The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 117

**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**
**Chapter 117**

**Third Person’s POV**

The very same declaration that Celestine had once flaunted with pride now echoed back to her, word for word, as if the universe had conspired to bring it full circle.

A raw, primal howl erupted from deep within Celestine’s chest, a sound so visceral it seemed to shatter the stillness of the parking lot.

Time itself appeared to pause.

Reporters, caught mid-stride, halted in their tracks, eyes wide with shock.

Nearby, a few wolves exchanged glances laced with unease.

Was it possible? Had she truly gone feral?

During this moment of stunned silence, Agnes—her leg wrapped but her spirit unyielding—raised her phone with a practiced ease, her fingers dancing over the buttons as she began to capture the unfolding scene.

From her vantage point, she could see Aysel, sitting gracefully by the window, exuding an effortless elegance. But it was what lay deeper within the shadows that truly caught her attention—Magnus Sanchez.

Even in the dim light, with only their jawlines illuminated—one soft and inviting like moonlit mist, the other sharp and defined like a dagger—they appeared almost otherworldly, as if they were not of this realm.

As if sensing her gaze, both wolves turned toward her simultaneously, their expressions shifting from casual to alert.

God-tier faces followed by more god-tier faces.

Agnes’s heart raced, pounding against her ribcage like a wild drum. Instinct took over, and she snapped pictures with fervor.

The streetlamp cast a golden glow, the shadows danced around them, and the atmosphere buzzed with an electric tension—everything was perfect.

Except…

She cast her gaze back to Celestine, who remained crumpled on the ground, tears streaming down her face, her breath hitching as snot blurred her features. The once-pristine fabric of her dance attire lay in tatters, a stark reminder of her fall from grace.

On one side, she resembled a trembling white flower, wilting in the dirt.

On the other, a luxury car concealed two dangerously beautiful conspirators wrapped in silks and shadows.

The juxtaposition was almost too poetic to bear.

It felt wildly inappropriate, yet the scene before her mirrored that of a killer returning to the site of her own crime, surveying the remnants of her handiwork.

No wonder they were siblings; Aysel Vale’s brother and sister-in-law exuded the unmistakable aura of cultivated villains.

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