A Warrior Luna's Awakening (Freya and Caelum) novel Chapter 129

Chapter 129

Finished

Third Person’s POV

Silas‘ lips curved faintly, an expression rare as starlight on his otherwise storm–hardened face. “Good,” he murmured, voice low but steady, “I’ll protect you. No matter what happens, Freya, I’ll protect you.”

His vow lingered in the air, a wolf’s promise etched into bone and blood.

Across the sprawling halls of the Stormveil estate, Jocelyn stood before a mirror in the guest wing, her breath uneven, her gaze fixed on the reflection staring back at her. Around her pale throat, bruises bloomed–angry red imprints that told a brutal truth.

She touched them with trembling fingers, teeth sinking into her lower lip until she tasted copper. Silas’s hand had been there His claws, his strength, his wrath. He hadn’t simply wanted to silence her–he had wanted her dead.

All because she had spoken of what should never have been spoken. She had pressed against his scars, against the shadows that writhed in the Ironclad Alpha’s chest, and he had nearly ended her.

Jocelyn’s nostrils flared. No. It wasn’t just that.

It was Freya Thorne.

Ever since Freya had returned, ever since she had stepped into Silas Whitmor’s orbit, nothing had been the same. Silas had shifted–slightly, but enough for those with eyes to see. He had appeared at Arthur Thorne and Myra Brown’s funeral rites, had lingered near Freya with a protectiveness none had expected. Whispers had spread like wildfire through the Stormveil Pack’s branches. And the whispers carried teeth.

Now, even among Jocelyn’s peers–wolves of the Metropolitan Pack, heirs of the Stormveil’s first branch–there were glances. Glances sharp with judgment, pity, mockery. As though she were already a discarded she–wolf, clinging to a future that no longer wanted her.

She wanted to snarl, to bare her teeth at them all.

Pathetic? they thought her pathetic?

Had they all forgotten? It was her sacrifice–her eye–forged in pain, that bound Whitmor and Thorne together all these years. It was her blood that bought the Whitmor Alpha’s cooperation. Without her, the Thorne name would never have enjoyed the Ironclad Coalition’s shelter.

And yet Freya, with her untouched skin, with no sacrifice carved into her flesh, was coddled by Ken Thorne, respected by elders, and–worst of all–set apart in Silas’s gaze.

Jocelyn’s hands tightened on the washbasin, porcelain creaking beneath her grip. It should have been mine. His eyes, his vow, his protection–all of it should have been mine.

She tugged her collar higher to mask the bruises, straightened her spine, and stepped out of the washroom. The corridors of Stormveil manor stretched wide, echoing with faint voices. Jocelyn moved quietly, her wolf–senses alert, when a familiar voice drifted through the stone–arched halls.

“Caelum… tell me truthfully, do you still carry Freya in your heart?”

Aurora.

Jocelyn froze mid–step, her blood running cold. She tilted her head, wolf–keen ears straining, then edged closer to the corner of the corridor. Peering past the carved wooden pillars, she caught sight of two figures.

Aurora, the Bluemoon Pack’s Beta’s daughter, stood poised, her flight leathers unzipped at the collar, her posture taut with barely restrained emotion. Facing her was Caelum, Freya’s former mate.

“I have already severed my bond with Freya Thorne,” Caelum said, voice clipped, almost cold. “How could she still linger in my heart?”

“Then why,” Aurora pressed, eyes narrowing, “did you search for those rings?”

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“They are nothing more than reminders,” Caelum muttered, jaw tight, eyes dark. “Reminders of mistakes made. So that my next bond, my next marriage, does not repeat the same failures.”

“And if I cast them away?” Aurora countered.

“What?” His eyes widened as she lifted her hand, tilting it toward the trash bin by the corridor wall. The gleam of metal caught the light, poised to fall into shadow.

Caelum’s hand shot out, gripping her wrist. “Don’t.” His voice cracked like a whip.

Aurora’s eyes flared. “You claim you feel nothing for Freya, yet you can’t even watch her rings be discarded?”

“It isn’t that!” Caelum growled, his wolf’s authority rumbling beneath his tone. “If they are to be destroyed, then let it be by my hand–and in front of Freya herself. Only then will the tether be severed. Only then will the past truly die.”

“Spoken well.”

The sound of hands clapping echoed sharply in the hall. Both Aurora and Caelum turned, startled, to see Jocelyn step from the shadows.

Her smile was bright, almost mocking, eyes glittering with satisfaction.

“Jocelyn,” Aurora muttered, lips thinning. The realization hit her instantly: Jocelyn had heard everything.

The she–wolf from Stormveil’s first branch lifted her chin, all traces of the bruises on her throat hidden beneath her collar. “It seems fate enjoys weaving threads. In a few days, the government will hold a groundbreaking ceremony for the island project. Caelum, Aurora–you should both attend. Alpha Silas will certainly be there, and…” She let her smile sharpen. “Where Silas goes, Freya follows.”

The weight of her words dropped like a stone into the silence. Aurora and Caelum exchanged glances, their thoughts laid bare. The groundbreaking would be a place of power, of alliances, of opportunity. But now, Jocelyn had baited it with something more personal–an arena for closure.

“If you truly wish to end this,” Jocelyn continued, her voice like silk lined with fangs, “then there is no better time. No better place to throw those rings before Freya’s eyes… and let the past burn.”