Ch. 141..145: A Warrior Luna's Awakening Chapter 141-145
Chapter 141
Freya’s POV
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Silas‘ body stiffened when my words left my lips. His head, which had been bowed low, lifted slowly until his eyes locked with
mine.
“I don’t make jokes about things like this,” he murmured, his voice low, raw. His gaze–dark as the abyssal depths of the sea we’d just fought against–reflected only me. “Freya, I don’t know if what I feel for you is what you’d call love, but I know this -when I realize there is someone I cannot lose, I name that feeling love.”
My breath caught. His words landed heavy in my chest. Could he mean… me? Was he saying he could not lose me?
“Perhaps at first,” he continued, his tone almost confessional, “you were simply interesting. A spark I couldn’t look away from. You didn’t abandon me when danger loomed, and that made me want to keep you close. But when I saw you throw yourself into the sea after that child… something shifted. Everything changed.”
Silas leaned closer, the shadows sharpening the planes of his face until he was all predator, all Alpha, his presence swallowing
the air between us.
“I felt fear. Terror, The bone–deep dread that you would be taken from me. I don’t ever want to feel that again. And before I even realized what I was doing, I was in the water after you.” His voice grew husky, brushing my ear, vibrating against my skin..
“I was following you, Freya. Always following you.”
My heart slammed in my chest at the desperation threaded through his tone. His dark, lupine eyes gleamed with hunger, with need.
“So give me a chance,” he whispered, almost pleading now. “Be mine. I’ll treat you well. Everything I am, everything I have–I will lay at your feet.”
His voice cracked like smoke and spellcraft, thick and intoxicating. Dangerous, addictive. And gods help me, to hear such words from a wolf like him–from Silas Whitmor, the Ironclad Alpha himself–was shattering. He was the one wolves whispered about in fear, the one enemies broke against like waves on stone. And now he spoke to me with a raw humility, almost supplicant, as though I were the one who held power.
My heart gave a painful stutter.
I forced myself to steady, to breathe, to think.
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“We’ve barely known each other,” I said, tamping down the pulse racing beneath my skin. “And already you speak of love? Of giving me everything? Don’t you think that sounds… reckless?”
“Time has nothing to do with it,” he replied without hesitation, his words striking with Alpha certainty. “There are wolves who fall in love in a single heartbeat. One glance, and they are mated for life.”
I lifted my chin, unwilling to yield to the storm of his conviction. “That’s not love, Silas. That’s lust. A spark of flesh, nothing
more.”
His eyes flared, feral and unyielding. “Not for me. If I look at someone once and know they are mine, that will never be desire alone. It will be forever. A bond, unbreakable.”
“You speak in absolutes,” I countered, though his certainty left me rattled.
“The Whitmor line has always loved this way.” His voice softened, but the weight of truth pressed heavy in it. “Even my father -damn him though I may–loved my mother until his dying breath. She was gone, but he never looked elsewhere. He remained bound to her, heart and soul, until the end.”
His gaze snapped back to mine, sharp as a blade. “And I… I know I carry the same curse, the same devotion.”
Then, like a caress, he spoke my name again. “Freya.” The way he said it, rich and low, sank into my bones. “Understand this -it isn’t even sudden for me. Not truly. Not lightning at first sight, but something that has grown in the shadows between us. Day by day, moment by moment. Perhaps it would’ve been easier had it been immediate. At least then I wouldn’t have wasted time pretending I could ignore it.”
I bit down lightly on my lip. His nearness burned. Too close. Close enough that every exhale of his breath skimmed across
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Chapter 141
my cheek, searing the edges of my control.
“Day by day.” I echoed, my voice softer than I intended. “Silas, we’ve barely had that many days together at all. Whatever you feel now–it could be nothing more than a rush, an illusion sparked by adrenaline. You jumped into the sea beside me, and now your blood is singing too loud to tell the truth from the fever.”
He didn’t even blink. “Then tell me this. If weeks pass, months pass, and I still feel the same–will you give me what I ask?”
The steel of his tone clashed against the fragile, traitorous beat of my heart. I lifted my eyes to him, holding his gaze with mine, refusing to be cowed.
“No,” I whispered.
His eyes flickered, shadow cutting across their depths. “Because you don’t love me.”
“Yes,” I admitted. “I don’t. Not like that. I told you already–I only just severed myself from Caelum Grafton. The Lunar Severance Phase is barely behind me. I’ve bled for years in that bond, Silas. I have things I need to rebuild, dreams of my own I must chase before I surrender my heart again. I don’t want to step into another tangle of passion so soon.”
The words left my mouth firm, final. And yet the silence that followed quivered between us, alive.
“You should dry your own hair,” I added, desperate to steer the storm elsewhere. My hands were still wrapped in the towel draped over his head, caught against his, trapped by the weight of him.
I moved to pull away. But Silas’s hand snapped up, covering mine with his own, holding me there. His touch was firm, searing, tethering.
“I will not stop you from doing what you need to do,” he said, his voice a rasp against the quiet. “Pursue your path, chase your ambitions. But let me be your shield. Your spear. I will walk at your side, shoulder to shoulder, through every fire. I will bind my life to yours, in blood, in battle, in storm. Whatever comes, I will not betray you. Not now, not ever.”
Every word struck like thunder in my chest.
Those were my words. The ones I had spoken, long ago, about what I dreamed love would be. A wolf who would not falter. A wolf who would not abandon me.
And he had remembered. All of it.
I froze, breath caught sharp, unable to mask the tremor that ran through me.
“Or is it,” he whispered, eyes dark and solemn, “that I truly am what I feel?”
The question cut like a blade, straight into me.
“No,” the protest burst from me before I could stop it.
unworthy? That no matter
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His eyes, which had dimmed with shadow, flared suddenly bright. “Then you will love me?”
you could never return
storm
Heat scalded my face. My throat locked, words tangling. I coughed lightly, trying to reclaim ground, to steady the storm inside.
“I only meant,” I stammered, forcing the words past the rush in my chest, “that you are not unworthy. Alpha Silas… you are many things, but never that.”
Chapter 142
Third Person’s POV
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If Silas were truly the monster the world whispered him to be, he would never have lowered his proud Alpha head and offered three solemn bows before the urns of Arthur and Myra at the funeral hall. Nor would he have stood silent and unmoving, his presence a shadow of iron, when their ashes were carried to rest in the Ashbourne Legion’s Hall of Martyrs, the sacred ground of warriors who had given everything.
And Freya knew this.
Her gaze lingered on him, torn between mistrust and something softer, something dangerous. “And you went into the sea today,” she said quietly, her voice low, testing. “A wolf without honor would not risk his own life for another’s child.”
Silas’s eyes, black as midnight, flickered. His voice was steady but carried a raw undertone. “I went into the sea because you did.” He reached forward, his calloused hand wrapping around hers with unyielding insistence, drawing it to rest against his chest.
“All my life,” he continued, his voice dark with confession, “I never thought life was worth much. My own, least of all. But today…” His words faltered, roughened, as if caught in his throat. He tightened his hold on her hand, pressing her palm against the steady, drum of his heartbeat. “Today I saw you dive into those waters without hesitation, and something inside me shifted. Because of you, Freya. Because you showed me that some lives are worth saving. That perhaps I could be more than I am. That I could be,” his voice softened to a near–growl, reverent—“a good man, if it meant standing in your light.”
Freya froze, her breath hitching.
He looked at her as though she were the moon itself—untouched, radiant, too pure for his shadowed hands. She was everything he was not: bright, honorable, unflinching. She carried no darkness, or so it seemed, and yet he–who was born in blood, who wore scars that told of torment and iron chains–ached to reach her. The blackest parts of him yearned for the sanctuary of her light.
Freya had never imagined she would hear such words from Silas Whitmor, the Ironclad Alpha feared across the Coalition. And yet… here he was, confessing that she could alter the course of his life. That she could change him.
“Freya.” His voice lowered to a husky plea, his gaze locked onto hers with naked hunger. “Give me a chance. If one day you are certain–truly certain—that you will never love me, I will walk away. I will not chain you, I will not haunt your steps. I will leave, even if it tears me apart. But until that day comes, don’t push me away. Don’t shut me out on purpose.”
The intensity in his words struck something in her chest. His eyes–those fierce, dark eyes–carried a desperate glimmer, one that summoned to her mind the forbidden room in the Whitmor estate. That night when she had seen him curled in on himself like a wounded wolf, his back a canvas of scars carved by whips. She remembered Jocelyn Thorne’s bitter words- that Silas had watched his own mother die before his eyes.
The rejection forming on her tongue caught, trapped, unwilling to leave her throat. Instead, pain bloomed in her chest, sharp and tender.
Could she really claim she would never, not ever, love Silas Whitmor? She asked herself the question, and silence was her only answer.
Besides, Silas was not the sort of wolf to accept rejection lightly.
Drawing in a breath, she steadied herself. “Very well,” she said at last, her tone measured. “I promise I won’t push you away for the sake of it. If I fall in love with you, then…. we will be together. But if, by the time I finish my duty as your protector, I still feel nothing–then we part ways. Clean and final. You walk your road, and I walk mine. No chains. No regrets.”
Silas’s lashes fluttered. For the briefest heartbeat, vulnerability tremored across his face. Then he smiled, slow and sharp, the kind of smile that promised storms. “Agreed. Then it is a vow.”
But in the marrow of his bones, the Alpha of the Ironclad Coalition knew–he would not wait idly for her to love him. He would forge it. He would win her. He would make her heart his.
Far across the hall, beneath chandeliers that gleamed like pale moons, Caelum stood among government officials and Ashbourne’s most powerful merchants. He exchanged words, nodded at roasts, lifted his glass when prompted. Yet his mind was nowhere in the room.
Again and again, the image surged before him: Freya’s body cutting through the waves, her strokes swift, decisive, fearless as
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she dove for the drowning child. She hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t paused.
How many in this hall would have shown such courage? How many wolves could?
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Caelum had seen the child fall into the sea as well. He had felt the instinct to move. But if he had reached the edge, if he had stood staring down at the churning black water, would he have jumped? Or would he have faltered?
The ugly truth echoed inside him. He would have faltered.
And with that came another thought, darker, heavier.
Freya had claimed she once tried to save him from the river, years ago. He had doubted her story. But tonight, seeing her, he could no longer dismiss it. Her strength in the water, her fire, her resolve–it was who she was. She would have leapt withour hesitation. She would have fought the river itself to drag him to shore.
If she wasn’t lying… then who was? Aurora?
The thought sent a shudder through him, his grip tightening around the stem of his glass. Wine sloshed dangerously, nearly spilling.
“Caelum?” Aurora’s voice cut in, crisp and bright. She stood beside him, her uniform sharp, her eyes searching his face. “What’s wrong? You’ve gone pale.”
“Nothing,” he answered too quickly. His gaze lifted to hers, taking in the Beta’s daughter. Aurora was the very image of a proud Bluemoon wolf: bold, forthright, incapable of deceit. She had always been that way. And she had been right before— when he was nothing but a nameless Silverfang wolf, a boy with no power and no fortune, she had stood by him. What reason could she have had to lie?
None. And yet the seed of doubt dug its roots deeper.
The sound of commotion stirred at the entrance of the ballroom. Heads turned, whispers rose.
Caelum’s eyes followed–and froze.
Through the doors strode Silas, clad in a black suit that clung to him like midnight armor. At his side walked Freya, simple in her tailored ensemble, but no less radiant for its austerity. She looked steady again, the pallor from the rescue gone, her step proud and unyielding.
Relief, sharp and unwanted, cut through Caelum at the sight of her unharmed.
“Alpha Whitmor, Miss Thorne,” called the Pack Councilman overseeing Ashbourne’s island development, his voice carrying above the hush. “The city owes you its thanks. Your courage today spared us from tragedy. Without you, this gathering would have been stained by loss.”
All eyes
fixed upon them–upon Silas, dark and magnetic, and Freya, fierce and unbending. And in the shadows of the hall, hearts shifted, hungers awoke, and old bonds strained like chains ready to snap.
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Third Person’s POV
Silas‘ voice cut through the gathered hall, calm yet carrying the edge of command that marked him as an Alpha.
“The one who deserves your gratitude is Freya,” he said evenly. “She was the one who dove in to save the child. I merely followed.”
The Councilor from Ashbourne, who had praised them moments before, arched a brow. “Yet I saw you hold her close once the child was safe. Forgive me, Alpha Whitmor, but I can’t help but wonder–what exactly is your relationship with Miss Thorne?”
Silas’s gaze never wavered. His words, however, carried the kind of weight that silenced idle curiosity. “She is someone very important to me. In that moment, I wasn’t holding her for show. I was simply… too afraid for her.”
The Councilor blinked, clearly surprised. Around them, whispers stirred.
For Silas Whitmor to openly call someone “important“-the Ironclad Alpha, known for his cold distance and ruthless pragmatism–was no small matter. It meant that Freya Thorne was not simply his bodyguard from the Stormveil Pack’s fifth branch. She was something more. Something claimed.
Across the ballroom, Abel Thorne stood among Ashbourne’s merchant wolves, sipping his drink as laughter and chatter flowed around him. But their gazes, like hounds sniffing out prey, turned to the pair across the room–Silas and Freya, side by side.
“That girl,” one merchant drawled with a hint of envy, “she’s one of yours, isn’t she? From the fifth branch?”
“Yes,” Abel replied with polite detachment. “That’s Freya Thorne.”
“Well, the Stormveil Pack must count themselves blessed. First Jocelyn from the Metropolitan branch, and now Freya,” another wolf muttered, the sour edge in his tone impossible to hide.
It was the way they said “first Jocelyn” that made the bitterness in the air sharper. As if Jocelyn Thorne were a discarded relic, her shine dulled and forgotten, while Freya’s star now burned brighter.
Abel gave a small smile but his eyes were shadowed with concern. He knew too well what alliances meant in Ashbourne- alliances with power like the Whitmors were as dangerous as they were enviable.
At his side, Jocelyn’s nails bit into her palm, her jaw tight. Each word of admiration spoken of Freya was like a knife twisted in her gut. Once, it had been her they whispered about. Once, she had been the Thorne jewel, the one standing beside Silas. Now she was “before.” A past tense, a faded page.
Her gaze snapped toward Freya–and then widened.
NOW the
She saw someone approach Freya, whisper something, and the young wolfess excused herself, leaving Silas alone in the throng.
Jocelyn’s heart lurched. This was her chance.
She smoothed her gown, schooling her face into composure, and approached.
“Silas,” she said softly, almost tenderly. “Could we speak alone for a moment?”
Silas turned his head toward her. His dark eyes were cool, his tone edged with indifference. “And what could we possibly have to discuss?”
Jocelyn’s chest tightened. Still, she forced herself to smile, to plead. “I know what happened at the estate. I spoke wrongly then–I shouldn’t have. My words weren’t meant to wound you. I only wanted Freya to understand… how deep our bond once ran. How much I cared for you.”
Silas’s lips curled in something that wasn’t a smile. “Cared for me?” His voice was laced with mockery. “If you cared. Jocelyn, you wouldn’t have run away Not when I needed someone most.”
The color drained from her face. His words cut into the memory that haunted her like a nightmare: stumbling into that forbidden chamber years ago, seeing the walls lined with whips, smelling blood thick in the air, and finding Silas, his back a
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raw tapestry of lashes, his mother’s lifeless body crumpled beside him.
And she–she had fled. Terror had clawed her heart, her feet had carried her away before she could even think.
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It had been the greatest regret of her life. If only she had stayed. If only she had touched his hand, whispered his name, refused to abandon him–perhaps he would have let her in. Perhaps he would have been hers.
“I was just a child,” she whispered, desperation cracking her voice. “Any child would have run. I was too young, too frightened. But I… I paid for that moment. Don’t you see? I lost my eye that day. I bear the scars too.”
Silas shrugged lightly, as if her torment were no more than dust. “You were young. You were afraid. You had no obligation to stay.” His voice turned cold as iron. “And I have never blamed you for that. But don’t mistake my indifference for forgiveness. And do not speak of my family’s secrets again. You survived that night, Jocelyn. For that, you should thank Freya.”
The bitterness on Jocelyn’s tongue was sharp enough to choke her. Thank Freya? Freya, who had stolen the place that should have been hers? Rage flared behind her forced composure, but Silas had already turned his face away, his gaze fixed in the direction Freya had gone.
Something inside him had shifted since he admitted his truth to her. It left him restless, raw. Now, even the briefest absence made unease coil in his chest. She had been gone only minutes, yet he ached to see her again.
Freya had not gone far. She followed the orphanage matron through the corridors to the hotel’s medical wing.
There, the boy she had pulled from the sea lay curled on the bed, his eyes wide and hollow with fear. But the moment he saw her, he scrambled upright and hurled himself into her arms.
“Forgive us,” the matron said, her voice apologetic. “Since he was pulled from the water, he’s been inconsolable. He kept crying for you, refusing to rest.”
“It’s all right,” Freya murmured. She knelt beside the bed, wrapping the boy in her embrace. “You’re safe now. You don’t need to be afraid anymore.”
“I’m still scared,” the child sobbed, his voice muffled against her shoulder. “The waves… I thought I’d never breathe again. I thought I’d die.”
His small body trembled like a leaf in storm winds. The sea had left a scar deeper than any wound–a terror that might haunt him for years.
Freya stroked his damp hair, her voice gentle, her wolf aura wrapping around him like a shield. “Listen to me. I’ll protect you. If danger comes again, I’ll be there. I’ll pull you out. I’ll never let the darkness take you.”
The boy lifted his tear–streaked face, eyes wide and fragile. “Really?” His voice wavered with hope, with desperation.
Freya nodded, her resolve firm, her tone unshakable. “Really. That’s my promise.”
Chapter 144
Third Person’s POV
“Mm. Yes. I will save you. Always.”
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Freya’s voice rang steady, strong–like steel cloaked in velvet. The words, fierce in their oath, smoothed the trembling of the child clinging to her, calming the frantic beat of his small heart.
And yet, those same words made the figure in the doorway freeze.
Caelum stood rigid. Every instinct in him went still, as though the world itself had halted.
The vow Freya had spoken–it was the same one he remembered through half–drowned, delirious haze years ago, when icy river waters had dragged him toward death. In that darkness, he had heard a voice, faint yet unyielding, promising to save him. A voice he had clung to like a lifeline.
Why… why would Freya speak those same words?
Why did her silhouette overlap so seamlessly with the shadowed memory he had carried all these years?
Who had truly saved him that night? Aurora… or Freya?
Freya, unaware of the storm unraveling in Caelum’s chest, continued to soothe the boy. Her warmth and calm finally eased the child’s terror, the fear melting away until his lashes fluttered shut and he slipped into exhausted sleep against her shoulder.
Careful as moonlight, Freya laid him back on the bed, tucking the blanket around him.
“Thank you,” the matron of the Ashbourne orphanage whispered. Her eyes gleamed with gratitude that went deeper than words. Not only had Freya saved the boy from drowning, but now she had given him peace.
“This was my duty,” Freya replied. Her voice held quiet conviction. Though she had long since laid down her uniform from the Iron Fang Recon Unit, the vows of service she once swore still burned like brands in her soul. A wolf’s promise was eternal.
She left her contact with the matron. “If his nightmares linger, or if he falters, call me. I’ll come.”
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When she stepped into the hallway, her breath caught–Caelum stood waiting. His tall frame blocked the exit, silver–grey eyes burning with unreadable intensity.”
Freya stiffened but moved as if to pass him.
Caelum’s arm shot out, barring her way. “Why did you say that
to
the child?”
Her brows knit. “Say what?”
restless very
“That you’d save him. Always. That vow.” His voice was low, taut as a bowstring. His gaze bored into hers, restless, almost feral.
Freya’s expression chilled. “Why shouldn’t I? You think those words belong to someone else?”
“It isn’t that,” Caelum said, his throat working. His voice cracked, raw and strained. “Freya… why would you repeat the very words Aurora once said to me?”
Her eyes flashed.
So that was it
“You think I’m imitating Aurora?” Her tone cut like frost–edged steel. “That I covet being seen as your savior? You flatter yourself. Whatever you believe, Caelum Grafton–keep it. I have no need for your recognition, nor to play the shadow of
another wolf.”
The venom in her words should have struck him back. Instead, he reached forward suddenly, clutching her sleeve in a grip that betrayed more desperation than dominance.
Then tell me this,” Caelum rasped. “Why did you dive into the sea tonight? That child was no kin of yours. No tie of blood
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Why risk your life for him?”
Freya let out a laugh, cold and sharp as winter wind. “Do you truly need an answer? If every act of salvation must be justified by kinship, then you should be rotting beneath those river waters, not standing here now. You’re alive only because someone -stranger or not–believed your life was worth saving.”
The truth in her words cut deeper than any blade. Caelum faltered, his hand trembling at her sleeve-
And another hand struck his away.
The interruption came like a storm breaking through.
Silas Whitmor stepped forward, Alpha presence heavy as a thunderclap, his cold eyes narrowed at Caelum. With a single motion he had brushed Caelum’s grip off Freya, his stance one of shield and claim.
Caelum’s lips pulled back into a snarl. “And what exactly is Whitmor doing here?”
“You and Freya have severed your bond,” Silas said, his tone flat with disdain. “Dragging her back into your shadows is beneath even you. No need for this pulling and grasping.”
The name he used–Freya, softened to my Freya in the weight of his voice–slammed into Caelum’s ears like a challenge. He remembered the sight of Silas on the shoreline earlier, arms around her, as though she already belonged to him.
“Then it’s acceptable for you to touch her?” Caelum snapped.
Silas’s eyes gleamed like blades. “If it were me, I’d never have been fool enough to cast her aside. You forfeited your right. Whatever bond we share now is no concern of yours.” His lips curled. “But congratulations on securing Aurora. When your mating ceremony arrives, I’ll be sure to send a generous gift.”
The words landed like claws across Caelum’s chest. His pride bristled, his wolf snarling, but his tongue stuck against his teeth.
Freya ignored their clash. Her gaze softened only slightly as she turned to Silas. “Why are you here?”
“I worried something might happen,” Silas admitted simply. His eyes lingered on her, protective, unreadable..
“The boy’s fine. Just shaken,” Freya murmured. “He’s resting now.”
“Then let’s go.”
She nodded, ready to move.
But as they passed, Caelum’s restraint snapped.
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“Freya!” His voice thundered through the corridor, sharp and desperate, cutting through the air like a howl on winter wind.
Freya halted.
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Her steps froze, her body tense, and slowly–slowly–she turned back.
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Caelum’s heart lurched at the sight. Even now, even after all, she still answered his call. The old tether between them had not been cut cleanly, no matter how he told himself otherwise.
And it was that single glance, her eyes upon him once more, that made the storm inside him rise, threatening to drown him all over again.
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When Caelum lifted his gaze and collided with those cold amber eyes, his throat locked. Words–sharp and practiced, meant to wound–died before reaching air.
“Caelum Grafton,” Freya Thorne said, her voice a blade honed by disdain, “do me a favor and stop dragging me into your questions about the night you nearly drowned. We’re done. The Lunar Severance Phase stripped us clean. Whoever saved you–it doesn’t concern me. Or is it that, if it was me, you would regret it? Regret the three years you spent sneering at me? Regret discarding me?”
Her gaze was pure mockery.
Caelum’s lips parted, but nothing emerged. He stood bound by silence, his wolf straining inside his chest, claws raking against his ribs.
Only after Freya walked away with Silas at her side did his body stumble as though unmoored.
Regret? The thought lanced through him like silver.
No. He would not regret. Could not.
It was she who would regret.
She thought Silas Whitmor’s attention was victory? That running with the Ironclad Coalition’s Alpha would grant her safety? A fool’s hope. Males like Silas consumed and discarded. His so–called devotion would wither when novelty dulled.
Caelum’s path was already set. He only needed to weather SilverTech Forgeworks‘ current storm. Once he steadied his pack and his company, he would rise higher than ever before. And then–then Freya would see what it meant to spurn him. She would learn that no longer bearing the Silverfang Alpha’s mark was the greatest loss she would ever suffer.
But still… his chest twisted, restless and uneasy, as if some unseen thread yanked against his heart.
Driven by something darker than reason, Caelum turned back into the infirmary.
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The matron of the Ashbourne orphanage frowned when she saw his pallid face. “Alpha Grafton? Do you require something?”
He ignored her, eyes fastening on the boy sleeping soundly beneath the blankets. The child’s breathing was steady, but Caelum’s mind was a storm. That image–the small form clutched against Freya’s chest, her voice weaving calm–stirred memories he’d buried deep.
Long he stood there, haunted by a night of icy waters and a vow in the dark
..
At last, he left the infirmary and lifted his WolfComm, voice low and sharp when the line connected.
“I want you to dig into the night I went into the river. Every detail. I need to know if Aurora was truly alone that night–or if someone else was there.”
When he ended the call, his hand trembled faintly.
This wasn’t betrayal of Aurora. No. This was to confirm her. To ensure there would be no cracks, no shadow of doubt gnawing his loyalty. He needed certainty, nothing more.
Or so he told himself.
Meanwhile, Freya and Silas walked the stone path back toward the banquet hall, moonlight painting silver across the sea breeze.
Silas’s voice broke the silence. “If one day Caelum discovers you were the wolf who saved him, if he regrets the severance and wants you back… what would you do?”
Freya faltered. “What?”
“Would you mate with him again?” His eyes lingered on her profile, searching, probing.
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Her answer came without hesitation. “No.”
She straightened, her conviction unwavering. “Whatever bond once tethered us is ashes now.”
Silas’s mouth quirked. “Even if he knelt at your feet, begging?”
Freya’s laugh rang sharp. “Caelum Grafton kneel? Impossible. He wants Aurora. If he begged only because I was his savior, then what kind of love would that be? Pathetic. Laughable.”
Silas’s lips curled, approval glinting in his eyes. “Indeed. A farce, nothing more.”
He thought of Caelum–blind wolf, thrashing against the truth. How pitiful, when Freya had stood beside him for three long years, the very wolf who had pulled him from death, and he had never once believed her worthy.
Silas’s voice dropped, almost a growl. “If it had been me, I would never have mistaken another for the wolf who saved me.”
Freya turned to him, faintly startled. “You believe it was me?”
“Of course.” His reply was swift, unwavering. “I believe everything you say.”
Her
Her chest tightened unexpectedly.
For three years of marriage, Caelum had not trusted her once. Yet a wolf she had barely known three moons already placed his faith in her without question. The feeling of being trusted–it was a balm she hadn’t known she craved.
But warmth soon gave way to exasperation when night deepened.
She opened her chamber door and found Silas waiting, pillow tucked beneath his arm like a mischievous pup.
She stared. “What… is this?”
“I’m sleeping here tonight.” His tone was calm, assured.
“…Reason?”
“I don’t like being alone,” he said solemnly. “You’re my protector, aren’t you? You’ll keep me safe.”
Freya nearly choked.
Afraid? Silas Whitmor? She had seen him break attackers with bare hands. His wolf thrived on danger. And yet here he stood, face earnest, insisting on fear.
“There are Whitmor sentries outside your chamber,” she reminded. “You’re not exactly undefended.”
“They aren’t you,” Silas countered smoothly. “I trust only you.”
Her mouth opened, then shut.
The wolf inside her huffed. Against such relentless insistence, resistance was wasted. She exhaled a long breath. “Fine. You take the bed, I’ll use the sofa.”
But Silas merely set his pillow on the couch and lowered himself onto it, sprawling with casual grace. “The sofa suits me.”
And there, the Alpha of the Ironclad Coalition stretched like a satisfied wolf, content under the gaze of the very female he sought to guard–and perhaps, to claim.
Freya could only stare, heart torn between irritation and something far more dangerous.