Ch. 291..295: A Warrior Luna's Awakening Chapter 291-295
Chapter 291
Freya’s POV
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I had barely ended the call when my hand went limp at my side, the WolfComm heavy in my palm.
“It’s his fingers,” Wren’s voice still echoed in my ears. “Alpha Silas refused to allow his wolf to heal themselves. If Alpha Silas refuses treatment any longer, even if the bones are set, the damage will cripple him. He could lose his hand entirely.”
My chest tightened, the words cutting deeper than I wanted to admit. His fingers–his hand- broken because of me.
I had only wanted to leave that night, to make him let go. I hadn’t thought beyond the desperate snap of bone beneath my strength. I hadn’t thought what it meant to break the hand of a warrior Alpha who lived by his command, by his grip.
When I finally spoke, my voice was hoarse.
“Where is he?”
“At the apartment,” Wren said quickly, relief pouring through his words. “The one you both shared.”
I didn’t answer, just ended the call.
The silence that followed was deafening.
I drove there without memory of the streets, only the pounding in my chest guiding me. When the familiar high–rise finally rose before me, every step toward it felt wrong–too many memories pressed into the walls, into the air itself. What had once been safe and warm now stank of something alien.
Wren waited outside the door like a sentinel. The moment he saw me, he hurried forward.
“Alpha is inside. Freya, I’ve never seen him like this before. Whatever passed between you-”
“Wren.” My voice was sharp, enough to cut his words in half. “What lies between Silas and me isn’t yours to carry.”
He dipped his head, chastened, and stepped aside.
I opened the door.
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The smell hit me first–sharp, bitter whiskey tangled with the iron tang of blood and the faint, fading echo of his cedar–ash scent. Empty bottles littered the table, their glass throats reflecting the dim light like shards.
And there he was.
Silas Whitmor, Alpha of the Ironclad Coalition, sprawled on the leather sofa like a fallen god. His clothes were the same from yesterday, creased and stinking of smoke and liquor. His chest rose and fell unevenly, as if every breath clawed through pain.
My eyes dropped to his right hand.
Three fingers bent at impossible angles, swollen and bruised, twisted in the way only broken bones could twist. My stomach lurched. I had done that.
The wolf inside me keened, low and agonized, even as I forced my jaw tight. This was what I had chosen. I was the one who had walked away, who had torn the bond before it could bind me forever.
Yet seeing him like this-
Moon above, it was killing me.
I moved closer, breath shallow. His face, even in the fog of drunken sleep, was locked in a grimace of torment. The mighty Alpha still dreaming in pain.
My gaze snagged on his wrist.
A bracelet.
The one I had chosen, beads of darkwood strung with jade–green flecks, meant to rest against his pulse. I had imagined giving it to him on his birthday, placing it there myself, his lips brushing my hair in thanks.
But I hadn’t. And now here it sat, already claimed by him in silence, as if he had taken the gift before I could revoke it.
My throat burned.
“Silas,” I whispered. My voice cracked against the quiet.
No answer.
“Silas!” Louder now, desperate.
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Still nothing.
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I exhaled, long and shaking. He needed to go to the medics. If he would not walk, then I would drag him. Whether he wanted it or not.
I bent, slipping an arm beneath his shoulder. But when I tried to lift him, something caught my eye–his left hand, clutching something tight to his chest.
A card.
My card.
The one I had written the blessing on: May you live each year in peace. May we walk together until the end of days.
I froze. My nose stung, a hot ache pushing tears to the edge. I reached for it.
But his body reacted before his mind could. His fingers, even drunk and trembling, clamped down, iron–strong, protecting the card. His lips parted, and in a hoarse, broken murmur, he whispered,
“Don’t… don’t go, Freya… don’t go…”
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The sound cleaved through me like a blade.
He curled in on himself, clutching the paper to his chest as though it were me, as though he could hold me there and never let me slip away.
For a moment, I simply stood there, staring at the wolf I had loved–still loved–telling myself over and over that I had only come here to take him to the hospital. Nothing else.
I tightened my grip and hauled him upright. His weight was crushing, his frame tall and broad, heavy with liquor. My arms trembled as I forced him up, dragging his limp body against mine. He reeked of whiskey and broken dreams, yet my wolf pressed closer anyway, desperate for his heat.
Wren rushed forward at the sight, eyes wide.
“Here, let me-”
Together, we half–carried, half–dragged Silas out into the night.
“Freya…” His voice, low and ragged, breathed against my ear. Again and again, he said my name, slurred and needy, his body leaning harder into me.
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Every time his lips brushed my throat by accident, every broken whisper, my heart threatened to splinter.
By the time we got him into the car, I was shaking. I climbed into the backseat beside him while Wren started the engine.
“Sit still,” I muttered, fumbling with the belt across his chest. But when I leaned close, his eyes snapped open.
Those crimson wolf–eyes, glazed with drunken fire, locked onto me.
I froze.
He wasn’t fully awake, but he was aware enough. His stare pinned me where I sat, molten and unblinking.
When I tried to pull back, his broken right hand lashed out, fingers mangled yet fierce, wrapping around my wrist.
I stilled, afraid to hurt him further. With three fingers shattered, he should not have been able to hold me at all. Yet his grip burned, desperate.
“Silas, let go,” I whispered, trembling. “If you keep this up, you’ll ruin your hand beyond repair.”
His lips parted, voice nothing but a rasp.
“Is this… a dream?”
Chapter 292
Freya’s POV
A
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His hand clamped around my wrist with a desperation that sent a shiver down my spine. Even with three fingers broken and bound in swelling, Silas held me as if the mere act of letting go would erase me from existence. His crimson–tinged eyes burned into mine, fevered and wild, like a wolf cornered and terrified of abandonment.
you
“Not a dream,” I told him quietly, forcing my voice steady. “Wren called me. He said refused to go to the healers. That’s why I came–to take you to the hospital and make sure your hand gets treated.”
For a moment he only stared, pupils dilating, breath ragged. Then he whispered, almost to himself, “I don’t need treatment. Let it stay broken. Let it rot if it must. Consider it punishment. If these fingers never heal, it doesn’t matter. Freya, I told you before–whatever punishment you give me, I’ll accept it.”
My heart twisted at his words, but I pressed my lips together, forcing myself to stand my ground. “I never meant to punish you,” I said at last, my voice low. “I lost control. I was desperate to leave, and I snapped your fingers in the struggle. That’s on me. That’s why I have to take responsibility and get you treated.”
From the front seat, Wren stiffened. Out of the corner of my eye I saw his shoulders lock, his head snapping slightly as if he couldn’t believe what he had heard.
So now he knew. Silas’s shattered hand was my doing.
I could only imagine what conclusions were racing through his mind—yesterday’s argument, Jocelyn’s schemes, my missing brother Eric, all tangled in blood and betrayal. But none of that mattered right now. What mattered was that the Alpha I once loved sat broken beside me, hand a ruin because of me.
Silas’s voice dropped, deep and hollow. “So you won’t punish me, not even a little?”
I swallowed, my gaze falling away. “I don’t have the right to punish you, Silas.”
his
His grip tightened fractionally. “But what if I wanted you to? What if I begged you to punish me?”
Something sharp pierced my chest, a mixture of sorrow and exhaustion. “For what? For failing to save Eric? I told you before–you weren’t bound to him, you had no duty to risk yourself for my brother. And as for the lies, for the betrayal… we’re done. We ended it. There’s nothing left to punish.”
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“You say we’re done, and yet-” His voice cracked suddenly. His gaze flicked downward, to the crumpled card still caught between his fingers. With a ragged movement, he lifted it. The card I had written on, the words etched in my own hand: May you live each year in peace. May we walk together until the end of days.
“You wished me peace. You promised me forever. And now you tell me to accept an end?” His voice was raw, frayed with anguish.
My chest seized. Just looking at those words again, at my handwriting, made my heart split open all over. I wanted to reach for the card, to tear it away, to save myself from the pain of those promises–but I couldn’t.
“I don’t know how to face you anymore,” I admitted, the words dragging out like claws over
stone.
It was like watching the light vanish from his eyes. His wolf–fire dimmed, leaving them hollow, shadowed. For the first time since I’d known him, Silas Whitmor looked beaten.
And then… he let go.
The sudden absence of his hand around my wrist was like ice water down my spine.
Wren’s knuckles were white against the wheel as he steered us toward the hospital. I could feel his tension like static in the air. No one spoke. The silence was suffocating, pressing down on the three of us until the sound of Silas’s uneven breaths was the only thing filling the space.
I kept my gaze fixed out the window, watching Deepmoor’s city lights blur against the glass. Yet every nerve in me was aware of his eyes, heavy on my profile, refusing to let me go even in silence.
I said nothing. Neither did he.
word.
And Wren–poor, loyal Wren–drove as if his Alpha’s heart might detonate at the wrong I could almost feel his thoughts turning. He had served Silas long enough to know the Whitmor blood ran dangerous when love soured. The stories of Silas’s father, Cassian–how madness had swallowed him whole after his mate’s death, how his mind had cracked like ice under strain. Would Silas, too, spiral into that same abyss if I walked away?
I couldn’t think about that.
The car rolled to a stop beneath the hospital’s lights. Silas was soberer now, the liquor burned away by adrenaline and loss. His eyes were clear enough when I climbed out.
“Come on,” I said, forcing my voice flat. “We need to check you in.”
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But he didn’t move. He only looked at me, gaze steady, voice quiet enough to carve into me like a knife. “Are you only doing this out of duty, Freya? Only because you broke me?”
I clenched my fists. “Yes. I hurt you. That makes me responsible for fixing it.”
His throat worked. “Then… does it hurt you? Seeing me like this? Do you ache for me at all?”
My chest screamed yes. My wolf screamed yes. But I forced my lips to form the lie.
“No.”
His face faltered, but he pushed, almost childlike. “Not even a little?”
I closed my eyes, then opened them. “Not even a little.”
The words tasted like blood. They weren’t only for him. They were for me, too. A chant, a mantra. Not even a little. Not even a little.
Because if I admitted otherwise, I’d never leave him.
“Enough,” I said sharply, tugging at his uninjured arm. “Stop wasting time. I have other matters to handle tonight.”
At last, he moved, letting me lead him through the sterile halls. Wren trailed behind, silent as a shadow.
Registration. X–rays. The slow clinical rhythm of healers resetting what I had broken. Each snap of a splint into place echoed inside me like a chain tightening around my throat.
At last, his hand was secured, wrapped, bound. The healer’s words were merciful–no major complications, no need for a cast. Just time, rest, and patience.
I stood, my throat dry. “It’s done. I’m leaving?
I turned, forcing my steps away from the room, away from him. But I didn’t make it far.
Warmth slammed into my back–his arms, strong despite the injury, wrapping around me from behind.
“Don’t go,” Silas whispered against my hair, his voice hoarse and breaking. “Please, Freya. Don’t go.”
My body froze. My wolf howled, clawing at my insides, desperate to turn, to answer.
But I stood rigid, eyes burning. Because if I gave in now, if I let myself melt against him, I
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knew I would never leave again.
Chapter 293
Silas’s POV
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Her scent was still clinging to me, wild storm–petals and fire, when her voice cut through my chest like a blade.
“Silas, I took you, but I gave myself in return. Between us, no one owes anything.”
And then–she tore herself free of my arms.
I stood frozen, watching Freya Thorne walk away. Her figure grew smaller, swallowed by the sterile glow of the hospital corridor until it vanished altogether.
A moment ago, I’d held the world in my arms. A moment later, I’d lost it all.
Cold. A frost deeper than the grave sank into my bones. My chest felt hollow, but the pain radiated sharp and endless, like claws ripping me apart from the inside.
This was what it meant to be abandoned. Again.
My fingers, still splinted from what she had done to them, curled helplessly. I almost laughed. She had broken me with her own hands, and still I wanted her to bind me tighter, to never let
me go.
But she walked. She never even looked back.
Later.
Jocelyn Thorne was dragged into the Whitmor estate, bound and trembling. The old hall of my bloodline stank of iron and shadow. Wolves whispered of my family’s curse—that when love was denied, madness bloomed. I could feel it growing inside me now, a black seed splitting open.
“Release me!” Jocelyn’s voice shook as she stumbled forward. “I am the daughter of the Metropolitan Pack’s first branch! If anything happens to me, the Thorne family will never forgive you.”
Her arrogance was gone,
her eyes wide with terror.
And then she saw me.
The terror doubled.
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I sat waiting, cigarette burning low between my fingers, the smoke curling like a noose. My gaze locked on her, cold, unblinking.
“Silas-” Her voice cracked. “Please. Spare me. I swear, I’ll never appear in front of you or Freya again.”
“Spare you?” My tone was flat, a blade wrapped in silk. The weight of the Ironclad Coalition pressed behind every word, cold and merciless.
The wolf in me stirred, claws scratching against my skin. I had always been the detached one, the Alpha who looked down at the world with indifference. But that indifference was gone.
What replaced it was rage.
“Spare you?” I repeated, rising from the chair. My boots echoed against the stone floor, each step sharp as the tick of a clock counting down to her death. “Do you know what you’ve done, Jocelyn?”
Her lips trembled. She stammered, “Yes… yes, I spoke out of turn yesterday. I didn’t think-”
“You didn’t think,” I cut her off, my voice a snarl. “You revealed what was mine to the winds, and now you want forgiveness?”
I closed the distance. She tried to step back, but my enforcers held her fast.
“You want me to remember the eye you gave up for me?” I hissed, leaning close. “Fine. I’ll remember it while I carve out the second one.”
Her scream caught in her throat as I drew the pistol from my belt. The weight of the iron was steady in my hand. I pressed the barrel against her temple.
Her entire body shook, wolf whimpering beneath her skin.
“You can’t kill me,” she gasped. “I’m still a Thorne. If Freya learns you murdered me, do you think she’ll ever forgive you? Do you think she’ll still choose you?”
Freya.
Her name cracked through me like thunder. My vision flared crimson.
She was light, and I was filth. If I killed Jocelyn here, the blood on my hands would never wash away. Not in her eyes.
Even now, after she’d cut me off, after she had said our bond meant nothing, I was still begging for a future. Still clutching the memory of her handwriting on that birthday card–to grow old
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with you.
But she’d left me.
So clean. So final.
Not even a glance back.
A growl ripped from my chest, wolf and man tangled in torment.
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“You know how much you deserve death?” I pressed the barrel harder against Jocelyn’s skull. Her whimper rose, high and broken. “You are the first person I’ve ever hated. And hate… is the one thing I do not let go.”
The chamber clicked as I slid a round into place.
Her eyes went wide. She shook like prey cornered in the jaws of a predator.
“You want to test me?” My voice was rough, burning. “You want to see if the Thorne family will truly avenge you? Let’s find out.”
Her lips formed the word no, but it was drowned by the roar of my pistol.
The sound split the night, a crack of final judgment that echoed through the Whitmor estate.
Chapter 294
Third Person’s POV
Bang! Bang! Bang!
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The gunshots tore through the silence of the Whitmore estate’s hall, echoing like thunder trapped within stone walls. Each bullet grazed past Jocelyn Thorne’s flesh–scraping her cheek, tearing into her arm, carving across her thigh.
Her screams split the air, raw and jagged. She collapsed, trembling, sprawling helplessly on the cold floor. Her skin drained of color, eyes rolling with terror.
Silas stood over her, expression carved from ice. He only lowered his weapon when the last round clicked empty, the acrid scent of spent gunpowder hanging in the air like death itself.
“Take her to the city watch,” Silas ordered, his voice flat, deadly calm. “Let her rot in a cell for the rest of her life. And while she’s there, make sure she never forgets what hell tastes like.”
“Yes, Alpha,” his enforcers responded, moving to drag Jocelyn away.
“You… you’re insane!” Jocelyn screamed, her voice breaking into a high, desperate pitch. Her eyes were wide with hatred and fear as she was hauled upright. “Silas, you’re a madman!”
Her words cracked into hysterical laughter, echoing sharp against the walls. “Do you truly think Freya will ever love you again? No–no one will! The only wolf who could ever accept you as you are is me. Only me! Hahaha-
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Her rant was cut short when a guard shoved a cloth roughly into her mouth, muffling the madness. She kicked and writhed, but her protests were dragged into silence as they hauled her into the shadows beyond the hall.
Silas didn’t move. His eyes dropped, unblinking, to the jade–and–ironwood prayer beads strung tightly around his wrist.
Insane. That was what Jocelyn had called him.
But wasn’t he already walking in hell?
Across the city, in the quiet sanctuary of an apartment lit only by a single desk lamp, Freya sat opposite Lana.
“You’re leaving for D–Country?” Lana’s voice faltered with surprise.
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Freya nodded. Her amber eyes, so like her father Arthur’s, were steady though shadowed with determination. “Yes. I was waiting for the Iron Fang Recon Unit to verify the reports. We needed confirmation about what happened during the border inferno. But now that surveillance footage has surfaced from D–Country, showing Eric after the fire… I have no choice. He might be alive.”
Her voice cracked faintly on that last word, but she pressed on.
“If he survived the fire, he must have been injured, maybe disoriented. That’s the only reason he hasn’t made contact. Otherwise-” She broke off, her hand curling tight around the edge of the table. The silence left the unspoken truth dangling in the air.
Otherwise, Eric Thorne could already be dead.
Her wolf snarled in denial deep in her chest. No. He’s alive. He has to be.
“I have to find him,” Freya finished.
Lana frowned, biting her lip. “But D–Country is chaos right now. If you go alone, you could walk straight into danger.”
Freya exhaled a steadying breath. “This isn’t my first time. During my years with the Iron Fang Recon Unit, I was deployed to D–Country more than once. I know how to survive there. And I won’t go unprepared. I might be retired now, but I haven’t forgotten who I am. If trouble comes, I can still protect myself.”
Lana shook her head, unease flickering in her eyes. “Even the strongest wolf can be outnumbered. You’ve been out for years, Freya. And this time you won’t have a unit backing you. Let me come with you.”
Freya gave a small, grim smile. “No. I don’t know how long this mission will take. You have your company here, your life. I won’t drag you into danger just to ease my conscience.”
Lana’s protest faltered. She knew Freya was right. Her wolf bristled with guilt at the thought of becoming a liability.
Freya softened her tone. “Don’t worry. I’ll contact the embassy once I arrive. And the Iron Fang Recon Unit still has ties in the region. If I need backup, they’ll make sure I get it.”
Lana let out a long breath. “Fine. But promise me one thing–call me every single day. Just once, so I know you’re alive.”
“I promise,” Freya said firmly.
“When do you leave?”
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“Two weeks,” Freya replied. “I need to settle things here first–get my visa, arrange travel, wrap up work,”
Lana hesitated, then asked quietly, “Does Kade know?”
“No.” Freya admitted.
“Then tomorrow night-” Lana’s voice warmed a fraction. “Let’s bring him out for a drink. He’ll want to see you before you go. And you deserve one last night of peace before diving into the storm again.”
Tomorrow.
The word struck a chord in Freya’s chest. Her eyes flickered with a strange light. Tomorrow was Silas’s birthday.
For weeks she had considered asking for leave, had even pictured spending the day with him- maybe one last fragile attempt at normalcy between them. But now… now there was no reason.
She forced a bitter smile, trying to laugh at the ache twisting in her chest. “Fine. Tomorrow we’ll drink.”
It was time.
Time to put Silas Whitmor behind her, to sever the bond that had chained her heart too long. If she didn’t, she would never be free to find her brother–or herself.
Silas, in his silent hall, stared at the prayer beads glinting on his wrist. His wolf whispered of darkness and ruin. He told himself he didn’t fear hell. But the truth was harsher-
Hell was already here.
And without Freya, there would be no escape from it.
Chapter 295
Third Person’s POV
The next day.
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A sleek black car rolled to a stop before the wrought–iron gates of the cemetery. The vast cemetery stretched upward along a cold ridge, granite steps leading into the mist.
From the rear seat stepped Silas. He adjusted the cuff of his coat, his face carved in the same hard lines as the winter sky.
“Alpha Silas,” Wren moved forward quickly.
“No need to follow. Stay here with the others.” Silas’s tone was low, but absolute.
“Yes.” Wren bowed his head, signaling the guards to hold position by the car.
Silas ascended the stone stairs alone, his boots echoing softly in the silence. Today marked his own birthday. But more than that–it was also the death anniversary of his mother.
Every year without fail, he came. And every year, he was never the only one.
He was not surprised when another figure emerged from the veil of fog among the tombs. Cassian Whitmor stood there, tall and composed, a faint smile playing at his lips as though this were an ordinary meeting of father and son.
“You came,” Cassian said, his voice smooth. “To visit your mother.”
Silas’s expression did not shift. He strode past Cassian without acknowledgment and stopped before the tombstone. A woman’s black–and–white photograph gazed out from the polished granite. Her smile was bright, too bright—at odds with the truth of her life, the truth of her death.
Silas bowed three times, lowering his head to the woman who had never shown him love, but had still given him life.
Behind him, Cassian’s voice broke the silence. “I heard you’ve separated from Freya Thorne.”
Silas’s lips pressed into a thin line. He had men watching Cassian, of course. And Cassian, equally cunning, had eyes and ears shadowing his son.
“This is none of your concern,” Silas answered flatly.
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“How can it not be?” Cassian’s tone was almost amused. “You’re still my son. That girl once raised a hand to me. Now that she’s no longer under your protection, cutting off her hands as payment would hardly be unjust, don’t you think?”
Silas turned then, his gaze like the bite of an Arctic wind. The lethal aura of an Alpha rolled off him in waves, the cemetery itself seeming to bow beneath it.
“You dare touch her,” Silas said, each word honed to a blade, “and I will kill you.”
Cassian arched a brow. “So, for a woman who walked away from you, you’d raise your claws against your own father?”
Silas did not hesitate. “If she dies, nothing remains to hold me back. You will not live to regret it.”
Cassian barked a sudden laugh, his voice echoing among the gravestones. “For a woman who left you so easily? Worth it?”
Silas’s reply was swift, brutal: “And you–was it worth it? To lose your sanity for a woman who never once loved you?”
The two Alphas stood in the cold silence, locked in a gaze of ice and fury. Father and son, mirrored in ruthlessness, divided by a wound neither could heal.
At last, Silas turned away. As he stepped forward, his voice dropped to a lethal calm. “If you so much as scratch her, your ashes will never rest beside hers.”
Cassian’s eyes narrowed. “A threat?”
“A truth,” Silas replied without pause. “Lay a hand on her, and I will grind you to dust.”
He descended the steps without looking back. The conversation, like the bond between them, ended there.
Cassian remained, turning back toward the grave. His fingers brushed the carved name of the woman who had once been his everything.
“Our son,” he murmured. “He will end as we did.” His lips curved in a bitter smirk. “Grind me to dust, will he? Boy, the day you died, my heart had already turned to ashes.”
While Silas faced the shadows of blood and memory, Freya Thorne’s world was shifting in a different way.
With her departure for D–country drawing closer, her days were consumed with preparation. She finished reports for the Bloodmoon Pack liaison, arranged contingencies for Stormveil’s
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fifth branch, and filled her WolfComm with contacts of embassies and military allies. Supplies for travel were stacked neatly in her apartment–field gear, encrypted devices, medical kits. Every piece spoke to the soldier she had once been in the Iron Fang Recon Unit.
As the sun dipped, Lana hooked an arm around Freya’s shoulders with her usual easy warmth. “Come on. Bar time. Tonight, we drink until you forget you’re the responsible one.”
The bar Lana chose was upscale, the kind that offered food alongside its liquor. She had even reserved a private booth.
But when the two women stepped inside, Freya halted. Kade was already seated at the table- and beside him, to Lana’s visible dismay, sat Victor Ashford.
“You brought him?” Lana’s brows drew tight as she shot a look at Kade.
“I’d like to know that myself,” Kade muttered, rubbing his temple. “I didn’t invite him.”
He explained in a low voice: when Lana had called him, Victor had overheard and insisted on coming along.
Lana’s face twisted in frustration. She turned on Victor. “Why are you here? Tonight was supposed to be just the three of us–me, Freya, and Kade.”
Victor leaned back casually, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I’m here to make sure you don’t get drunk and try something inappropriate with my nephew. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Lana flushed scarlet, mortified. “That was a misunderstanding!”
Freya tilted her head, curiosity sparking. “What misunderstanding?”
“Nothing. Just nothing,” Kade cut in sharply, glaring at his uncle. “Victor, if you want to see Lana, fine. But don’t drag me into your excuses.”
Victor merely shrugged, his lips curving into a smile that said enough. He wasn’t here for Freya. He was here because of Lana.
Lana scowled. She had rejected him once. Why was he still lingering like a wolf refusing to leave the edge of her territory?
To break the tension, she clapped her hands. “Food first, then drinks. No arguing at the table.”
A waiter appeared, and Lana ordered plates of spiced meat, fried roots, and enough ale to loosen even a wolf’s tongue.
They ate, they drank. Slowly, laughter and conversation softened the edges of discomfort. But
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…
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when Freya mentioned her departure, the mood shifted again.
“You’re going to D–country?” Kade asked sharply, his glass halfway to his lips.
“Yes,” Freya replied evenly, her hand curled around the rim of her glass. “My brother appeared in D–country after the border fire five years ago. I have to go there, to see if I can find any trace of him.”
Though so much time had passed, though the odds of finding Eric still there were small, the fire in her voice betrayed her resolve. She would go, no matter the risk.
“D–country is dangerous right now,” Victor spoke, his tone calm but edged with warning. “If you’re determined to search, I can reach out to some contacts there, ask questions quietly.”
Freya shook her head. “Thank you, but I need to go myself.”
Kade frowned. “So, are you going with Silas Whitmor?”
“No. Alone.”
Kade’s brow shot up, disbelief flashing in his dark eyes. “Alone? Silas will never allow that.”
Freya exhaled slowly, her lips tightening before she spoke. “We’re no longer together. I’m going to D–country by myself.”
The words fell like a stone in the room.
“Separated?” Kade blurted, startled.
Even Victor’s gaze sharpened, surprise flickering in his usually composed face. He remembered well the way Silas had once treated Freya–how he’d stopped an entire male- dancer performance in The Capital, ordering the show to halt and compensating every guest, simply because he couldn’t bear Freya looking at other men,
The Whitmor bloodline was infamous for its madness when it came to love. Once they claimed a mate, they claimed them wholly. That a man like Silas had let Freya go? It was almost unthinkable.
“Yes. It’s over.” Freya forced a steadiness into her words, though beneath them lingered the bitter tang of pain.
Lana leaned in quickly, sensing the darkness rising over her friend’s face. “Enough brooding. Tonight is for drinking, for forgetting. Come on–one shot down the hatch!”