Ch. 181..185: A Warrior Luna's Awakening Chapter 181-185
Chapter 181
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Third Person’s POV
Freya’s jaw was set, eyes glinting with determination. “Whether I can pilot the helicopter or not is my business, not yours,” she said coolly, her voice cutting through the tense atmosphere.
“Freya, I’ve been waiting for you,” Abel Thorne said briskly, striding toward her. There was no trace of impatience in his tone, only the calm authority of a Thorne elder, seasoned by decades of pack politics.
“I’m ready at any moment to fly to the offshore island for the rescue mission,” Freya responded without hesitation. Her wolf instincts were already keyed to the storm–tossed ocean, to the trapped employees who had no one else to rely on.
“Good,” Abel said simply, gesturing for her to follow. “The helicopter is on the rooftop helipad.”
The security guards who had previously attempted to block her path now hesitated, their human caution faltering in the presence of her commanding aura. No one dared challenge the Bloodmoon Pack operative.
Jocelyn spoke up with incredulity. “Abel, are you really letting Freya fly the helicopter for the rescue?”
Abel’s gaze swept past her toward Aurora. “Then who else? Aurora? You really think she’s going to do it?” His eyes lingered on the Beta pilot of the Bluemoon Airborne Wing, whose previous insistence that Freya apologize had irked him. His distaste was subtle but palpable.
Jocelyn opened her mouth, but no words came. She could only watch as Freya, followed by Silas Whitmor, Alpha of the Ironclad Coalition, ascended the private elevator with Abel.
Jocelyn’s eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating. “Well, since Freya is taking the helicopter for the rescue, then you…” She paused, her voice carrying a dangerous edge.
“Ha,” Aurora muttered under her breath, “Abel really does think Freya can handle this. Just wait. Flying a helicopter over that offshore island isn’t.
simple stunt. She’ll fail.” Her steps quickened as she strode toward the elevator, her pride driving her forward. I want see her mess this up firsthand!”
“Exactly! And then she’ll have to beg you to take over the rescue!” Jocelyn followed, her own excitement mingled with anxiety.
Caelum stood silently beside them. His eyes, however, betrayed nothing, his wolf senses alert and sharp. He had seen Freya pilot a helicopter before, and he knew her skills exceeded even Aurora’s claims of mastery. In his mind, the silent prediction was chilling: the one who would embarrass themselves was not Freya, but Aurora.
The elevator chimed, doors sliding open to reveal the rooftop helipad Freya was already approaching a sleek, reinforced SkyVex Armaments helicopter, her movements fluid and precise. Silas stepped forward suddenly, hand gripping her shoulder.
“I could have found another pilot,” he said, his voice low but urgent. “It doesn’t have to be you.”
Freya shook her head, a wolfish glint in her amber eyes. “There’s no time. Every minute we delay increases the chance of a successful rescue. I’m going now.”
“I’ll come
with you,” Silas added instinctively, concern flashing across his face.
“You’re not trained for a rescue mission like this,” Freya said firmly, her wolf instincts warning her of the dangers. “It would only be a hindrance. Trust me–everything will be fine.”
Silas met her gaze for a long moment, the air between them charged with unspoken acknowledgment. “I’ll wait for your return,” he said finally, a promise wrapped in an Alpha’s patience and protection.
Freya climbed into the cockpit, fingers brushing over the controls as her Wolf senses synchronized with the machine. Engines roared to life, vibrating under her touch, and in moments, the helicopter lifted off, cutting through the city skyline and heading toward the offshore island.
Aurora’s eyes went wide as she watched the helicopter ascend and stabilize perfectly i
supposed rival. was flying smoothly, confidently, the n
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that Freya was bluffing, that she would falter under pressure. Yet here she was, commanding the helicopter with flawless expertise.
A surge of fury coursed through Aurora. Her mind raced: if Freya completed the rescue, she would steal the spotlight. She, who had intended to demonstrate superiority, would instead be overshadowed. No–this was unacceptable. She needed to intervene, to assert dominance before Freya could succeed.
“I’ll go too,” Aurora said abruptly, her voice dripping with determination. She turned to Jocelyn. “I’ll ensure this mission is done properly. Freya may fly the helicopter, but she doesn’t have my experience as a professional pilot. The winds near the island are unpredictable. If anything goes wrong, she’ll be at risk–and I can’t allow that.”
Jocelyn’s eyes lit up with a calculating gleam. “Very well, then. Go ahead,” she said loudly, intentionally drawing Silas‘ attention. “Freya has been out of service for years–who knows how rusty her skills have become?”
Abel, nodding with quiet approval, dispatched a rescue team to accompany Aurora on the helicopter.
Aurora turned to Caelum. “You’ll come with me.”
“I?” Caelum hesitated, glancing at his injured wrist. “I’m not sure how much help I can be.”
“You don’t need to help with the flying,” Aurora said, her voice firm, authoritative. “Having you there is enough. It will give me the confidence to focus entirely on the rescue.” She wanted him to witness firsthand how she outperformed Freya, how her skills and heroism surpassed Freya.
“Caelum, you’ll accompany Aurora,” Jocelyn urged. She, too, hoped Aurora would reach the island first, securing her position as the more capable rescuer.
Caelum’s lips pressed together. He wanted to argue–the fact that Silas had not gone himself made this pointless–but against Jocelyn’s insistence and Aurora’s determined presence, he had no choice but to comply. With a deep breath, he followed Aurora toward the second helicopter, his mind silently tracking Freya’s ascent, already calculating the probabilities.
Above the city, two helicopters now tore toward the storm–lashed offshore island. One carried Freya Thorne, poised and confident, a wolf among men and machines. The other carried Aurora, Beta pilot of the Bluemoon Pack, determined to prove herself, her every instinct sharpened by pride and ambition.
And in the silent, high–stakes sky, the pack instincts, pride, and skill of all involved would collide, each Alpha, Beta, and operative testing limits not just of technology, but of loyalty, courage, and sheer will.
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Third Person’s POV
The storm over the Ashbourne coast howled like a feral beast, clawing at the sky with invisible talons. Abel Thorne believed sending more hands into the rescue would bring safety, so he did not stop the others from boarding the second helicopter.
Aurora gripped the controls of her aircraft, the sleek blades of the Bluemoon Airborne Wing’s chopper slicing through the wind. Behind her sat Caelum along with trained rescuers. Their destination–the stranded island where a storm had trapped several men.
On the ground, Jocelyn stood beside Silas, Alpha of the Ironclad Coalition. Her eyes, cold with calculation, shifted toward him
“Silas, let’s go down,” Jocelyn urged softly. “Aurora will bring them back soon enough.”
Once the victims were returned, she was certain Silas would see Freya Thorne for what she truly was–nothing but smoke and mirrors, a woman surviving on borrowed glory.
Yet Silas did not move. He remained rooted where he stood, posture unyielding, gaze fixed on the dark sky where Freya’s aircraft had vanished into the storm. His expression was distant, almost reverent, as though his eyes followed her across the miles.
What power
did Freya hold
Over him, that he could look at no one else?
“Silas!” Jocelyn snapped, stepping closer. Her hand closed around his right wrist to pull him back from that invisible tether.
And then she froze.
That hand–elegant, strong, once her recurring nightmare.
Years ago, those fingers had nearly gouged out her eye in a single violent moment. His touch had been as sharp as knives, a memory so vicious she had sought out healers and mind–weavers for years to banish her terror
But now… those same fingers trembled beneath her grasp.
Her breath caught. “Silas, what’s wrong? Your hand–it’s shaking.”
He drew his hand back slowly, lips pressed into a thin, grim line. His eyes lowered, staring at his own quivering palm.
“Yes,” he murmured, voice
nd quiet. “It trembles.”
Because fear was blooming inside him. Fear that Freya would not return. Fear that he had not been able to follow her into the storm. The sensation coiled like a serpent in his chest, spreading through his
And then, as though confessing to the night itself, Silas whispered, “So it’s true. I love her–so deeply that fear makes my
hands shake.”
Abel Thorne’s brows lifted in shock. He had suspected Silas’s feelings for Freya, but hearing the Ironclad Alpha admit them aloud was something else entirely.
His gaze flicked to Jocelyn–and there it was, the twist of her mouth, the rage trembling in her jaw. The young woman’s envy burned in her eyes like wildfire.
Abel sighed inwardly and pulled her aside. “Jocelyn, some things cannot be forced. The harder you clutch, the more they ship away. What isn’t yours will never yield, no matter the sacrifice”
But Jocelyn’s silence spoke volumes. Her jealousy deepened, thick and poisonous. She had given an eye–bled for the price of his hand once upon a time—yet she could not hold Silas’s heart.
And Freya? Freya bled nothing, yet she commanded him.
Jocelyn’s teeth ground together. She would never allow it. Never
The two helicopters thundered across the storm–dark sea, one after the other. The nearer they drew to the island, the
Chapter 182
stronger the winds became, twisting in erratic patterns, pushing and pulling like unseen predators.
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Aurora’s knuckles whitened on the cyclic. Sweat gathered on her palms, though the air inside the cockpit was cold. She had flown countless hours, though mostly as a co–pilot. She had always believed herself equal–better, even–than her superiors. If given the chance, she thought, she could lead.
Yet now, with the full weight of command in her hands, faced with the vicious spirals of wind tearing around the island, her confidence faltered.
One wrong calculation and the craft would fall into the sea, blades shattered, bodies broken.
Her breath came shallow. She had not wanted this flight for honor or duty–only to outshine Freya Thorne. To rob her rival of glory. Never to wager her own life.
“Why are we slowing?” one of the rescuers asked, leaning forward with confusion.
Aurora stiffened. “The air currents are too unstable here. Too dangerous.”
The man frowned and gestured toward the windshield. Ahead, Freya’s helicopter, smaller yet steady, pressed forward undaunted, cutting through the storm with precision.
“But the lead aircraft-
“That’s their pilot, Aurora snapped, her voice sharp. “This is my ship, my judgment. Perhaps they’re lucky tonight. Or reckless. If they fall, luck will end. Are you questioning my command?”
The rescuer bit his
ngue
and fell silent.
Caelum’s voice broke the tension. “Aurora,” he said gently, “don’t fear. I believe in you. You can take us through.”
She glanced at him, lips pressed tight. But her own heart did not believe it. Not now. Not with death in every gust.
Her fingers locked around the stick until they went stiff. Then, abruptly, she pulled hard, turning the nose away from the storm front.
Gasps erupted in the cabin.
“Wait—this isn’t the right heading!” one rescuer shouted.
“Where are you going? Caelum asked, confusion lacing his tone.
Aurora’s voice was firm, but her eyes betrayed her fear. “Freya’s already gone in. Let her save them if she wishes. It was her mission from the start. We need not throw our lives into a storm that isn’t ours.”
Caelum stared at her, struck silent.
It did not align with memory. Once, she had leapt into a flooded river to save him. Once, she had run into wildfire on the border to drag strangers out.
That woman had seemed fearless, burning with the instinct to protect.
But now? Now she turned away,
His chest tightened with unease, as if some truth he had long trusted about her had fractured in the storm.
“But why?” Caelum’s voice was quiet, rough. “Once, you risked your life for me. For strangers. You never hesitated. Why won’t you take the same risk now?”
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Third Person’s POV
The storm winds clawed at the rotors of the Bluemoon Airborne Wing helicopter, snarling like wild wolves across the Ashbourne coast. Aurora’s face tightened as the craft pitched, her knuckles white against the cyclic. Every gust rattled her bones, reminding her that no accolade, no borrowed glory, was worth the cost of her own life.
Why should she risk herself for strangers?
Yet Caclum’s voice broke through the howl of the gale, questioning her resolve. His eyes–silver, steady–searched her face.
for an answer.
Aurora forced her lips into a tremulous smile, the fear in her chest twisting into something else entirely. “Because I have someone more important to protect now,” she declared.
Caelum blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “What?”
She didn’t hesitate. Not even with the rescue team listening. “You, Caelum. I care about you more than anything. If you Jweren’t here, I’d fly straight into that storm without fear. But with you on this aircraft, I can’t take the risk. Freya has already
gone ahead. Let her handle the rescue. If she fails, I’ll see you safely off this craft before I take the risk myself.”
The words struck him like a physical blow. His chest tightened, not with pride but with guilt. “I’m sorry, Aurora. I shouldn’t have doubted you. I-”
She cut him off with a quick shake of her head. “It doesn’t matter, Caelum. As long as you don’t doubt my feelings for you.”
In the cramped cabin, the rescuers exchanged silent glances. One rolled his eyes skyward, the gesture sharp with disdain. This had been Aurora’s plan from the beginning: demand to be part of the mission, insist on bringing along Caelum despite his bandaged arm and recent injuries, and now–use him as an excuse to retreat.
The irony was bitter. She had turned a rescue into a farce.
To the rescuers, Aurora’s motives were transparent: fear. She wasn’t skilled enough to face the winds, and rather than admit it, she cloaked herself in the excuse of love. Worse still, Caèlum seemed moved, his features softened as though he believed her every word.
The lead rescuer’s lip curled, though he bit back his contempt. Instead, he toggled his WolfComm headset, linking directly to Freya Thorne’s aircraft
“How are conditions on your side?” he asked.
A voice crackled through, steadier than the winds around them. “We’ve reached the site. Preparing to extract the trapped
crew,”
“Understood. Wishing you success.”
The channel clicked dead. In the sudden silence, the rescuer turned his sharp gaze on Aurora. “Since you care so much for your passenger, perhaps it would be wiser to return to base. If Freya’s team falters, and you waste precious time circling or retreating, you’ll arrive too late to save anyone. Dead wolves can’t be rescued by cowards.”
Aurora’s lips parted, but no words came. The insult cut deep, but she could not argue.
Back in Stormveil territory, the night broke open with the rhythmic thunder of rotor blades. Freya’s helicopter swept down onto the rooftop landing pad of the Thorne corporate tower, its sleek frame streaked with sea–salt and storm water. Medical teams were already waiting, their stretchers lined like soldiers ready for war.
As the rescued men were unloaded, healers and medics descended upon them, checking vitals, binding wounds, and rushing them toward waiting ambulances. Relief rippled across the rooftop like a breath of fresh air after drowning.
Freya exhaled, the weight of the mission finally casing from her shoulders. Her boots touched the concrete, and for the first time since the storm had swallowed her, she allowed herself to believe: they were safe.
And then arms wrapped around her. Strong, desperate, unyielding.
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The familiar scent of iron and cedar enveloped her, her wolf relaxing instinctively into the embrace. Silas pulled her against him as if he would never let her go. His hands locked at her waist and back, his face buried in the curve of her neck.
“You’re safe,” he rasped, his voice hoarse with strain. “Moon above, you’re safe.”
The sound of it–the raw relief–sent a tremor through her chest. She lifted her hand, fingers sliding through his dark hair, grounding him, soothing the storm still raging inside him. They had been apart barely more than an hour, and yet his embrace felt like that of a wolf reunited after seasons of separation.
“Yes,” she whispered with a soft, tired smile. “I came back safe.”
He held her tighter, as though sheer strength could anchor her to him forever. His heartbeat thundered against her ribs, not from battle, but from fear that he might have lost her.
On the fringe of the rooftop, Jocelyn Thorne’s eyes gleamed with envy, her jaw clenched so tight her teeth threatened to crack. The sight of Silas’s devotion tore at her insides, feeding the venom of jealousy until it burned her veins.
Not far from her, Caelum stood frozen. His gaze lingered on Freya–not the Freya in Silas’s arms, but the one in his mind. The woman who had flown into the storm without hesitation, who had once thrown herself into the sea to rescue a child that was not her own.
The image clashed violently with the truth he thought he knew.
Because hadn’t the records shown Aurora had been the one to save him years ago from drowning? Hadn’t the reports named her, supported by witnesses?
Yet when he saw Freya brace herself against the fury of the gale, risking her life for strangers, the doubt whispered: What if…?
He shook his head, forcing the thought away, as if his own heart had betrayed him. It couldn’t be. It mustn’t be.
Still, his gaze betrayed him. His eyes fell to Freya’s hand–those slender fingers that now brushed tenderly through Silas’s hair. Once, those same fingers had combed through his own locks in gentler times.
But that touch no longer belonged to him. It belonged wholly to another.
“Caelum.” Aurora’s voice broke through, tinged with jealousy she couldn’t mask. Her hand caught his sleeve, her smile thin, her tone brittle. “Let’s go.”
Her heart seethed with humiliation. Freya had taken the risk, stolen the glory, and even managed to return wrapped in Silas’s arms. Aurora’s own retreat, her excuses, had earned her nothing but disdain from the rescuers and pity from Caelum. Tonight, she had lost everything she sought to prove.
And she could not forgive it,
Chapter 184
Freya’s POV
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I hadn’t expected anyone to disturb me tonight. After the mission, after the storm winds and the adrenaline of flying into danger, I thought the silence of my quarters in the Stormveil compound would finally settle my nerves. I had just extinguished the last lantern glow when the door creaked open and a shadow stepped through.
Silas.
The Alpha of the Ironclad Coalition carried himself with that same gravity he wore on the battlefield, but tonight, something in his posture was unsettled–like a wolf pacing too long inside a cage. His silver eyes caught mine, and for a heartbeat, I forgot to breathe.
“Is something wrong?” I asked, voice low..
He hesitated only a moment before answering, “I can’t sleep.”
I tilted my head. “Can’t sleep? That’s not like you.”
His jaw flexed. “Eyery time I close my eyes, I see you in that storm, your chopper tilting against the gale. You vanished into the clouds, and all I could think was what if I never saw you again?” His voice was quieter than I had ever heard it, the steel stripped away, leaving only raw honesty.
I folded my arms, though my wolf stirred restlessly beneath my skin. Silas Whitmor wasn’t a man who admitted weakness. That he said this to me was… dangerous “You knew I would be fine. I’ve flown worse.”
“I know your skill,” he said, gaze dropping for a fraction, “but knowing doesn’t stop the fear. Not when it’s you.”
Something in my chest tightened. I wanted to tell him I understood, but that would’ve been too much. Too close. So instead, I arched a brow. “So what? You want me to tell you a bedtime story?”
His lips curved, faint but real. “I’m not a child.”
“Then what is it you want, Silas?”
His eyes locked onto mine, fierce and unyielding even in their vulnerability. “I want to sleep here. With you.”
My heart stumbled. Sleep? My mind tripped over the word, wondering which meaning he intended. My wolf pricked her ears, curious, tempted. “You mean… in my bed?”
He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him. “Yes. Tonight I can’t rest alone. I’m afraid…”
“Afraid?” I echoed. Fear was not a word that belonged to him. Not Silas Whitmor, who had stared down armies without blinking.
“Afraid I’ll wake and find you gone,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Afraid that fate will take you from me the way it’s taken everything else.”
I thought of the storm, of his expression when I returned, the way his arms had crushed me to him as if to anchor me in his world. “But I did come back,” I said softly. “I’m right here.”
“That doesn’t erase the fear. The aftershock lingers.” His voice broke in places he tried to mask. Then, more firmly, “Let me stay. I swear, Freya, I won’t touch you without your consent. I just need to be near.”
His eyes were wolf eyes then, glowing faintly in the dim light–pleading, restless, full of a loneliness so sharp I almost flinched. The refusal balanced on my tongue, but I couldn’t push it out. Not when I saw him like this.
After a long silence, I exhaled. “Fine. Stay. But just sleep.”
Relief flickered across his face, softening that usually untouchable exterior. He followed me to the bed, and when he lay down beside me, the mattress dipped under his weight, the space suddenly far too small. His scent–a mixture of pine, iron, and the faint burn of steel forge–surrounded me, making it hard to think clearly.
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I shifted, leaning across him to tug the blanket from his side. But before I could pull it free, his hand shot out, wrapping firmly around my wrist.
My pulse skipped. “Silas?”
His voice was husky, almost teasing but underpinned with heat. “I promised not to touch you without permission. But what about you, Freya? You’ve got me pinned here… don’t you want to do something?”
My eyes widened. I hadn’t realized until that moment how compromising the position looked–me braced above him, one hand supporting myself by his shoulder, the other stretched across his chest as I reached for the blanket. My body half- draped over his, his face so close I could feel the whisper of his breath against my cheek.
He tilted his head slightly, exposing his throat in the smallest, most dangerous invitation a wolf could give. His lips parted, words flowing like smoke. “Tell me you don’t want to.”
I should have pulled away. I should have snapped at him for being reckless. Instead, curiosity sparked. I let my fingers trail from his collarbone upward, brushing the corded muscle of his neck until they lingered at the sharp rise of his Adam’s apple.
He swallowed under my touch, his throat moving against my fingertips. To my shock, color rose at the edges of his ears, a flush betraying the composure of the Ironclad Alpha.
“You… I murmured, eyes narrowing. “Silas Whitmor, are you actually blushing?”
His lips twitched, but his voice was low, rough, and entirely sincere. “Freya, whatever you do to me, I’ll accept. Anything. I’d let you mark me, command me, break me–just so I could feel you want me as much as I want you.”
The air between us thickened, humming with a tension that was more dangerous than any battlefield. His usual icy demeanor had melted into something raw, unguarded, vulnerable. And gods help me, it drew me in.
For the first time, I realized how much power I held over him. Silas Whitmor–Alpha of an empire forged in iron and fire- lay beneath me willingly, offering not dominance, but surrender.
And the wild, dangerous part of my wolf wanted to take it.
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Silas’s POV
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I never thought one look from a woman could undo me, but when Freya leaned over me that night, her wolf–bright eyes locked on mine, I was stripped of every defense.
Her gaze clung to me as if she couldn’t pull away, and I prayed she wouldn’t. My lashes trembled with the force of holding myself back, but then I let them lift, revealing the truth I usually buried deep.
“Freya,” my voice rasped, raw and hungry, “do you… want to do something to me?”
My lips were parted, slick with the heat of breath I couldn’t control. I knew what I was asking. I knew how desperate it sounded. But the craving burned too deep to mask.
And then her head dipped.
Her mouth pressed to mine, firm and sudden, stealing every thought I had. My wolf roared inside me, demanding more, demanding her. I closed my eyes and kissed her back, careful but fervent, as if one wrong move might scare her away. My lips begged hers to stay, to give me more, to claim me as surely as my soul longed to claim her.
When the kiss broke, I was trembling with want. Her taste lingered, sweet and sharp, and my chest ached for more.
But she only pulled the blanket up, flattening it over both of us as she lay down beside me, her breathing uneven but determinedly calm.
“That’s it?” I blurted, staring at her profile in the dark. My wolf clawed at me, furious that she had stopped. “Just one kiss? Nothing more?”
Did she not feel it—the pull, the bond clawing between us? Was I not enough to rouse her hunger the way she ignited mine?
“Am I not… attractive to you?” The words spilled before I could choke them back. “Or did I do something wrong?”
For the first time in my life, I felt like some nervous pup, unworthy of her flame. My heart hammered, uncertain, raw.
She turned, eyes steady, voice low. “No, Silas. You’re… incredibly attractive. You did nothing wrong.”
Then why–why stop when she had me burning alive?
“Then why didn’t you continue?” I pressed, desperate.
Her gaze sharpened, and gods help me, it made me feel like the supplicant I was. “Because it wouldn’t be fair to you.”
1 froze. “What do you mean?”
“I like you,” she said bluntly. No hesitation, no game. “But I don’t know if I love you. And until I know that… I won’t let it be only about desire.”
The words struck me harder than any blade ever had. She–so fearless, so principled–was holding back not because she didn’t want me, but because she refused to take what wasn’t bound by love.
Only when she loved
would she truly claim me.
And I–Silas Whitmor, Alpha of the Ironclad Coalition, hardened by blood and war–found myself nodding, nearly breaking under the force of her honesty.
“I’ll wait,” I whispered, lifting her hand and pressing my lips to her palm. Her skin burned against my mouth, and I lingered there, breathing her in. “Freya, I’ll wait until the day you love me. No matter how long. I’ll do anything.”
She stilled, her breath hitching. I felt her pulse quicken under my lips, and it lit hope in my chest like fire.
That night, I didn’t let go of her hand. Not once. I held it until my wolf finally eased, until sleep dragged me under, though I knew she lay awake, restless with thoughts of me.
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Dawn found me restless again. I rose before her, unable to banish the ache in my chest, and took refuge in the washroom. The shower scalded my back, but the heat never erased the scars etched there.
I had just reached for my robe when the door opened.
She stepped in.
Freya froze when she realized I was half–naked, droplets tracing down my hair and spine. She turned sharply, reaching for the door. “Sorry–I didn’t know anyone was in here-”
“Ugly, isn’t it?” My voice cut out of me before I could stop it.
Her steps faltered. “What?”
“The scars,” I said flatly, still facing away. I could feel them burning under her stare, the ridges of pain carved into my flesh years ago. “They’re hideous, aren’t they?”
I didn’t reach for the robe. I let her see. The lash marks, layered and jagged, souvenirs of a childhood spent beneath cruelty. Even faded by time, they told the story too clearly–how a boy had been beaten until the wolf inside him howled and bled.
expected silence. Disgust. Maybe pity.
Instead, her voice broke, raw and sharp. “No. Not ugly.”
And then–her hand touched me.
I went rigid, breath caught in my throat as her fingers traced the scars, gentle where once there had been only pain.
“You don’t think they’re ugly?” My voice cracked, betraying me.
She shook her head, firm. “If scars are ugly, then I’m ugly too. I have plenty of my own from missions. Would you call me hideous?”
“Of course not!” I turned halfway, meeting her eyes.
“Then neither are yours,” she said fiercely. “What’s ugly is the one who gave them to you. These scars don’t make me recoil, Silas. They make me want to heal you.”
Her words tore me open. And then–her lips pressed against my
back.
I stiffened, every muscle tight, my wolf howling with the shock of it. Warmth spread through the ruined flesh, through my blood, through my very soul. She was kissing the places I hated most branding them with tenderness I never thought I deserved
In the mirror above the basin, I saw her–Freya Thorne, fierce, proud, unyielding–kneeling against my back, her mouth soft against the scars.
My throat closed. I had fought battles that shattered mountains, but this undid me.
And yet–gods forgive me—I was a coward even now. Because while her kisses seared away my shame, another thought coiled in my chest.
That I was using her compassion, her instinct to nurture, as a chain to bind her to me.
I wanted her to love me. So badly I’d take even her pity and twist it into something more.
If she knew that, would she still look at me the same way?
“Freya,” I whispered, voice–breaking as my wolf pressed against the edges of my skin. “I…”
But the words failed.
Because what I really wanted to say was I need you to love me, and I’ll bleed, burn, crawl through ash until you
And I didn’t know if that was devotion–or something darker.