A Warrior Luna's Awakening (Freya and Caelum) novel Chapter 143

Chapter 143

D

+8 Pearls

Third Person’s POV

Silas‘ voice cut through the gathered hall, calm yet carrying the edge of command that marked him as an Alpha.

“The one who deserves your gratitude is Freya,” he said evenly. “She was the one who dove in to save the child. I merely followed.”

The Councilor from Ashbourne, who had praised them moments before, arched a brow. “Yet I saw you hold her close once the child was safe. Forgive me, Alpha Whitmor, but I can’t help but wonder–what exactly is your relationship with Miss Thorne?”

Silas’s gaze never wavered. His words, however, carried the kind of weight that silenced idle curiosity. “She is someone very important to me. In that moment, I wasn’t holding her for show. I was simply… too afraid for her.”

The Councilor blinked, clearly surprised. Around them, whispers stirred.

For Silas Whitmor to openly call someone “important“-the Ironclad Alpha, known for his cold distance and ruthless pragmatism–was no small matter. It meant that Freya Thorne was not simply his bodyguard from the Stormveil Pack’s fifth branch. She was something more. Something claimed.

Across the ballroom, Abel Thorne stood among Ashbourne’s merchant wolves, sipping his drink as laughter and chatter flowed around him. But their gazes, like hounds sniffing out prey, turned to the pair across the room–Silas and Freya, side by side.

“That girl,” one merchant drawled with a hint of envy, “she’s one of yours, isn’t she? From the fifth branch?”

“Yes,” Abel replied with polite detachment. “That’s Freya Thorne.”

“Well, the Stormveil Pack must count themselves blessed. First Jocelyn from the Metropolitan branch, and now Freya,” another wolf muttered, the sour edge in his tone impossible to hide.

It was the way they said “first Jocelyn” that made the bitterness in the air sharper. As if Jocelyn Thorne were a discarded relic, her shine dulled and forgotten, while Freya’s star now burned brighter.

Abel gave a small smile but his eyes were shadowed with concern. He knew too well what alliances meant in Ashbourne- alliances with power like the Whitmors were as dangerous as they were enviable.

At his side, Jocelyn’s nails bit into her palm, her jaw tight. Each word of admiration spoken of Freya was like a knife twisted in her gut. Once, it had been her they whispered about. Once, she had been the Thorne jewel, the one standing beside Silas. Now she was “before.” A past tense, a faded page.

Her gaze snapped toward Freya–and then widened.

NOW the

She saw someone approach Freya, whisper something, and the young wolfess excused herself, leaving Silas alone in the throng.

Jocelyn’s heart lurched. This was her chance.

She smoothed her gown, schooling her face into composure, and approached.

“Silas,” she said softly, almost tenderly. “Could we speak alone for a moment?”

Silas turned his head toward her. His dark eyes were cool, his tone edged with indifference. “And what could we possibly have to discuss?”

Jocelyn’s chest tightened. Still, she forced herself to smile, to plead. “I know what happened at the estate. I spoke wrongly then–I shouldn’t have. My words weren’t meant to wound you. I only wanted Freya to understand… how deep our bond once ran. How much I cared for you.”

11:31 AM P P.

The bitterness on Jocelyn’s tongue was sharp enough to choke her. Thank Freya? Freya, who had stolen the place that should have been hers? Rage flared behind her forced composure, but Silas had already turned his face away, his gaze fixed in the direction Freya had gone.

Something inside him had shifted since he admitted his truth to her. It left him restless, raw. Now, even the briefest absence made unease coil in his chest. She had been gone only minutes, yet he ached to see her again.

Freya had not gone far. She followed the orphanage matron through the corridors to the hotel’s medical wing.

There, the boy she had pulled from the sea lay curled on the bed, his eyes wide and hollow with fear. But the moment he saw her, he scrambled upright and hurled himself into her arms.

“Forgive us,” the matron said, her voice apologetic. “Since he was pulled from the water, he’s been inconsolable. He kept crying for you, refusing to rest.”

“It’s all right,” Freya murmured. She knelt beside the bed, wrapping the boy in her embrace. “You’re safe now. You don’t need to be afraid anymore.”

“I’m still scared,” the child sobbed, his voice muffled against her shoulder. “The waves… I thought I’d never breathe again. I thought I’d die.”

His small body trembled like a leaf in storm winds. The sea had left a scar deeper than any wound–a terror that might haunt him for years.

Freya stroked his damp hair, her voice gentle, her wolf aura wrapping around him like a shield. “Listen to me. I’ll protect you. If danger comes again, I’ll be there. I’ll pull you out. I’ll never let the darkness take you.”

The boy lifted his tear–streaked face, eyes wide and fragile. “Really?” His voice wavered with hope, with desperation.

Freya nodded, her resolve firm, her tone unshakable. “Really. That’s my promise.”

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