The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 118

**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**
**Chapter 118**

**Aysel’s POV**

As the car rolled to a stop beside the gently flowing river, the driver stepped out, his expression a mixture of confusion and disbelief. Two high-ranking wolves, he must have thought, indulging in street food and seeking solace by a midnight riverbank? It was a peculiar sight, indeed. But then again, if his Alpha craved a touch of romance, it was not his place to question it. Lower-ranking wolves learned early on that they must adhere to the whims of their leaders without hesitation.

The riverside, at this hour, was almost deserted, the soft sounds of the water lapping against the shore the only company we had. I took Magnus’s hand and led him toward a patch of grass that lay invitingly close to the water’s edge. The earth felt cool beneath us as we settled down, a refreshing contrast to the warmth of the evening air.

Before we left the car, Magnus had grabbed his suit jacket, a piece of clothing that must have cost a fortune. With great care, he spread it over the grass, ensuring that I could sit comfortably without the dampness of the ground seeping into my skirt. I couldn’t help but think that by morning, that ten-thousand-credit jacket would likely be a wrinkled mess, but I appreciated his thoughtfulness nonetheless.

I glanced at him, taking in the sight of his tailored dress shirt and perfectly fitted trousers. His posture was far too refined for the wildness of a riverbank, and a laugh bubbled up from my chest.

“I thought someone with Alpha Magnus’s legendary cleanliness would reject my idea of dining here,” I teased, my voice light and playful.

He raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes as his usual stoic demeanor softened. “When I was rolling through jungles to survive, you were still playing with sand by the lake,” he replied, his tone a mix of pride and nostalgia.

His early years had been filled with blood and dirt, the raw essence of nature shaping him long before he donned the mantle of Alpha. Cleanliness, for him, was a luxury he allowed himself when the circumstances permitted.

I nodded in understanding. Despite the noble air he carried, Magnus was anything but spoiled. His ability to fend for himself was almost superhuman. Aside from his peculiar obsession with perfect sleeping arrangements, he was the ideal partner, someone who could thrive in any situation.

I shifted slightly, inching toward the edge of the jacket until half of it was freed for him. With a playful smile, I hooked my pinky with his, a silent promise of connection. “But I don’t want you sitting on the bare ground,” I insisted, my heart swelling with affection.

The wild rose within me, usually armed with thorns and instincts, felt soft tonight—fragrant and unguarded. I didn’t want him to return home sore from cooking for me; I wanted to take care of him, even if just a little.

His fingers twitched, and I felt a spark race up my arm, igniting a thrill within me.

“Ah-!” I gasped, barely having time to register the sensation before my body was lifted from the ground. In an instant, he had shifted me effortlessly, and I found myself perched on his lap, seated on the jacket he had laid down for me.

“Isn’t this more efficient?” he murmured, his warm breath brushing against my neck, his voice low and teasing, deep like the Alpha he was.

I stared at him, a mixture of surprise and delight flooding my senses. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you—if the grease drips on you later, don’t blame me,” I shot back, half-joking, half-serious.

Sitting shoulder to shoulder was one thing, but sitting in his lap while eating grilled skewers? Was this even acceptable wolf behavior?

Magnus paused for a moment, then a soft laugh escaped him as he pinched my cheek playfully. “Realistic Aysel Vale. Of course, I’d think about the logistics first.”

With his long, strong arms, he held me securely in place while he opened the boxes of grilled meat in front of us. I attempted several daring escape attempts from his lap, each time shooting him a glare to keep him from smearing oil on my dress.

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