A Warrior Luna's Awakening (Freya and Caelum) novel Chapter 296

Third Person’s POV

“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!”

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Chapter 296

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She cracked open a fresh bottle and filled their glasses, determination flashing in her tipsy

eyes.

The four of them drank and ate, the sharp edges of tension softening beneath the burn of liquor. Laughter returned, if faintly. After a few rounds, Lana looped her arm around Freya’s shoulders, her own cheeks flushed with heat.

“Silas isn’t worth it,” Lana slurred with fierce loyalty. “Kick him aside. Hell, three–legged toads are rare, but two–legged men? They’re everywhere. We’ll find you a better one!”

“Lana.” Kade’s voice hardened. “Is this really the time?”

“Of course!” Lana declared without shame. She cupped Freya’s face between her palms, staring into her eyes with drunken conviction. “I promise you, Freya. I’ll find one hotter than Silas, sweeter than Silas, someone who’ll worship the ground you walk on–and it’ll burn him alive with jealousy!”

Freya gave a small, weary smile. “I’m not planning on—”

Her words cut off abruptly.

A voice rang from the doorway, low and edged like a blade: “So, Miss Rook wants to parade men before her, for Freya’s choosing?”

Every head snapped toward the door.

No one had seen when it opened, but Silas Whitmor now stood there, filling the frame with the cold weight of his presence.

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“Will you?” Silas asked again, ignoring him, his gaze fastening to Freya’s as though no one else existed. His tone was quiet, deceptively calm–but beneath it ran the fevered edge of madness.

Kade swore under his breath. He raised a fist, ready to strike. “Do you think I’m joking?”

Before his blow could fall, Freya caught his wrist, her grip iron despite her trembling heart. “Enough. I’ll go.”

“Freya-” Kade’s eyes widened.

“I’m not forcing myself.” She released him gently, but her voice was firm. “I promised him. I’ll honor it–just this once.”

The tension in the room stretched thin as a drawn bow.

Lana shivered and edged toward Victor, whispering fiercely, “Why are you just standing there? If those two clash, they’ll bring the whole bar down. Do something!”

Victor’s lips twitched in something like amusement. “And what exactly do you expect me to do? Step between them? I’m more scholar than brawler, Lana.”

She glared at him. He looked every bit the refined wolf, glasses and all–yet the thought of him thrown into that maelstrom was laughable.

Freya stood, lifting her bag in one hand. She turned to Silas, her chin raised though her chest was tight. “Let’s go.”

Without a word, Silas turned and strode from the booth. Freya followed, her steps steady despite the pounding in her veins.

Out in the corridor, away from the others, she halted abruptly. She spun on her heel, facing him head–on, the air between them sharp with tension.

“If I hadn’t agreed,” she asked, her eyes locked on his, “what would you have done?”

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