A Warrior Luna's Awakening (Freya and Caelum) novel Chapter 267

Chapter 267

Chapter 267

Third Person’s POV

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Jocelyn’s heart skipped when the sleek black WolfComm vehicle pulled up before her. Since that day she had admitted in front of Freya that Silas had another woman in his heart, she had not seen him again. Back then, she had even entertained a hope that this revelation might drive a wedge between Silas and Freya–perhaps even end their bond entirely.

But the truth was far more bitter. Aurora, the newly appointed female pilot of the Bluemoon Airborne Wing, had been detained—and Jocelyn now knew from her that Freya had orchestrated it. And even worse, Silas had assisted Freya in her plan, making him her ally in this matter.

“Jocelyn,” Aurora’s words had echoed in her mind, sharp and deliberate, “Silas is fully Freya’s supporter now. Within the Whitmore family, you’ll have no protector left.”

The sting of truth settled cold and heavy over her. Aurora could see Jocelyn’s precarious standing in the Stormveil Pack’s first branch. How could Jocelyn deny it to herself?

She tried to steady her voice. “Does Wren know why Silas wants to see me?” she asked cautiously, keeping her tone even, masking the tight coil of unease in her chest.

“Miss Thorne, when you meet Silas, you will understand,” Wren replied, his face impassive, his every movement efficient, like a wolf patrolling his Alpha’s territory.

The car door opened. A pack of silent bodyguards flanked the vehicle, their presence a silent assertion of dominance. Jocelyn knew that refusal would not be an option; they would not hesitate to drag her into the car. Swallowing her apprehension, she slid into the seat.

The vehicle glided through the streets of the Capital, its blacked–out windows reflecting the neon lights in a streaked blur. Soon, it arrived at the Whitmore ancestral estate, an imposing fortress of redwood and steel, the very image of Alpha authority.

Jocelyn followed Wren through the grand halls, her steps echoing against marble floors polished to a shine. At last, she was brought before Silas Whitmor.

He sat in a high–backed mahogany chair, his posture flawless, his presence radiating lethal calm. The sharp lines of his tailored suit clung to his form, while the piercing golden eyes, the Alpha’s signature, held a contradictory warmth when they fell upon Freya–but icy command when they rested on Jocelyn. The contrast gnawed at Jocelyn’s mind like a predator’s scent marking its territory, and jealousy churned within her.

Silas’s gaze cut into her. Jocelyn could see clearly the difference in how he looked at Freya and

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Chapter 267

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the way he now regarded her. His attention was not casual, nor distracted–it was singular, focused, and burning. Yet, she could not deny her own worth. She was no weaker, no less cunning.

“Alpha Silas,” she began, forcing confidence into her voice, “did you summon me because of what I said the other day? To reproach me for speaking the truth?” Her tone was sharp. “I only spoke what I knew. Ultimately, your feelings for Freya… perhaps they’re merely a reflection of someone from your past. A placeholder.”

Even if both girls had shone in his eyes, he distinguished between obligation and unrelenting passion, between gratitude and the irreversible pull of the heart.

Silas’s expression did not soften. “What makes her special is no concern of yours. I summoned you here to warn you: should you ever speak slander against Freya in her presence again, I will personally see to it that your tongue is removed.”

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Chapter 267

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The memory of her uncle’s warning shivered through her. “Jocelyn, do not provoke Silas again. He took your eye once without hesitation. Should he truly set his wrath upon you, the damage would be far greater.”

A secret lingered at the tip of her tongue–one that could bind Silas to her, or destroy her utterly. The thought of revealing it now made her skin crawl. She realized that even the hint of betrayal could ignite the predator within him.

“Do you understand my warning?” Silas asked, his voice soft but carrying the menace of a wolf pack’s bite.

Jocelyn nodded hastily, swallowing hard. “Y–yes… I understand,” she stammered.

A shadow of dissatisfaction flickered across his face. Silas raised a hand, and one of his lieutenants stepped forward. With the swift precision of an Iron Fang Recon operative, the subordinate’s hand shot toward Jocelyn’s mouth in a strike meant to enforce obedience, to demonstrate the lethal consequences of underestimating a Whitmor Alpha.

Every muscle in her body tensed, instinctively aware of the Alpha’s unspoken command: respect, or pay the price. The scent of his dominance–the unmistakable aura of predator and pack authority–permeated the room. Jocelyn realized in that instant that she was no longer negotiating with a man, but a force of nature shaped by Silverfang Pack blood and the relentless logic of the Ironclad Coalition.

And if she misstepped… even by a word, even by thought, she would discover just how absolute that power could be.