Ch. 281..285: A Warrior Luna's Awakening Chapter 281-285
Chapter 281
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Eleanor and Giselle froze, eyes wide, mouths agape, as if they had been struck by the bite of some unseen predator.
Silas pulled back slightly, his gaze sharpening, now fixed on them with an alpha’s chilling authority. “I will not tolerate anyone speaking of my mate loving another,” he said, his voice low but carrying the weight of command. “Unless… that person wants to spend a lifetime behind bars.”
The threat was unmistakable, directed not only at Eleanor and Giselle but at anyone else still present, anyone who dared imagine interfering in our bond. Their faces blanched, the fear in their eyes plain to see.
Giselle’s lips parted in indignation. “But Freya… she’s only been married once before! How could she possibly be worthy of the Alpha of Whitmore? She’s just the woman my brother discarded!”
Silas’s eyes narrowed, icy daggers aimed straight at her. If we weren’t in a courtroom, surrounded by witnesses and law, I could feel his wolf trembling, a predator ready to strike. Giselle might have been foolish enough to provoke him here in theory, but the reality would have cost her dearly.
“You still cannot claim her,” Silas said, voice like iron tempered with warning.
Before any of them could recover from their shock, the courtroom officers stepped forward, escorting Eleanor and Giselle away. No protest could halt them. No pleading could change the verdict.
I took Silas’s hand and felt the warmth of his fingers intertwining with mine, the steady heartbeat beneath his chest like a drum of reassurance. Together, we left the courtroom, our path certain, unshakable.
Caelum lingered behind, awkward and humiliated, absorbing the curious stares and whispered murmurs of those around him. Silas’s words still echoed in his ears–the truth he could not change, the woman he once thought his, now bonded to another.
We reached the car, and I exhaled, letting the tension of the morning bleed away. Silas started the engine, and for a moment, silence reigned. Then I spoke, the words spilling out hesitantly.
“I… I’m a divorcee,” I admitted, keeping my gaze on the streetlights passing by. “People will talk. They’ll always bring that up.”
Silas’s hand found mine across the console, warm and steady. “And what of it?” he said softly, his wolffire evident in the sharp edge of his tone. “I’ve never cared about your past. All that matters is that you love me.”
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I smiled, the tension in my chest casing. “Guess I was overthinking it.”
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His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair behind my car, and his gaze softened. “If I truly minded, Freya, it would only be that I met you too late. If I had met you sooner… I would have made sure you never married Caelum.”
I raised an eyebrow, teasing. “And you’re sure if you’d met me earlier, you’d have liked me?”
His eyes held mine, resolute and burning with certainty. “I am sure. Even if the first glance didn’t capture my heart, every encounter thereafter would. I would be drawn to you, again and again, until every part of me knew… I love you.”
I let out a small laugh, the tension finally loosening. “So it’s not a first sight thing. It’s… the sunlight in the darkness?”
“Exactly,” Silas said, his hand tightening slightly over mine. “We found each other now, and it’s never too late.”
I leaned against his shoulder, letting the hum of the engine and the steady beat of his heart fill the space between us. “Yes… it’s not too late,” I whispered.
But even as we spoke, a subtle tension prickled at the edges of my mind. My WolfComm chimed, drawing my attention. I opened the message with a slow, apprehensive motion, my heartbeat accelerating.
Silas noticed immediately. “What is it? What happened?”
I shook my head, keeping my voice steady despite the cold edge of worry in my chest. “I can’t say yet. When the time comes, I’ll tell you everything.”
He gave me a quick, understanding nod, eyes narrowing with instinctual protectiveness. “Then I’ll wait.”
He drove me back to my apartment before heading to the Ironclad Coalition headquarters for business matters. I watched the taillights fade from view, and only then dared to fully open the
email.
The words on the screen were succinct, cold, and demanding:
“Three days. One hundred million. I can give you information about your brother. Do not tell
anyone, not even Silas.”
I swallowed hard, the weight of the demand sinking into my bones. Three days. One hundred million. And a threat to silence, binding me in shadows. My brother… Eric. My pack… everything seemed to converge into this moment, a dangerous game played under the veil of
Chapter 282
Third Person’s POV
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Back in her apartment, Freya sat at her sleek, black desk, the cold glow of the monitor illuminating her furrowed brow. She stared at the anonymous email that had just landed in her inbox. Every instinct of her wolf prickled. Whoever had sent this knew too much.
Who could it be? The sum demanded–one hundred million–was astronomical, far beyond what Freya could summon from her own resources in an instant. But the very fact the sender suggested such a number hinted they assumed she could borrow it from Silas Whitmor. The sender had also explicitly forbidden her from involving Silas. That made it likely that this person was someone within her or Silas’s network, someone who knew her intimately enough to understand the limits of her finances but also the dangers of bringing Silas into the equation.
Freya had already traced the account details provided. It was an offshore account, perfectly insulated. Once the money was transferred, the holder of the credentials could withdraw it at any moment, no questions asked. And more importantly… this person knew she was searching for her brother, Eric. Did they really have any information about him? The thought twisted. her chest, a sharp pang echoing in her lungs.
Freya’s fingers hovered over the keyboard before she typed her reply: “Why should I believe you have any clue about my brother?”
Almost immediately, another email arrived. This time there was no text–only a three–second video clip.
Freya’s eyes narrowed as she clicked play. Even in such a short span, the figure was unmistakable. Her brother, Eric, clad in ragged, blood–stained clothing, stumbling through some dark, indistinct urban environment. The buildings blurred, the footage grainy, but the figure… it was unmistakably him.
Her heart clenched, a wolfish howl of helpless rage echoing in her chest. She had to know more. She shot another email to the anonymous sender, demanding a clearer copy, but the account had been abandoned. The message was unmistakable: pay, and only then would the rest be revealed.
One hundred million. Freya’s mind whirred. If this sum could secure real leads on Eric’s location, she would find a way to gather it. She could borrow from Silas, leverage a line of credit at the bank–after all, she had raised enough to take Caelum Grafton’s company public within three years. This sum was within her capacity. And if the price were higher? She would pay. Every single credit. The thought of Eric, trapped somewhere, suffering… it ignited a cold, determined fire within her. Whoever this shadowed figure was, Freya vowed she would
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uncover them.
Meanwhile, Jocelyn Thorne, Freya’s cousin from the Metropolitan Pack’s first branch, had closed her own computer with a satisfied smirk. She had been waiting for the opportune moment, biding her time. If not for Arthur Thorne’s reckless accounting that forced her to fill the gap, she wouldn’t have needed to press Freya so urgently.
This money… it was already owed to Jocelyn in her mind. Had Freya not come, Silas would still have been Jocelyn’s anchor in the Capital. A single word from her would have absolved her family of all scrutiny over Arthur’s embezzlement. Now, Silas had cut ties with her entirely, and those within the Thorne family who once sought her favor now nursed nothing but envy and resentment.
Jocelyn’s plan was meticulous. She knew Freya’s tenacity, her intelligence. The very surveillance footage she held–recorded years ago in D and painstakingly retrieved from international authorities—would inevitably drive Freya into action. If Freya traced it, she could connect the dots back to Silas having crossed paths with Eric. And if Freya and Silas argued over this discovery? That outcome would serve Jocelyn’s interests perfectly.
But Freya’s mind was a steel trap, her wolf instincts alert. Even as she navigated this shadowed, invisible war, she was already tracing the email’s origin, tracking its faint digital residue. For someone untrained, this might have been impossible. But Freya was no ordinary wolf. Her work restoring the fire–damaged drone footage had given her access to Wing‘ networks, with permission granted directly by Silas. Her tracking could tap into resources few could dream of.
That evening, as Silas’s truck hummed outside her building, he leaned in slightly, his wolfish instincts sensing her focus. “What are you tracking?” he asked softly, his voice low, a warning and an offer of aid rolled into one.
Freya didn’t turn, her eyes scanning the encrypted pathways of the email. “Not yet,” she replied, her voice even, careful. “If I need help, I’ll tell you.”
Silas’s gaze darkened with concern, his wolf alert. “Does it have anything to do with the message you received earlier today?”
“Yes,” Freya admitted, still keeping her focus locked on the screen. “But not yet. I can’t risk telling anyone–not even you–for now.”
Silas’s jaw tightened. His golden eyes reflected the fading city lights, sharp, protective, “Because the sender specifically forbade it?”
“Exactly. They mentioned you by name. That means any slip could compromise everything. It’s about Eric. I can’t take that risk yet.” Her voice was steel and velvet intertwined; even as she spoke, her pulse raced, wolf–fire coiling inside her. She would protect him, no matter the cost.
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She looked up finally, meeting Silas’s gaze. “But I may need to borrow the money… and if necessary, I’ll need access to your resources, your men.”
A small, reassuring smile touched Silas’s lips. “Freya, I’ve said it before–anything I have, is yours. Money, men, information… everything. You only need to ask.”
Freya’s shoulders relaxed fractionally, the tension of the hunt giving way to a flicker of trust. Yet her wolf remained restless. Whoever had sent that message, whoever held Eric’s fate, had underestimated her. They were in her territory now, and she would hunt them with a predator’s precision, guided by instinct, intelligence, and the unyielding drive of a sister’s love.
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Freya’s heart hammered in her chest, each beat echoing like the pounding of war drums deep in her ribs. She stared at the man before her and realized perhaps this was what people meant when they spoke of a wolf’s sudden, helpless surrender to fate.
Every time her gaze met his, she felt her composure slip. That inexplicable pull, the flutter of her heart, the warmth that grew until it turned into something fiercer–love. Piece by piece, moment by moment, she found herself bound tighter to him, as if some unseen thread wove their souls together.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice soft, almost fragile, though her wolf stirred with a dangerous yearning beneath the words.
Silas leaned closer, his presence overwhelming, his nose brushing hers until his breath mingled with hers. His lips curved into a wicked smile. “If you truly want to thank me,” he murmured, voice thick with heat, “then tonight… you’ll have me more than once.”
Color flared hot across her cheeks. His words, delivered with such brazen confidence, carried an allure she found impossible to resist.
“Do you?” he asked, his voice dropping to a husky growl, eyes shimmering like molten gold. The faintest ripple passed through his lupine gaze, a predator softened only for her. His breath brushed her cheek, sending tremors through her body.
Freya had never thought herself the kind of woman to fall prey to raw beauty. Yet here she was, faltering, undone by the sheer magnetism of Silas Whitmor.
“Freya…” His voice came again, low and needy, shaping her name like a vow.
“Yes.” The word slipped free, bold and unhesitant. Her hands cupped his face, pulling him down to her as she pressed her lips to his. His answering growl rumbled deep, and then his mouth claimed hers with a hunger that set her whole body alight.
They tangled together, wolves in a dance older than the moon, each touch sparking fire, each kiss fanning it into flame.
Later, as moonlight spilled across the sheets, Freya asked Silas for the impossible: one hundred
million.
And without hesitation, he gave it. Yet unease lingered in his chest, an itch he could not scratch. Since they had bonded, Freya had never hidden things from him. This time, however,
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she told him plainly that he could not know. That message she had received on her WolfComm… what was it that had turned her expression so grim? And why did she need not only his gold but also free rein over his bodyguards?
Silas lay awake, watching her sleep. His gaze drifted to the WolfComm resting on the bedside table. If he reached for it, if he opened her messages now, he would have his answers. Perhaps then this gnawing worry would vanish.
His body leaned forward, hand stretching toward the device. So close. He could almost feel the cool glass beneath his fingertips.
But then he stopped.
If he broke her trust like this, would it not only add another wound, another secret between them? She had promised she would tell him when the time came. He had to wait. Wolves who did not honor trust were no better than rogues.
Drawing a deep breath, Silas pulled back his hand and exhaled slowly, as if releasing the temptation with it. His gaze lingered on her sleeping face, soft in the moonlight. “Freya,” he whispered, voice a vow. “I will never again do anything you would hate me for.”
On the third day, as promised, Freya transferred the full sum into the account provided. Her wolf bristled as she activated the Whitmore tracking system, her fingers racing across the keys.
Almost immediately, the funds began to scatter–split into smaller sums, redirected across multiple accounts like rivers breaking into tributaries. But that was exactly what she had been waiting for. Each transfer left a digital scent, a trail she could follow to hunt down her prey.
Her earlier trace had only narrowed the sender’s location to the Capital. But now, as the funds fragmented, she pushed deeper, tightening the circle.
Yes. There–their coordinates shifted but remained local. The sender was still in the Capital.
Her hands flew faster, eyes sharp, wolf instincts thrumming as if she were chasing quarry across a moonlit plain. Would the money vanish before she could pin the trail? Or would she lock onto them first?
Click.
The final keystroke struck like the snap of a trap. Freya’s eyes hardened as an address lit up on her screen. The hunt had just become real.
At that very moment, in his office tower, Silas received word from his secretary.
“Alpha,” Wren reported with careful respect, “ten minutes ago, Miss Thorne departed suddenly
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with two of your bodyguards. Their destination–Earl Hotel.”
Silas froze. “Did she say why?”
“No, Alpha. But I know Jocelyn Thorne has been residing at Earl Hotel recently.”
La
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Silas’s wolf flared with unease, his instincts howling. He remembered too well the email Freya had received, the secrecy, the one hundred million. The name Jocelyn was a bitter scent on the wind, and dread slid like ice down his spine.
Before Wren could continue, Silas had already risen, seizing his keys. He strode out with a speed that left his secretary staring after him in bewilderment.
“Alpha-!” Wren called, baffled. Why such urgency? Even if Freya had confronted Jocelyn, Freya’s own strength combined with Silas’s guards would be more than enough. She wouldn’t be at risk.
Yet as Wren replayed the Alpha’s expression in his mind, a shiver ran down his back. Was that… fear?
He shook the thought off immediately. Silas Whitmor, afraid? Impossible.
At the Earl Hotel, Jocelyn Thorne lounged in her room, a triumphant smile curving her lips. She had just finished pocketing her spoils, the stolen millions neatly settled into her accounts.
Her fingers danced quickly over her laptop. From a freshly created anonymous address, she attached the file–the precious footage of Eric Thorne–and sent it on. With one click, it was gone, delivered into the ether.
And just as swiftly, the address self–destructed, vanishing like smoke into the void. No one would ever trace it back to her.
Jocelyn leaned back, savoring the rush of power. Let Freya chase her tail all she wanted; Jocelyn held the leash now.
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Jocelyn leaned back against the velvet couch of her hotel suite, the faint glow of her laptop screen reflecting in her eyes. She let out a soft, satisfied laugh as the funds cleared into her account. The number was staggering–an entire fortune that would keep her comfortable for years if she played it wisely.
But this wasn’t only about wealth. It was about power.
She had spent days perfecting the digital shell game, hiring experts to teach her how to bounce signals, hide her footprints, and funnel the money through a dozen shadow accounts. The thrill of outwitting her cousin Freya Thorne gave her a rush that not even the blood moon could rival.
“Freya,” Jocelyn muttered under her breath, her lips twisting with malice. “I truly hope you manage to trace this back to Silas Whitmor. I’d love to see your face when you learn what your precious Alpha has done. Would you still cling to him? Or would you finally tear yourself free?”
She poured herself a glass of red wine, swirling the liquid like blood in a chalice, imagining the chaos that revelation would bring. Perhaps, just perhaps, if Freya severed ties with Silas, then the Alpha of the Ironclad Coalition might one day turn his gaze her way.
A knock rattled her door.
Her brows furrowed. “Who is it?”
“Room service,” came the reply.
“I didn’t order any-” Jocelyn’s words cut off as she pulled open the door.
Her blood drained from her face.
Freya Thorne stood in the doorway, eyes burning like twin embers. Before Jocelyn could slam the door shut, Freya’s boot crashed forward with Alpha force,
The door banged open. Jocelyn stumbled backward, tripping over the edge of the carpet and landing hard on the floor.
She scrambled to her feet, fury and panic warring in her gaze. “Freya, have you lost your mind? You can’t just storm in here! I’ll call security–I’ll have you arrested!”
“Do it,” Freya said coldly, stepping further into the room. Two broad–shouldered guards in
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black–Silas’s hired enforcers–followed her in. “Call them. I’d love to see how the authorities explain away one billion siphoned through your accounts.”
The color drained from Jocelyn’s face. Her lips parted, but no words came out.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about.” Freya’s voice was a growl, low and dangerous. She moved closer, cach step deliberate, each word striking like a whip. “The money was mine to give, but the video you hold–why do you have it? How did you come across Eric Thorne? Tell me everything. Every last detail.”
“I–I don’t know what you mean,” Jocelyn stammered, shaking her head violently. “You’re imagining things.”
Freya gave a curt gesture. Her guards seized Jocelyn’s arms. She shrieked and kicked, but their grip was iron.
“Let go of me! This is illegal! I’ll sue you all-”
Freya ignored her cries, her sharp gaze scanning the suite. She spotted the laptop perched on the desk, its screen still glowing. With a swift stride, she claimed it, her fingers dancing across the keys. Within moments, the evidence was laid bare: multiple transfers, funds bouncing from one account to another.
Freya turned the screen toward her cousin. “Still denying it?”
Jocelyn’s breath hitched. Her skin went pale as frost.
“Jocelyn,” Freya’s voice hardened, each syllable edged with menace, “this isn’t about money. I don’t care about the billion. What I care about is my brother. You had a video of him. You know something. Speak, or I’ll tear the truth out of you.”
Her wolf stirred beneath her skin, claws raking at the edges of her control. The Bloodmoon Pack’s scent of dominance filled the room, pressing down on Jocelyn until she trembled.
“I–I only stumbled across him,” Jocelyn stuttered at last, her voice high and panicked. “At the borderlands, near D–country. My bag was stolen, I reported it, and the footage from a street camera caught… him. Eric. I didn’t even realize until I saw his picture later that it was him. I thought I could… profit from it.”
Freya’s chest tightened. “The video,” she hissed, “Eric was being attacked. He clung to a car door, shouting something to the person inside. The angle was bad–I couldn’t hear his words. you were there, Jocelyn. You saw it. Who was in that car? Who was he trying to reach?”
But
Jocelyn’s pupils flickered with fear. Her hands twisted against the guards‘ grip.
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“I–I don’t remember.”
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Freya’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Don’t remember? Or don’t want to say?” She took another step forward, her aura crashing down like a storm tide. “You forget Eric was part of the Iron Fang Recon Unit. The military has never stopped searching for him. If I hand you over to them, they’ll drag every truth from your lungs. Do you think you can withstand their methods?”
Jocelyn shuddered violently. Her mind raced, torn between two terrors: Freya’s wrath… and Silas Whitmor’s. Because if she revealed what she knew–if she dared to speak of that night- then Silas himself would come for her.
Her lips trembled. “The one in the back seat was—‘
The door slammed open.
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A figure stormed inside, radiating Alpha dominance so intense the air thickened like smoke.
“Freya!”
The voice cracked like thunder.
She spun
around.
Silas Whitmor stood framed in the doorway, his aura surging with power, his eyes locked on her with a mixture of dread and fury.
For a heartbeat, silence hung in the air. Jocelyn sagged in the guards‘ grip, relief and terror mingling in her wide eyes. Freya’s breath caught in her throat.
The storm had just broken.
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Silas’s sudden arrival froze the room. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his face pale beneath the sharp hotel lights.
“Silas?” Freya whispered, shock rippling through her as she turned to face him. His expression wasn’t the cool, calculating calm she had grown accustomed to. No–his eyes were wide, his jaw tight, and every line of his body screamed barely–contained panic.
“I heard from Wren that you came here with guards,” Silas said quickly, stepping toward her. His voice was tight, brittle. “I couldn’t just sit by. I had to make sure you were safe.”
But his gaze flicked past her, toward Jocelyn Thorne, and the cold gleam of Alpha fury lit his
eyes.
“Yes,” Freya answered slowly, her tone guarded. “I didn’t expect Jocelyn to be holding a video of Eric… after his disappearance.”
Even speaking the words made her chest tighten. The flickering footage of her brother’s battered body haunted her mind. She had replayed it over and over–the image of Eric Thorne, warrior of the Iron Fang Recon Unit, clinging desperately to a car door, lips moving in unheard pleas.
And inside that car… someone had been there. Someone Eric trusted enough to beg.
“Video?” Silas froze mid–step.
“Yes,” Freya said firmly, pulling her WolfComm device from her pocket and thrusting it toward him. The video played on the small screen, Eric’s desperate struggle flickering in the grainy light.
The blood drained from Silas’s face. His hand trembled as he took the device, clutching it as if it weighed more than stone. His knuckles whitened.
Five years. Five years buried and hidden–resurfacing in Freya’s palm.
Jocelyn felt the shift in the air. The way Silas looked at her now–like prey, like something already dead–made her legs quake. Even if she kept silent, the damage was done. Just possessing this video had condemned her.
“Jocelyn,” Freya snapped, her voice sharp as steel. She stalked closer, her wolf power rolling through the air. “I’ll ask you again. Who was in that car? You were there. You saw it. Who was
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Eric begging for?”
Her cousin’s lips parted, but no sound came.
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The memory of her brother’s agony scorched her mind. Freya’s wolf pushed harder at the surface, claws aching to rend, to tear, to drag the truth out of Jocelyn’s throat.
“Tell me!” she barked.
The guards tightened their hold on Jocelyn’s arms. She writhed, fear and desperation twisting her features.
“I–if I tell you, I want your promise,” Jocelyn gasped, voice shrill. “Swear you’ll protect me. Swear you’ll keep me alive!”
Freya opened her mouth, but Silas’s voice cut over hers, rough and urgent.
“Freya, don’t waste your breath on her!” He surged forward, his presence dominating the
space.
“You don’t need her answers. Let me handle this. I’ll find the truth for you. I’ll find Eric. I swear it!”
There was something in his tone she had never heard before–an edge of wild desperation. His hands reached for her, gripping her arms as if anchoring himself. His body trembled against hers, every muscle coiled tight with fear.
“Silas, you–what is it?” Freya whispered, confusion threading her words. He wasn’t himself. His aura was fractured, shadowed by something darker than guilt–something closer to terror.
“I… it’s nothing,” he forced out, his voice breaking slightly as he tried to summon his usual composure. But his body betrayed him. Even his wolf seemed to shiver beneath the surface, unable to mask the dread that consumed him.
“Because the one in that car-” Jocelyn’s voice rose suddenly,
The guards startled as her teeth sank into one of their hands. With a yelp, the enforcer loosened his grip. Jocelyn seized the moment, twisting free just long enough to scream her truth into the room.
“The one in the back seat was him! Silas Whitmor!”
The words split the air like lightning.
Freya froze.
Her breath caught in her lungs. Her gaze snapped from Jocelyn to Silas, whose face had
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drained of every trace of color. The mask of composure he wore so carefully shattered completely, leaving only raw horror in its wake.
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Jocelyn’s chest heaved as she glared at him, defiance and spite lacing her expression. “That’s right. Your Alpha. Your mate–to–be. He was there when Eric was dragged down. He did nothing!”
Silas moved in a blur, his dominance flooding the room like a crushing wave. Jocelyn choked on her words as his aura slammed against her, forcing her wolf to submit. Her knees buckled.
“Shut your mouth!” His roar shook the walls, his wolf bleeding through in every syllable. His eyes glowed with a dangerous, golden fire.
But Freya stood rooted to the ground, the shock sinking claws into her chest. Her heart thundered, her mind racing through the fragments of memory, the inconsistencies she had ignored, the shadows in Silas’s gaze every time her brother’s name surfaced.
“No…” she whispered, her body trembling. “No, that’s not… Silas, tell me it’s not true.”
His head whipped toward her. His lips parted, but no words came out. The silence was heavier than any denial.
The weight of it crushed her.
For the first time in years, Freya felt her knees weaken, not from fear but from betrayal. Her wolf howled within her, the sound a keening wail that threatened to split her apart.
Eric’s blood. Silas’s silence.
The truth clawed at her chest.
And suddenly, she realized–maybe Jocelyn hadn’t lied at all.
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Freya’s pupils contracted violently, disbelief flooding her gaze at the words that had just been
hurled into the air.
The guards moved at once, shoving Jocelyn forward and clamping a heavy hand across her mouth. She kicked and struggled, but their grip was merciless.
“Stop!” Freya’s command cracked through the tension like a whip.
The guards froze, still pinning Jocelyn in place.
At the same time, she turned toward Silas. “Let me go.
“”
But his arms were still locked around her, holding her as if he could shield her from the truth itself. His grip trembled against her ribs.
“Freya, don’t-” His voice rasped, breaking.
With a sudden wrench, Freya tore herself free, breaking his hold by sheer force of will. Silas staggered back two paces, breath caught, and instinctively reached to catch her again. But when his eyes collided with hers–burning, unyielding, demanding–his hands faltered in midair and fell uselessly to his sides.
Her voice rang clear, sharp enough to cut through marrow. “Silas Whitmor, whatever happens, I will hear Jocelyn’s words for myself. I’ll make my own judgment.”
Silas went rigid, his veins pounding, his chest rising and falling with violent restraint. His wolf howled within, begging her not to move closer. But his throat locked; no sound could break through. He could only watch as she stepped toward the woman who had just torn the veil from his deepest secret.
Stop. His soul screamed it. Don’t go any further, Freya. Please… stop.
But her boots carried her onward, steady, unrelenting, until she stood before Jocelyn.
“Release her,” Freya ordered, her voice low but filled with Alpha steel.
The guards hesitated, looking toward Silas. He gave no signal. His jaw was clenched tight, his face bloodless.
Impatience sparked in Freya’s veins. She gripped one guard’s wrist and wrenched it back with
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a crack. His hand fell away from Jocelyn’s face.
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Freya’s eyes locked with her cousin’s. “Say it. Who was in the back seat?”
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Jocelyn burst into vicious laughter, her voice dripping venom. “How many times do I need to repeat it? Freya, the one sitting in the back seat was Silas Whitmor himself. You condemn Aurora for her cold indifference, yet what about him? Your precious Alpha. Your Silas. He did nothing while your brother begged for his life. He is no different–no, worse. How does that taste?”
Her words were sharp, poisoned barbs meant to wound. If she couldn’t escape this room alive, then she would drag them all into the abyss with her.
Freya’s stare burned like ice. “You say it was Silas. Do you have proof?”
“Proof?” Jocelyn’s mouth twisted into a smile of ugly triumph. “Five years ago, Silas and I both went to D–country. My bag was stolen, and I filed a report there. The police record mentions him by name. His car. His plate number. If you could track me down here, you can damn well dig that up too.” Her eyes glittered with a warped glee, knowing she had landed her blow.
Freya’s lips pressed into a bloodless line. Slowly, she turned toward Silas.
The man who had always been composed, unshakable, iron–willed. Now he stood pale as bone, silent, staring at her with hollow eyes. He didn’t deny it.
Her heart plummeted like a stone into the abyss.
If he had nothing to do with it, he would have refuted Jocelyn in an instant. The silence… was answer enough.
So it was true. The one in the back seat, the one who turned away from Eric Thorne’s desperate pleas, had been Silas.
“Now you see?” Jocelyn sneered, fangs flashing as she leaned forward. “You know now that the man you trust most abandoned your brother to die. Eric clawed at that door, begged until his throat bled. And what did Silas do? He gave the order to tear him off, to throw him like garbage on the roadside. He never lifted a finger. That’s who he is. Cold, Ruthless. A wolf with no heart. You said you could forgive him anything–what about this? Can you still forgive
this?”
Her taunts filled the room like acid smoke, choking the air.
Freya’s chest rose and fell, pain grinding in her ribs, sharper with each breath. Her brother’s image blazed behind her eyes: strong, proud Eric–brought low, discarded like refuse. The ache inside her grew unbearable.