The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 10

**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**
**Chapter 10**

**Aysel’s POV**

The engine of the car purred softly as I eased it out of the Vale estate garage. My heart raced in tandem with the vehicle, a blend of anticipation and dread swirling within me. Just as I maneuvered it back onto the winding road, there she stood—Celestine, poised defiantly in front of my headlights.

Her skirt bore the remnants of our last confrontation, stained and tattered, while her hair was a chaotic mess, as if she had just emerged from a tempest. Yet, despite the disarray, there was an undeniable smugness about her, an aura of triumph that clung to her like a wolf marking its territory. I could almost envision the performance she must have orchestrated inside the house, weaving her honeyed words around the Moonvale elders, ensuring they perceived her as the wounded party, the one who still cared for her “poor little sister.” It painted a picture of domestic bliss—fatherly pride, obedient kin, and the warmth of sibling affection.

With a heavy sigh, I killed the engine, the silence enveloping us like a thick fog. For a lingering moment, I sat there, my palms turning white as they gripped the steering wheel, my gaze fixed on the shadowy driveway that stretched out before me. Finally, I opened the door and stepped out, the cool night air hitting my face like a splash of cold water.

Two wolves, squared off, the world around us holding its breath.

“Aysel Vale,” she purred, her grin sharp enough to cut. “I told you, I’m going to reclaim everything that belongs to you, piece by piece. That’s what you owe me.”

I stepped closer, the moonlight carving her cheekbones into stark relief, illuminating the darkness in her eyes. “Is collecting someone else’s discarded scraps your idea of victory? Do you treasure every object I’ve touched simply because I once held it? Celestine… are you a monster, or just profoundly insecure?”

Her carefully constructed facade flickered momentarily, like a candle in a draft, before she reassembled it with practiced ease. “Humph. Speak as you wish. You want Grandmother’s house, don’t you? Even when the Moonvale shares were handed over to me, you never seemed to care. But after my ‘accident,’ Mother promised me that small estate. Just three days later, the deed was in my hands. A seer once told me that my life path was fragile—so I needed something substantial to anchor me. That house was perfect.” She tilted her head, letting her words sink in like poison. “Isn’t it amusing? Something you coveted for years… simply fell into my lap.”

A fierce heat of anger ignited behind my ribs, a flame threatening to consume me. I recalled Remus’ lips, the way he had murmured, “Give it to your sister.” It was no coincidence—this had been preordained. Marriage or no marriage, that house had been promised away, and every negotiation leading up to it had been nothing but a stall tactic.

“You really think I’ll allow you to take what I’ve fought tooth and nail for?” I hissed, my voice low and menacing, drawing closer until I could see the flicker of surprise in her eyes. My fingers found her neck before she could fully react, just enough to widen her gaze and reveal the panic I craved to witness.

She flinched, her hands instinctively rising. “Aysel—” Her voice trembled, betraying her confidence.

Flashes of that cursed summer flickered behind my eyes: the peach trees in full bloom, cicadas screaming their relentless song, the basket of herbs, pill bottles scattered like fallen leaves, Grandmother gone, and Celestine’s grin—a wolf reveling in its kill. My childhood innocence felt shredded, and the world around me had frozen mid-spin, caught in a moment of despair.

I loosened my grip, stepping back, my own fangs bared in the moonlight. “You staged a car accident to frame me,” I said, my voice as cold as river ice. “You only had the courage to scratch your own arm. Tonight, you will pay.”

Her hands fumbled helplessly, and then she lunged toward the house—stumbling, desperate. She intended to create a scene, to return with a rehearsed story and wounds to display. I followed her, my pace unhurried. As she reached the midpoint of the driveway, I slid into my car, the doors thudding shut behind me, the engine roaring to life like a caged predator eager to break free.

I had noted how much that upcoming dance competition with Aine meant to her—her focus, her ambition, her pride—it was all so predictable. So, I acted.

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