted?

The thought cut through the panic like a blade—clean, cold, devastatingly honest. After everything. After Dylan’s cold eyes. After Jade’s triumphant smirk. After the way they had looked at her like she was nothing, less than nothing, a loose thread to be snipped and discarded.

Shouldn’t I want this?

Yet something deep inside her recoiled—primal, terrified, clawing upward through the fog of resignation.

I don’t want to die.

The realization struck. She didn’t want to die.

Reid reached into his pocket and produced a small glass bottle, giving it a lazy shake. The clear liquid caught the dim light, glinting like a threat or a promise.

”I have the cure.” His voice stayed light, almost playful. ”You’ve got less than ten minutes to cooperate if you want to live.”

Before she could respond, Dean’s fingers tangled in her hair—yanking her head back against the headboard with brutal efficiency. His silver-black strands fell forward as he leaned in close, eyes flat and cold as winter stone.

”Tell me everything you know about the Underworld Territory.”

Her scalp screamed. Her throat burned. Tears spilled freely now, tracking hot lines down her cheeks.

Reid’s hand settled over his brother’s wrist—gentle, but firm. ”Calm down. Give her the chance to speak.”

Dean released her with a quiet grunt, stepping back like a wolf retreating from a carcass. Amelia’s body sagged, trembling violently.

”I don’t know what the Underworld Territory is,” she managed, voice cracking. ”I’ve never heard of them. Please. I don’t want to die.”

She meant them. God help her, she meant every syllable.

Her strength gave out entirely. She collapsed sideways against the headrest, eyes half-lidded, limbs loose and useless. The world swam at the edges—gray and fading.

Reid uncorked the small bottle without another word. He tipped the contents into her open mouth.

Cool. Almost sweet. The liquid slid down her throat like mercy.

Almost immediately the burning began to recede—pulling back like a tide retreating from shore. The crushing pain in her stomach eased, softened, became something manageable. A shaky breath left her lungs, and relief washed through her limbs like warm water, melting the tension from her muscles.

Reid capped the empty bottle and glanced at his brother. ”For the cure to work completely, it won’t sit well on an empty stomach.”

They turned and left together. The door clicked shut behind them.

In the hallway, Reid spoke.

”She’s telling the truth.”

Dean’s reply came low, edged with mild surprise. ”I wasn’t expecting the fake poison to be that effective.”

A pause. Then Reid’s voice again, thoughtful: ”Her trauma amplified it.”

Silence followed their footsteps, fading into nothing.

Time blurred. Then the door opened once more.

Two maids entered, silent as shadows, carrying a single tray between them. They set it carefully on the bed beside her—warm bread, soft meat, a bowl of fragrant soup, a small portion of fruit glistening with moisture.

Her stomach clenched—sudden, desperate, animal hunger surging up from somewhere deep and forgotten. She hadn’t felt hunger like this in weeks. Hadn’t allowed herself to.

I can’t die.

The thought settled firmly as she pushed herself up on weak, trembling arms. She reached for the food with both hands, tearing into it without grace or hesitation. The bread was rich, almost too good after so many days of nothing. The soup soothed her ravaged throat like a balm. The meat melted on her tongue, and each bite filled the hollow ache inside her a little more.

I don’t want to die.

The heartbreak still sat like a stone in her chest—heavy, immovable. That pain hadn’t vanished. But it no longer felt like a reason to stop living.

She wanted answers. She needed to understand how everything she had believed—everything she had built her life around—could shatter so completely.

She finished every scrap on the tray.

The moment the last bite was gone, exhaustion crashed over her like a heavy wave—merciless, inescapable. Her body sank into the mattress, heavy and boneless. Eyelids fluttered shut.

Within minutes, she was gone—deeply, dreamlessly asleep. The first true rest she had known in weeks.