Ch. 216..220: A Warrior Luna's Awakening Chapter 216-220
Chapter 216
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When I left the apartment for the last time, I cast a glance back at the empty space, hoping that the next time I returned, it would be with Eric.
Later. I took Kade and Silas around some of Ashbourne’s renowned landmarks. Silas insisted on coming along, and I couldn’t argue with him. Kade, naturally, couldn’t resist teasing.
“Really, Silas Whitmor, Alpha of the Ironclad Coalition, just strolling around the city like a tourist? No urgent company matters?” Kade’s voice was sharp with mockery.
Silas shot back, cool and calm, “Better than letting the law firm’s messes sit unsolved, as you were suggesting, Kade.”
“You still have the nerve to talk about the firm?” Kade growled, eyes narrowing. “Those disasters weren’t my fault-they were yours!”
“If you can’t manage even minor issues, maybe it’s better to close the firm early.” Silas replied evenly.
I sat at the wheel, the two of them in the backseat, arguing like two wolves tussling over territory. Silas and Kade had initially wanted to drive, but both insisted I ride shotgun. Preferring quiet, I simply drove, placing them behind me.
We arrived at Ashbourne’s ancient city walls. The massive stones rose like silent sentinels, scars of centuries etched into their surface. I led them out of the car, toward a sprawling old oak beside the walls.
“There’s a wishing tree here,” I said. “People come and pray under it. They say it’s… effective.”
Both Silas and Kade’s expressions shifted subtly, a faint weight settling over them, as if they each contemplated their own unspoken desires.
“Come on,” I said, moving toward the tree.
Silas and Kade exchanged a glance, then followed.
I stood beneath the sprawling branches, fingertips interlaced, eyes closed. My wolf stirred with the age-old rhythm of ritual and hope, beating in time with my human heart. If wishes could truly be realized. I prayed to find Eric soon.
Kade tilted his head toward the tree, a ghost of a smirk on his lips, though his eyes betrayed fleeting doubt. He shook his head, amused at his own thoughts-he had never believed in such things.
Silas, on the other hand, mirrored my gesture, fingers entwined, eyes tightly shut. For the briefest moment, I glimpsed a different side of him: a man not defined by power or fear, but by hope and longing.
I opened my eyes and turned, catching Silas’s gaze meeting mine.
“You’re making a wish too?” I asked. After all, someone like him-Alpha of the Ironclad Coalition- should have everything he could ever want. Why would he need a wish?
Silas’s eyes softened, the steel tempered with warmth. “I wish… that we grow old together.”
I blinked, taken aback, and Kade frowned, voice sharp with disbelief. “You two have only been together for a short time.. and you’re already talking about growing old together?”
I felt a gentle warmth in my chest, watching him-the man who had weathered darkness and violence,
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Chapter 216
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now showing me this rare, fragile vulnerability. My wolf stirred, not with doubt, but with the steady rhythm of trust, of belonging.
Chapter 216
Freya’s POV
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I studied Silas carefully, taking in the fading redness along his cheek, the split at the corner of his lips, and, almost instinctively, I checked his teeth. Kade’s punch had not been gentle. The Iron Fang Recon Unit operative wasn’t someone who held back, and Silas had taken that full force.
“From now on,” I said, my voice soft but firm, “no matter who tries to hit you, don’t just stand there and take it. Dodge at least.”
Silas gave a small nod, a grin tugging at the corner of his bruised mouth. “Alright. But if it’s you who hits me…” He hesitated, then added, “I won’t dodge. I’ll let you hit me all you want.”
I laughed lightly, shaking my head. “And why would I hit you?”
He looked down, his dark lashes trembling as he tried to figure out how to say what he meant. “Maybe… because I’ve done something wrong?”
I arched an eyebrow. “Like what?”
His words faltered. How could he tell me this “like what” without sounding foolish? Without revealing all the things he carried in the shadows of his past?
Then, without warning, he leaned forward, his arms wrapping around my waist. I was standing while he was sitting, so his face naturally pressed against my abdomen. His voice was low, urgent, and tinged with vulnerability.
“If… if I ever do something wrong again, and you’re angry with me, you can hit me, scold me… do whatever you need. But please… please don’t ever leave me. Can you promise that?”
The desperation in his whisper tugged at my chest. His wolf, I knew, mirrored the intensity of his plea- every instinct, every sinew radiating a need for connection.
“If you know something is wrong, then don’t do it,” I said gently.
“But… what if it’s already done? Or… maybe I didn’t even realize it was wrong at the time?” His hands tightened around me slightly. “Before I met you, Freya, I wasn’t a good man. I didn’t care about anything -didn’t care if people lived or died… but…” He paused, his voice softer now. “I will be a better man, from now on. So… no matter what I did before, will you forgive me?”
I studied him, seeing the anxiety, the uncertainty, the rare flash of urgency in his gaze. It was like my answer was the axis on which his world turned.
And yet, why was he so concerned with whether I could forgive him for the past?
I pressed my lips together, considering. “As long as what you did didn’t betray the Pack, didn’t go against justice, didn’t harm innocents then yes. Even if you truly made mistakes, I can forgive you.”
I could see it then-the relief washing over him, subtle but palpable. Silas exhaled sharply and pulled me closer. “Thank you Freya Thank you for forgiving me.”
In the days that followed, I moved the belongings from our old estate to my apartment in the Capital.
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1:16 pm P PPS.
Chapter 216
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When I left the apartment for the last time, I cast a glance back at the empty space, hoping that the next time I returned, it would be with Eric.
Later. I took Kade and Silas around some of Ashbourne’s renowned landmarks. Silas insisted on coming along, and I couldn’t argue with him. Kade, naturally, couldn’t resist teasing.
“Really, Silas Whitmor, Alpha of the Ironclad Coalition, just strolling around the city like a tourist? No urgent company matters?” Kade’s voice was sharp with mockery.
Silas shot back, cool and calm, “Better than letting the law firm’s messes sit unsolved, as you were suggesting, Kade.”
“You still have the nerve to talk about the firm?” Kade growled, eyes narrowing. “Those disasters weren’t my fault-they were yours!”
“If you can’t manage even minor issues, maybe it’s better to close the firm early.” Silas replied evenly.
I sat at the wheel, the two of them in the backseat, arguing like two wolves tussling over territory. Silas and Kade had initially wanted to drive, but both insisted I ride shotgun. Preferring quiet, I simply drove, placing them behind me.
We arrived at Ashbourne’s ancient city walls. The massive stones rose like silent sentinels, scars of centuries etched into their surface. I led them out of the car, toward a sprawling old oak beside the walls.
“There’s a wishing tree here,” I said. “People come and pray under it. They say it’s… effective.”
Both Silas and Kade’s expressions shifted subtly, a faint weight settling over them, as if they each contemplated their own unspoken desires.
“Come on,” I said, moving toward the tree.
Silas and Kade exchanged a glance, then followed.
I stood beneath the sprawling branches, fingertips interlaced, eyes closed. My wolf stirred with the age-old rhythm of ritual and hope, beating in time with my human heart. If wishes could truly be realized. I prayed to find Eric soon.
Kade tilted his head toward the tree, a ghost of a smirk on his lips, though his eyes betrayed fleeting doubt. He shook his head, amused at his own thoughts-he had never believed in such things.
Silas, on the other hand, mirrored my gesture, fingers entwined, eyes tightly shut. For the briefest moment, I glimpsed a different side of him: a man not defined by power or fear, but by hope and longing.
I opened my eyes and turned, catching Silas’s gaze meeting mine.
“You’re making a wish too?” I asked. After all, someone like him-Alpha of the Ironclad Coalition- should have everything he could ever want. Why would he need a wish?
Silas’s eyes softened, the steel tempered with warmth. “I wish… that we grow old together.”
I blinked, taken aback, and Kade frowned, voice sharp with disbelief. “You two have only been together for a short time.. and you’re already talking about growing old together?”
I felt a gentle warmth in my chest, watching him-the man who had weathered darkness and violence,
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1:17 pm
Chapter 216
+5 Free Coins
now showing me this rare, fragile vulnerability. My wolf stirred, not with doubt, but with the steady rhythm of trust, of belonging.
Chapter 218
Freya’s POV
I turned my focus back to Grandfather Ken, who sat propped against his pillows, frail yet steady. I pulled out the old photographs of my brother Eric and placed them into his trembling hands.
One by one, he studied them, his cloudy eyes sharpening with recognition and longing. I told him stories as he looked, memories of Eric’s laughter, his stubborn streak, the way his wolf had always carried itself with quiet strength.
“When I find him,” I whispered, hope hardening into a vow, “I’ll bring him here myself. You’ll see him with your own eyes.”
Grandfather’s breath shuddered. He looked at Eric’s face in the photo as though willing it into flesh and blood. “I don’t know if I’ll last long enough.”
“You will,” I said quickly, gripping his hand. “It won’t be long. I’ll bring him back soon. You’ll meet him again—I swear it.”
A faint smile curved his lips, his voice low but firm. “Then I’ll hold on until that day.”
For a few quiet moments, there was peace in his aura. But then his gaze flicked to me, sharper, older than the body it inhabited.
“Freya,” he rasped, “you’re with Alpha Silas now, aren’t you?”
I hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”
“Be cautious.” His tone was grave. “Men like him think in depths you cannot always see. He carries the blood of Whitmore. His father… I remember him well. A man who clawed at what he wanted with ruthless hands. He tore apart a rival, destroyed a lover, to win his mate.”
My wolf bristled. I cut him off sharply. “Grandfather! Silas is not his father. Don’t compare them.”
Ken’s eyes softened, regret flickering there. “Perhaps I judge too harshly. The boy does look at you differently than his father ever looked at anyone. Maybe this time, history won’t repeat itself.”
I clung to that thought. Because I wanted to believe it.
By the time I left his chamber, nearly an hour had passed. My thoughts churned, heavy with
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Chapter 218
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both hope and unease. Would Silas be growing impatient in the great hall, waiting? I hurried
my steps-
And froze.
The manor corridors pulsed with alarm. Servants rushed past, their voices a frantic buzz.
“Something’s happened in the great hall!”
“Alpha Silas–he’s with Lady Jocelyn-”
My stomach plunged. Silas? With Jocelyn?
Fear spiked, sharp as silver through my chest. I broke into a run, my boots hammering against the stone floor.
When I burst into the hall, the air stank of chaos. Servants sprawled across the floor, groaning, clutching at bruises. Their scents were sharp with fear.
And at the center of it-
Silas.
My mate stood wild–eyed, chest heaving, his aura a storm gone feral. His hand was wrapped around Jocelyn’s throat, lifting her clear off the ground, slamming her against the wall. Her legs kicked helplessly, her face bleaching to ash as her lips mouthed soundless pleas.
“Silas!” My voice cracked the air like a whip.
But he didn’t hear me. His eyes–those dark, steady eyes–were unfocused, pupils blown wide. Jocelyn’s struggles weakened, her wolf’s aura sputtering. She was seconds from collapse.
I lunged forward. “Silas, let go! Now!”
No response. His wolf was in control, and it wasn’t recognizing friend from foe.
My pulse roared in my ears as I grabbed his arm, trying to wrench his hand free. For one terrible second, it worked–Jocelyn dropped like a rag doll, gasping for breath.
But then his wolf snapped to me.
And attacked.
“Silas!” I stumbled back, blocking his blow with my forearm. His strength crashed into me, jarring bone. He came at me again, like a beast driven mad, each strike aimed to tear, not to
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spar.
“Silas, look at me!” I shouted, ducking, dodging, my wolf flaring beneath my skin. “It’s Freya! Stop!”
But he didn’t stop. His wolf only snarled and pressed harder.
Gritting my teeth, I shifted my stance. At the last second, I spun, seized his momentum, and slammed him against the wall. The impact shuddered through us both. I pinned him there, my breath ragged, my muscles screaming.
And then–finally–something flickered.
His
eyes wavered, the madness thinning. “Freya…?”
“Yes!” Relief burst through me. “It’s me. I’m here.”
He blinked, his pupils narrowing back to normal. His chest heaved, his aura spasming between fury and control. “The… scent…” His voice rasped, desperate. “Bind me. Bind my hands. Before I hurt you-”
His body trembled violently, fighting to keep himself from lunging again.
That was when I noticed it. The cloying, unnatural perfume that clung to the air. Not mine. Not Silas’s. Jocelyn’s.
A bitter, sweetened scent–an aphrodisiac oil twisted for wolves, designed to unbalance even an Alpha.
Snarling, I ripped Silas’s tie from his neck and bound his wrists tight. He didn’t resist, only sagged into me, still trembling, but yielding.
Once I was sure he couldn’t lash out, I rounded on Jocelyn. She was on the floor, coughing violently, her face mottled red and white.
I stalked toward her, fury snapping in my aura, my wolf’s growl rumbling beneath my skin.
“What did you do to him?” My voice cut like fangs. “That stench–you reek of it. What did you use on Silas?“.
Her eyes darted away, panic flashing before she smothered it. “I… I didn’t do anything! Freya, don’t blame me without proof!”
“Liar!” I snarled, my wolf rising, claws itching beneath my skin. “You doused yourself in poison and thought you could bind him with it. You almost killed him!”
Chapter 219
Third Person’s POV
Silas lay slumped against the high–backed chair, his broad chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temples. His face was contorted in anguish, and the veins along his temple pulsed as though something monstrous pressed from within. His eyes remained closed, but the tension rolling off him was undeniable–his wolf fought for control.
Freya’s fury burned in her chest as she knelt by his side, her gaze sweeping the room until it fixed on Jocelyn. Barely an hour ago she had left Silas, and now she returned to find him reduced to this–a powerful Alpha writhing, consumed by torment.
The sight ignited something feral inside her.
Jocelyn scrambled weakly across the floor, but before she could rise, Freya stepped forward, her boot pressing down hard against her cousin’s back. The weight of a wolf blessed by the Bloodmoon Pack pressed her flat, grinding her ribs against the marble floor. Jocelyn’s breath hitched, and a strangled cry broke from her lips.
“Jocelyn,” Freya’s voice was low, a growl vibrating beneath every word, “I will ask you one more time–what did you do to him? And what is that scent on you?”
The sharp command reverberated through the chamber, making even the air feel heavier. Jocelyn writhed beneath Freya’s heel, but the pressure was relentless, as if the entire Iron Fang Recon Unit bore down upon her spine.
“Don’t just stand there!” Jocelyn screeched toward the servants clustered at the edges of the hall. “Pull her off me–now!”
But the servants only shifted uneasily, eyes darting toward Silas’s trembling frame. None dared move closer. They all knew Jocelyn’s standing had plummeted within the Thorne family, while Freya–last scion of the Stormveil Pack’s fifth branch, whose bloodline had given its all in sacrifice–was favored by the elders. Even the lowest servants whispered in admiration of her resilience, her defiance, her wolf.
Their hesitation only fed Jocelyn’s rage. Her cheeks flushed scarlet, eyes burning with humiliation. “You think you can shame me like this? Freya Thorne, if you dare humiliate me again, I swear-”
Her words cut off with a gasp as Freya leaned harder, driving her boot between Jocelyn’s shoulder blades.
“Listen to me, Jocelyn,” Freya’s tone dropped to a cold snarl, eyes blazing like winter flame. “If
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Chapter 219
you don’t tell me exactly what you did, and Silas suffers because of it, I will see to it that every day of your life becomes a nightmare. You will beg me for mercy that will never come.”
The weight increased; Jocelyn felt her spine strain, fear prickling down her limbs like ice. Freya’s wolf was in her gaze now, wild and merciless, and Jocelyn knew–if she refused, Freya truly would crush her into the floor.
“Fine!” Jocelyn’s voice cracked, trembling under the pressure. “I–I only sprayed perfume! Nothing else! I swear it!”
Freya’s lip curled in contempt. “Perfume? Then why is he like this?” Her voice cracked like a whip. “Why does an Alpha of his strength writhe as if his very soul is being torn apart?”
Jocelyn’s face drained of color, her mind flitting to the memory that haunted her as much as it haunted him. “It’s… it’s just the same fragrance his mother used. The one she wore… the night she died. I didn’t know-”
Freya froze, shock breaking through her fury for the briefest instant. Silas’s mother. She knew of the tragedy that had scarred him, the bloodstains upon the Whitmor legacy. The memory of her suicide had never healed, and the scent tied to that night was his deepest wound.
And Jocelyn had deliberately cloaked herself in it.
Freya’s blood turned to steel. She couldn’t waste another heartbeat here. Silas needed her. She hauled him to his feet with surprising strength, guiding his trembling body toward the door. He leaned heavily against her, every staggered breath cutting into her chest. Without another word, she swept from the room, leaving chaos in her wake.
The grand hall fell silent but for Jocelyn’s ragged breathing. She pushed herself upright, hair wild, eyes burning with hate as she turned her glare on the servants.
“Staring at me like that?” she spat, shaking with fury and fear. “Do your jobs or be gone!”
The servants quickly lowered their gazes, but one knelt to gather papers scattered across the polished floor. Among them lay a handful of photographs.
“Wait,” Jocelyn snapped, eyes narrowing. “What’s that?”
The servant stammered, holding the glossy prints aloft. “These… they fell from Lady Freya’s pocket when she carried Alpha Silas away.”
Jocelyn snatched them greedily, her breath quickening as her eyes flicked over the images. Photos, clutched close to Freya’s heart, secreted so near to her even in moments of chaos.
Her lips curved into a bitter smile. “So, she carries these with her everywhere…”
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There were only three photos that fell.
All three showed the same man.
In two of the photos, he was wearing a military uniform, and in one, he was shirtless, training.
Jocelyn’s eyes narrowed suddenly, staring at the hideous scar on the man’s shoulder.
This scar looked familiar to her, as if she had seen it somewhere before!
Freya’s POV
I drove as fast as the tires could bite into the asphalt, my hands clenched white on the wheel. Silas’s body shook in the passenger seat, sweat slicking his temple, his breath ragged like a wolf cornered and ready to break. By the
time I pulled us into the Ironclad Coalition’s private hospital wing, my heart was pounding so hard I thought it might tear through my ribs.
Doctors swarmed him the moment I dragged him inside. They struggled against his thrashing until the sedative took hold. Only when the needle emptied into his vein did his body finally surrender, falling heavy and still against the white sheets.
I didn’t even realize my hands were trembling until I saw them stained with the sheen of his
sweat.
The door burst open. Wren hurried inside, still pale from his own injuries. He had been caught in the crossfire weeks ago when assassins came for Silas. He should have been in bed, but here he was, half–healed and wild–eyed.
“Wren, you shouldn’t be here,” I told him, rising from Silas’s bedside. “Your wounds-‘
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“I’m fine,” he cut me off, though I could see the stiffness in his movements. His gaze darted immediately to the unconscious Alpha. “What happened? Why is Alpha Silas here?”
“He… lost control,” I said, the words sticking in my throat. “Because of a scent. A perfume. The doctors say he’ll stabilize when the sedative wears off.”
Wren’s eyes widened. His jaw tightened like a steel trap. “Perfume? Don’t tell me… it was that scent?”
I stilled. “You mean the one tied to his mother’s death?”
His stare snapped to me, sharp with disbelief. “You know about it?”
“I forced it out of Jocelyn.” My voice dropped lower, almost a growl. The memory of pressing my boot into her back still lingered in my muscles. “She sprayed herself with it on purpose.”
The color drained from Wren’s face. “That woman dared…” He shook his head, anger warring with dread. “Only a handful of people know how badly that scent affects him. Jocelyn must’ve stumbled on it by chance–because the formula should have been destroyed when the Whitmores bought out the company. Silas ordered it erased from existence.”
“Destroyed or not, she had it.” My gaze flicked back to the bed, where Silas lay trapped in the
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have to. I want to know who sold it to her.”
Wren nodded grimly. “I’ll see to it.”
Supply Chains 1
But I couldn’t stop myself from asking the question clawing at me. “Tell me the truth. Back then–when he was younger. What happened when he caught the scent?”
Wren hesitated, his voice rough when he finally answered. “No. He wasn’t violent, not then. When the memories struck, he… collapsed. Terrified. He’d cling to whoever was near, trembling like a child. Sometimes he’d even turn the fear inward, hurt himself. But it was never like this. Never murderous rage.”
I frowned, unease gnawing at me. The Silas I faced tonight had been nothing like the boy Wren described. His wolf hadn’t sought comfort–it had lashed out, savage and brutal, fingers crushing Jocelyn’s throat.
Why? Because he was older now? Because his wolf had grown stronger, more feral with the years? Or was there something else–something darker–feeding this new reaction?
I pressed for details, and Wren told me the story I had only pieced together in fragments: Silas’s mother’s death, the broken glass vial of perfume, the way that scent embedded itself into his nightmares. How, three years later, he’d collapsed when he smelled it again. How it happened more than once until the Whitmores finally stamped out the formula itself.
And now Jocelyn had weaponized it.
I clenched my fists. She thought she could trap him, trick him into clinging to her in desperation. She hadn’t expected his wolf to bare its fangs instead. If I had been a minute later, I might have found her lifeless under his hands.
Hours passed in sterile silence. The scent of antiseptic burned my nose, but beneath it I caught the faintest trace of his–iron and cedar, buried deep beneath the drugs. Silas hadn’t stirred in over six hours. The doctors said two more, maybe three, and he would wake.
I meant to step out, to splash water on my face, to wash away the tension clawing at my skin. But then his voice broke the stillness.
“No…” His lips moved, low and broken. “Don’t leave me… please… don’t abandon me.”
I froze mid–step, every hair on my body prickling.
I turned back. He was still asleep, eyes closed, but his brow was furrowed, his head twitching against the pillow. Sweat glistened fresh across his forehead.
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A nightmare.
I moved to him, standing at the edge of the bed, my chest aching. For all his power, all his command as Alpha of the Ironclad Coalition, right now he looked unbearably human- stripped raw by whatever darkness haunted him.
I lifted my hand to wipe the sweat from his temple.
But before I could touch him, his eyes snapped open.
Golden fire blazed in his gaze, but it was unfocused, wild. His hand shot out, seizing my wrist in a bruising grip.
“Silas-”
I didn’t finish. In a single surge of motion, he pulled me down, twisting me beneath him. The world tilted, and suddenly I was pinned against the mattress.
His knees pressed into either side of my hips, caging me in. His hands shackled my wrists to the bed, his breath hot and uneven above me. His fingers trembled, yet his grip was unyielding.
I stared up into his eyes. He was looking at me, but not truly seeing me. The focus wasn’t there -only the raw, animal edge of panic.
His chest heaved. His aura crashed over me, thick and suffocating, but threaded with something I hadn’t expected. Not violence. Not lust.
Fear.
“Don’t… leave me…” His voice cracked, broken as a child’s. “It’s so dark. I’m… afraid. Blood. Too much blood…”
My throat tightened, the sound cutting me like claws.
The strongest Alpha I had ever known–terrifying, relentless Silas Whitmor–shaking above me like a boy lost in his own nightmare.