Ch. 121..125: A Warrior Luna's Awakening Chapter 121-125
Chapter 121
Finished
“L” He opened his mouth, but before the words could form, his WolfComm device vibrated. The sound shattered the fragile
moment.
He answered sharply. On the other end came his uncle’s urgent voice from The Capital. As Kade listened, his face darkened, jaw tightening.
When the call ended, Freya studied him carefully. “What happened?”
“My grandfather’s law firm, there’s trouble. It’s tied to matters from when I was overseas. I have to return to The Capital immediately.”
Freya nodded. “Then go. Handle it.”
But he lingered, eyes locked on her. His wolf howled within, refusing to part from her side. He wanted to snarl, to claim, to chain himself to her shadow.
Instead, he said only, “You’ll remain Silas Whitmor’s bodyguard for three months, and then return to The Capital?”
“Yes,” she replied simply. “Three months. No longer.”
Kade drew a steadying breath. “Then I’ll be waiting for you. And when you come back-” His voice hardened with resolve. “I won’t remain only your brother–in–arms. I’ll tell you what I truly want.”
Her golden eyes lingered on him, searching. But before she could respond, he turned away, shoulders squared like a wolf going to battle.
And in his chest, his wolf roared one truth over and over again: She is mine.
Chapter 122
Silas’s POV
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When I returned to the Whitmor estate that night, I knew something was wrong the moment I crossed the threshold.
The air carried it–sharp, metallic, tinged with the wrong kind of dominance. My wolf stiffened inside me, hackles raised, muscles coiling before my mind even caught up.
For half a heartbeat, I thought it might be Freya waiting for me, that she had chosen this night to confront me in my own den. But no–my body knew better. Freya’s presence never triggered this instinctual warning. She was danger of a different breed, one I craved instead of dreaded.
The figure in the living room froze me where I stood.
My breath caught, my chest locked tight, and every scar inside me throbbed as if torn open anew.
Cassian Whitmor.
My father.
The word “father” tasted like ash in my mouth, for he had long ceased to be one. His suit was immaculate–black tailored lines, a stark white shirt beneath. He had always worn such colors since my mother’s death, as though the spectrum of the world had died with her. My mother had been light, and he… he became shadow.
And the face–the gods curse it–the face that mirrored mine. His cheekbones, his jaw, his cold eyes. Looking at him was like staring at a distorted reflection of my own flesh. A cruel reminder that his blood runs in me.
“Surprised to see me, Silas?” His smile was practiced elegance, smooth as silk over a coiled viper. Others might see warmth in it, but I knew better. That smile was venom.
My spine locked straight, every sinew braced against the madness that rolled from him in subtle waves. Since my mother’s death, Cassian had rotted from the inside out. The world thought him merely eccentric, a grieving widower. But I knew–he was broken, twisted. Mad.
“What are you doing here?” I forced the words out cold, flat.
“I hear my son has found himself a woman,” Cassian said lightly, strolling closer with unhurried grace. “Of course I had to come see for myself.”
My jaw clenched. He had seen the trending reports then, the images leaked to the networks before I had them scrubbed. Too late.
Freya.
The way he said it—a woman–made bile crawl up my throat. He knew nothing of her. He could never know what she meant
to me.
I kept my silence.
He tilted his head, studying me as only he could, with the precision of a wolf that had learned to sniff out weakness. “What’s wrong, boy? Don’t tell me you’ve convinced yourself you don’t love her.”
My hands curled into fists. “Whether I love her or not is none of your concern. But if you so much as think of laying a hand on Freya Thorne, I swear I’ll tear your throat out myself.”
Cassian laughed then, sudden and sharp. The sound filled the hall like broken glass. “Oh, Silas. Do you think I’d harm her? No… no, I want to watch. I want to watch as you unravel, just as I did when I lost your mother.”
The mention of her–the only woman who had ever managed to anchor him–slashed through me. My mother. Gone these many years, her absence the wound that had devoured him.
Cassian’s hand came down, slow, deliberate, onto my shoulder. His grip was deceptively light, but I felt the weight of everything behind it: his madness, his certainty.
“You don’t need to love her yet,” he murmured. “All it takes is desire. Once you crave her presence, once you can’t stand the
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Chapter 122
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thought of her eyes looking at anyone but you–then love will come. And with love… the sickness comes too. You’ll want to burn her whole world until only you remain in her vision. You’ll want to lock her away, cage her, make her breathe only for you. That is what it means to be a Whitmor.”
His voice was silk and rot, seeping under my skin.
I met his gaze with pure hatred. “I am not you.”
His smile widened, but it was no smile–it was mockery. “You are me, Silas. My blood, my son. The Whitmor curse runs deep. Obsession is carved into our bones. You will try to resist, but in the end, you will fall as I did. A wolf who cannot have what he wants, driven mad by the wanting.”
The rage burst out of me, a snarl ripping free. “Enough!”
He didn’t flinch. Not once.
Instead he glanced at me with that same infuriating calm and said, “But I did see those pictures of her. The Freya Thorne, yes? Stormveil blood, Bloodmoon kin… strong woman. Beautiful. But she doesn’t look at you the way she should. She doesn’t love you.”
He reached out again, fingers daring to brush against my cheek. “You have your mother’s eyes. Use them. Use your body. Use every gift you inherited to ensnare her. Make her yours. She won’t stand a chance.”
The beast inside me surged, and my hand shot up, snapping around his wrist with iron force.
The bones in his arm trembled under my grip. A single twist and I could shatter it. My wolf howled for me to do it. To break him. To end the stench of his touch once and for all.
Cassian only arched a brow. “Going to cripple your father for giving advice?”
My lip curled back, teeth bared. “I stopped being your son the day you killed yourself with your own madness. Touch me again and I will break you.”
For a moment, silence hung thick between us. Then he smiled again, utterly unfazed.
“Very well. I’ll leave.” He turned, strolling toward the door, but not before casting one last poisoned glance back over his shoulder. “But remember, Silas–no matter how hard you deny it, you are my son. The day will come when you, too, are undone by your own hunger. And I will be waiting for you in that same pit. In that hell.”
His footsteps echoed down the hall, fading into the night.
I stood frozen, my body locked in place long after he was gone. My fists clenched so tightly my claws had cut deep into my palms. Warm blood trickled between my fingers, but I felt nothing.
Even with the house empty once more, my wolf refused to calm. Every musclè screamed to tear, to destroy, to fight the ghost of him still lingering in the air.
I hated him.
But most of all, I hated the seed of fear he left behind–that somewhere, buried deep in my marrow, he might be right.
That one day, Freya would awaken the Whitmor madness in me.
And gods help us both, if that day came.
Chapter 123
Freya’s POV
The rain had already begun to fall by the time I reached the Whitmor estate.
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Ashbourne’s skies were a dull, oppressive gray, pressing down on the earth like the weight of old grief. Each drop of water carried with it the taste of iron and storm, a scent my wolf disliked. Rain always left me restless, and tonight it seemed to mirror the heaviness in my chest.
Kade’s car slowed to a stop outside the gates of Silas’s residence. He had insisted on driving me here before returning to the Capital, though I could see the unspoken worry in his gaze.
He was leaving. I would remain in Ashbourne, at least for a while longer.
My parents affairs were nearly settled now. Their assets, their land, their legacy–all sorted piece by piece. The last remaining task was the old family house in the small town where they had once built a life together. I hadn’t been able to bring myself to walk through those doors yet. Not without Eric. My brother and I would face that house together, when I found him.
JUntil then. I had placed the more personal relics–their books, their journals, the furniture marked with the lines of my
childhood–inside the apartment in the city. Sometimes, when I entered that space, the air would warp with memory, and I could almost see it: my parents at the dinner table, Eric laughing at some foolish jest of mine, all of us gathered as if the war had never claimed what it did.
And then my throat would tighten, eyes stinging.
I knew what others refused to say aloud: peace was never free. If the world wished for still waters, it required someone to carry the weight of the storm. My parents had carried it willingly, their lives traded for the safety of others.
I would walk the same road. That was the Bloodmoon oath, Stormveil’s creed, and the Thorne family’s inheritance.
When the car rolled to a stop, I touched Kade’s arm lightly. “It’s far enough. You don’t need to go further.”
He looked at me for a long moment, his silver eyes catching a glimmer of the stormlight. Then he reached behind his seat, pulled out a black umbrella, and pressed it into my hand.
“Take it,” he said. “The rain is only going to worsen.”
I shook my head faintly. “The house is only a short run. I’ll manage. And I’d rather not hold on to your things–returning it later would be troublesome.”
But Kade only smiled, that stubborn, knowing curve of his lips. “Then return it to me in the Capital. Consider it a promise, Freya. Keep it until then.”
His words were quiet, but there was weight behind them, the kind wolves placed in unspoken bonds.
I hesitated before nodding. “Very well. I’ll keep it safe until then.”
The satisfaction in his smile made something in my chest twist.
I stepped out into the storm, opened the umbrella, and watched his car vanish down the road. His scent faded with the hum of the engine, leaving me alone in the gray curtain of rain.
I turned toward the estate.
And froze.
A figure stood beneath the old oak at the edge of the courtyard, drenched in rain.
Tall Broad–shouldered. Still as stone.
Alpha Silas.
The rain carved lines across his face, running down the strong planes of his jaw, dripping from the ends of his dark hair plastered against his cheeks. His shirt–white, or it had been–clung to him like a second skin, soaked through.
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Chapter 123
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“Silas?” My voice cut through the storm, sharp with disbelief. “Why are you standing out here like this?”
Slowly, his head turned. His eyes, black as nightfall, found me beneath the shelter of my umbrella.
“You’re back,” he said, his voice low and rough, like gravel scraped across stone,
There was no trace of the Ironclad Alpha in his stance now, no armor of control or supremacy. He looked fragile, breakable, like a wolf on the verge of shattering.
I remembered that morning, when we’d eaten breakfast together. He had been calm then, measured. Almost himself. What had happened between then and now to strip him down to this rawness?
“Yes,” I answered, stepping closer. “I came back.”
I raised the umbrella higher, shifting it to cover him as well as myself. The rain hammered against the canopy, relentless.
“The storm will only worsen. Come inside.”
But he did not move. His gaze had drifted away, back to the oak tree. His lips parted again, barely above a whisper.
Do you know… my mother loved this tree.”
The words startled me. “Your mother?”
“She used to climb it. Always higher, always reaching for the horizon.” His voice trembled faintly. “She wanted to escape this place. But she couldn’t. My father caged her here. No matter how she reached for freedom, she was trapped.”
My chest tightened.
“Silas…”
“I am not my father,” he said suddenly, fiercely. His voice cut through the rain like a blade. “I will never become him.”
“Yes.” I nodded without hesitation.
His head snapped toward me, eyes sharp, searching. “You believe that?”
I met his gaze without flinching. “I do. I believe you.”
Something passed through his expression then, something raw and wounded. For so long he had been forced to hear the whispers that he bore Whitmor’s blood, that one day he would descend into the same abyss of madness. That he would become a monster.
But I knew what I saw before me now: a man fighting that shadow with everything in him.
“You’re drenched,” I said, gentler now. “If you stay out here, you’ll fall ill. Come inside.“.
I took a step forward, my free hand lifting to reach him. Still he did not move.
So I closed the distance myself, fingers closing firmly around his wrist. His skin was ice beneath the rain, but the strength in his arm was undeniable.
“Enough,” I said, and tugged him toward the house.
For a moment, he simply stared at my hand around his, as though no one had ever dared pull him forward before. Then, slowly, he followed.
The rain above drummed against the umbrella in steady rhythm, a heartbeat echoing overhead.
I felt his gaze on me, heavy and unrelenting.
He was staring at our joined hands. His were larger than mine, calloused with the marks of war and command. My fingers- smaller, roughened by training and work–wrapped tight around his, not delicate but certain, grounded.
Strength meeting strength.
Chapter 123
And for the first time that night, I thought perhaps he truly believed me.
Chapter 124
Silas POV
Her hand
Finished
The moment Freya’s fingers closed around mine, something inside me stilled. For so long I had carried weight- responsibility, rage, the Whitmor name like chains forged from iron and shadow. Yet when she pulled, I followed. Step after step through the storm, I let her lead.
And for the first time in years, I felt as if I didn’t have to fight for direction. With her hand anchoring me, I could simply walk.
She drew me into the estate, past the darkened hall, until the rain was a memory drumming faintly against the windows. She closed the umbrella and turned to face me. I knew what she saw: my hair plastered against my face, my shirt clinging to me, every inch of me carrying the scent of rain and something broken.
That brokenness was real. It clung to me heavier than water.
Her sigh cut through the silence. Without letting go of my hand, she tugged me down the corridor, her stride steady, purposeful. I didn’t resist. I didn’t want to. She led me straight to my chambers and into the adjoining bath. Steam soon curled from the tub as she twisted the taps, filling it with warmth I hadn’t thought I deserved.
“Whatever happened out there,” she said softly, “it can wait. For now, soak. Let the heat drive the cold from your bones.”
The droplets slid down my face, off my hair, dripping from my jaw onto my chest. I could feel the chill still deep in my marrow, as if the storm had seeped past skin into soul.
I raised my head, my voice rough. “Will you wait? Here, while I-”
“Yes,” she answered, without hesitation. “I’m your protector. Your safety is mine to guard.”
Protector. That was her duty, her oath. But I wanted more than oaths.
“And if you weren’t?” I asked, the words escaping before I could stop them. I had asked once before, long ago. Back then, she had brushed it off–said there would always be others to guard me. The answer had cut like a blade.
Her lips parted, but before sound could form, I fled.
I released her hand, the sudden absence leaving me colder than the rain ever could, and stepped into the bathroom, closing the door with a finality that hurt. If she spoke then, if she gave me truth, I wasn’t sure I could bear it.
The tub embraced me in warmth. The water climbed my skin, wrapped around my ribs, my throat. Slowly, the cold that had numbed me since the courtyard began to loosen its grip. But my thoughts did not ease.
When my father left earlier today, the silence he left behind had been deafening. My steps had carried me to the oak in the courtyard–the one my mother once climbed in her futile attempts to touch freedom. And as I stood beneath it, drenched, I felt her despair seep into me.
I had seen what obsession had done to her.
And what obsession had made of him.
Now, with my heart pulling deeper toward Freya, a question gnawed at me: would I repeat their story? Would I be branded by the same curse–the Whitmor curse of possession and ruin? My blood carried madness. My name was tainted.
If she turned from me, if all I gave was unreturned–would I spiral into the same pit of fury and chains?
The thought made me grip the porcelain of the tub until my knuckles whitened.
When at last 1 emerged, skin flushed from heat, a robe across my shoulders, I stepped into the chamber—
And froze
Empty
She was gone
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The air rushed out of me, sharp, hollow My pulse spiked, wolf stirring with panic. Had she left me? Slipped away when I was too vulnerable to stop her? My throat tightened with a fear I couldn’t name.
But then-
The door opened.
I turned, and there she was.
Freya entered carrying a tray, steam rising from the bowl upon it. The storm outside could not dim the light she brought in with her presence. Relief slammed into me so hard my knees nearly buckled.
She hadn’t left. She’d come back.
“You’re finished,” she said, setting the tray down, her voice calm, as though she hadn’t just shattered my panic. “Perfect timing.
On the tray sat a bowl of dark broth, sliced ginger floating atop it. Its scent was sharp, earthy, tinged with fire.
“I made this,” she explained. “Ginger broth. It will drive the cold from you before it settles too deep.”
Her words were practical. But the act itself–it was more than duty. It was care.
I looked at the bowl in silence.
“Drink,” she commanded, her tone crisp. the kind she must have used with her squad in the Iron Fang Recon Unit.
My hands moved before my thoughts could. I accepted the bowl, the warmth seeping into my palms, and raised it. Sip by sip,
I swallowed the heat. The liquid burned down my throat, spicy and potent, far harsher than any tonic I had been given before.
But I didn’t stop. I didn’t flinch.
Her gaze lingered on me, surprise flickering across her face.
“Is it good?” she asked at last.
“No.” The truth slipped out.
Her brows drew together. “Then why–your face hasn’t changed. And you didn’t even think to refuse.”
I lifted my eyes to hers. “Because you asked me to.”
Her breath caught. She didn’t answer, though I saw the words hover on her tongue. I wondered if she understood what I meant that if she asked me to drink poison, I would.
I finished the last drop, set the bowl down, and waited.
She leaned forward then, her hand lifting toward my face. Her palm pressed against my forehead, checking for fever. The touch was light, fleeting. Yet it carved itself into me like a brand.
My body went rigid, my wolf surging up in stunned silence.
“You’re fine,” she murmured, withdrawing her hand.
The air turned colder the moment her skin left mine. I almost reached for her wrist, almost begged her to stay in contact. The craving was sharp, unbearable.
Silas Whitmor, Alpha of the Ironclad Coalition, breaker of enemies and heir to a cursed line–reduced to hunger by the touch of one woman
It was dangerous. Maddening.
And yet, as the storm raged outside, the only truth I could cling to was this:
I wanted more.
Chapter 125
Freya’s POV
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The storm had broken two nights ago, yet its echo still lingered in Whitmor’s halls. For two full days he had not set foot beyond the estate walls, and I remained with him. My orders were protection, but the truth was simpler: I couldn’t bring myself to leave.
The Whitmor estate sat heavy with shadows. Old walls breathed the secrets of his line, and I knew enough of wolf curses to recognize when a house itself remembered pain. I stayed close, watchful, making sure the darkness didn’t swallow him whole.
It was on the third morning that an intruder came.
I caught the scent first–familiar, blood–bound. Jocelyn Thorne. I should have expected her; our family threads spread long and tangled. But still, I wasn’t prepared for the sharp look she gave me the instant her eyes landed on me.
“What are you doing here?” Jocelyn’s voice was edged with disbelief.
“I live here, for now,” I answered evenly, refusing to let her see the shift of unease in my chest.
Her expression twisted, storm clouds building in her gaze. She knew this house. Everyone who remembered the Whitmor history knew. It was the home Silas’s parents had once kept, the home he had kept closed to all but servants. For her, my presence here was not just strange–it was unthinkable.
“Don’t fool yourself, Freya,” she sneered. “Staying here doesn’t make you special to him. This estate has its secrets. There’s a room he never allows anyone to enter. You haven’t stepped inside, have you?”
I froze for half a breath. When I’d moved in, Silas had warned me, his tone absolute–never the room at the far end of the third floor. My instincts told me not to press. Wolf law respected boundaries, especially those soaked in grief.
“No.” I admitted quietly.
Jocelyn’s smile spread like a blade catching light. “But I have. I’ve walked inside, where no one else was allowed.”
Her words were meant to cut, to draw blood. She stood taller, victory in her posture, as if gaining entry to a forbidden room granted her dominance over me.
“So what?” I asked, my tone flat. I wasn’t here to play whatever dominance games she thought we were in.
Her face flickered. I’d expected outrage, jealousy–something to make me reel. But I gave her nothing. The blow landed on air, leaving her fist empty.
Her jaw tightened, wolf energy snapping sharp. “You don’t understand what that means, do you? It proves I’m the only one special to him. The only one he forgives, even when I cross his boundaries.”
Her chin lifted high, proud, smug.
I exhaled slowly, fighting the growl that wanted to rise. I turned, intent on leaving. There was nothing for me in her words. Silas’s heart was his own–his wounds his own. Whatever secrets he’d shown her didn’t concern me.
But Jocelyn wasn’t finished. She slid into my path, her voice dropping lower, more venomous. “You don’t know him. Not the savage wolf he becomes when anger takes him, not the hollow boy when despair devours him. I’ve seen both. You’ve seen nothing.”
Her words pressed like claws into scars I couldn’t see.
“When his mother abandoned him, when his father ground him down, it was me who took him in. Me who stayed. Without me he would have broken. He would have died. Do you even realize how pathetic he was back then?”
My fists clenched. The Iron Fang Recon Unit had taught me patience, but this–this careless tearing open of Silas’s wounds— was no better than cruelty.
“That’s enough,” I snapped. “Those memories aren’t yours to wield. Stop before you say more.”
But Jocelyn’s pride was drunk on its own venom. She mistook my warning for weakness and pressed harder. “Do you even know how his father punished him? What he survived? I do. Only I. That makes me the one who truly knows him.”