A Warrior Luna's Awakening (Freya and Caelum) novel Chapter 130

Chapter 130

Finished

Third Person’s POV

Caelum hesitated, his wolf restless beneath his skin. His jaw tightened, his eyes darting between Aurora and Jocelyn. The two women’s gazes weighed heavily upon him, demanding, cornering, pressing him to an answer he could not freely give.

The truth was simple: he could not truly discard the rings. Those two simple bands of silver still carried Freya’s scent, still reminded him of the vows he had once broken. They were anchors of his guilt, reminders of debts he could never repay. To let them go would be to sever the last tie of conscience he still clung to.

But now, under the scrutiny of Aurora’s sharp eyes and Jocelyn’s sly, venomous smile, denial caught in his throat. The words would not form.

“What’s this, Alpha Grafton?” Jocelyn asked, voice dripping with mockery. “You don’t want to?”

Aurora’s brows pinched, her voice edged with demand. “Caelum!”

He bared his teeth slightly, a wolf’s grimace disguised as a smile. “Of course I want to. More than that–attending the island’s groundbreaking ceremony is a chance I’ve long awaited.”

Aurora’s expression softened, if only a fraction. Jocelyn’s lips curved upward, satisfaction gleaming in her eyes.

“Good.” Jocelyn said smoothly. “I’ll secure two more invitations from my uncle James. Then, we’ll go together.”

Inside, her wolf purred with dark amusement. She could already picture it: Freya standing beside Silas Whitmor like some sheltered ward, only to watch her former mate throw their rings away in front of the entire assembly. An abandoned she- wolf, marked by failure and shame, on display for all the packs to witness.

And more than that–the whispers would spread. Whitmor’s prized companion, revealed as nothing more than a discarded mate, a woman left behind. Even if Silas did not care now, the constant murmurs, the rising tide of disdain, would corrode him. Perhaps, eventually, he would cast Freya aside too.

The thought sent heat coursing through Jocelyn’s veins. She could almost taste the triumph.

Since that night when Silas had been pulled from the forbidden chamber by Freya, the Bloodmoon she–wolf had rarely left his side. Days blurred together with her presence at his shoulder, nights spent within the confines of his chamber.

At first, her vigilance had been born of necessity. She had not trusted that the Ironclad Alpha would not be consumed again by the shadows that clawed at him. So that night, she had stood guard in his room, curled upon the sofa, alert to every shift in his breathing.

But the following evening, Silas had looked up from the long oak dining table, his voice carrying the calm authority of one who expected obedience. “Stay again tonight. In my chambers.”

Across the table, Wren, Silas’s loyal secretary, nearly choked on his wine. His eyes darted from Alpha to she–wolf, disbelief and suppressed laughter warring in his expression.

Freya rubbed at her temple, flustered. “You’re fine now. There’s no need for me to stay in your room another night.”

Silas’s gaze held hers, dark as midnight steel. “And yet only with you there can I rest. You are my guard now, are you not? Protect me.”

Her mouth parted, words failing. Against the iron logic of his command, she could not argue.

So once more, she gathered her bedding and pillow, returning to his chamber.

Miss T

Wren intercepted her in the hall, eyes wide, his voice hushed as though confessing a scandal. “Miss Thorne… you do realize- alone, with an Alpha, in one chamber–sometimes instincts cannot be… controlled. If things go too far, you’ll need protection.”

Freya blinked, frowning. “Protection?”

Before she could piece together his meaning, Wren shoved a small box into her hands. “Alpha Whitmor won’t refuse you. He

Chapter 130

may even welcome it.”

“Of course not!” she burst out, tossing the box into a drawer with almost violent force.

A shadow flickered in Silas’s eyes, quickly veiled. Disappointment. So she still would not have him.

“Enough,” Freya said, desperate to end the mortification. “Go to sleep.”

“Talk to me first,” Silas replied quietly, a thread of vulnerability hidden beneath his command. “If you speak, perhaps I’ll be able to rest.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“Anything.” he murmured. In truth, he wanted only the sound of her voice–the soft cadence, the gentleness that soothed the storms in his mind.

Freya exhaled, reached for a magazine resting on the shelf–a journal on technological advances, something that had caught her interest earlier. Settling back, she began to read aloud, her voice low and melodic, filling the chamber with a calm. rhythm.

Silas closed his eyes. The knots in his muscles loosened. His wolf, ever restless, stilled beneath the spell of her presence. Each word she spoke wove a cocoon of quiet around him, and for the first time in many nights, true sleep seemed possible.

And as sleep pulled him under, realization coiled sharp and dangerous within his chest.

Her voice was light in the dark, her presence a tether pulling him back from the abyss. He was already becoming bound, already sinking too deep.

A man who had walked through night and blood all his life could not easily give up the sun once he had tasted its warmth.

And Silas Whitmor was no man who surrendered lightly.

If his wolf craved her, then he would have her. No matter the cost.