The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 129

**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**

**Chapter 129**

**Magnus’s POV**

Greenbamboo Court was a sanctuary, a hidden gem tucked away from the bustling chaos that enveloped the rest of Shadowbane territory. The tranquility here was palpable, almost like a gentle embrace, and I had once shared this space with my mother long before the weight of leadership fell upon me. Even after donning the mantle of Alpha, I found no reason to leave this serene enclave that held so many memories.

As we crossed the threshold into this secluded part of the compound, I noticed Aysel inhaling deeply, as if emerging from a thick fog of suffocating tension that hung in the air of the main hall, where the Sanchez bloodlines congregated like a storm cloud, charged with unspoken animosity and lingering hostility.

If the rain hadn’t been pouring down in sheets, I could imagine her wandering freely, exploring every nook and cranny of this tranquil haven. Instead, I led her directly to my den—my private quarters, a place she had never set foot in before.

From the cramped little apartment where we had once squeezed together, to the expansive villa I had later gifted her, our lives had always intertwined. Yet, this old den of mine… I seldom ventured into it anymore, its memories faded, its corners untouched.

Aysel’s reaction was instantaneous.

“Cold,” she declared, her voice barely above a whisper.

The den was dominated by steel tones and shadows, an austere space devoid of warmth or vibrant life. It was meticulously arranged, every item in its place, contrasting sharply with our shared home, which she had filled with an abundance of snacks, plush toys, fresh flowers, and Daron’s scattered toys—evidence of a playful wolf pup claiming his territory.

The heavy curtains hung like sentinels, blocking out the world outside. I didn’t bother to draw them open; instead, I flicked on the lights, illuminating the starkness around us.

“Dinner won’t be ready for a while. Why don’t you shower and change first?” I suggested gently, noting how the rain clung to her skin, leaving her uncomfortable.

In the wardrobe, a whole array of new-season women’s clothing stood in stark contrast to my monochromatic suits. Those splashes of color—silks, wool, and soft fabrics—were the only signs of life in this otherwise cold den.

To an untrained eye, it might have seemed as though this room was already home to two rightful occupants.

Aysel didn’t budge, though. Instead, she waved me off, gesturing for me to fetch her some clothes—a lazy little Moonvale rose, I thought fondly. Everything in that wardrobe was tailored to her exact size anyway.

“Long pants? It’s chilly with the rain,” I inquired, my brow furrowing slightly.

“Mm…” she replied vaguely, her attention drifting elsewhere.

“What color do you want?” I pressed.

“Whatever matches you,” she said, her fingers gliding over the medals displayed on my shelf, her curiosity palpable.

I glanced down at my attire—black and white, a monochrome palette that suited me perfectly. That meant I could choose anything for her.

She flitted around the room, her fingers brushing against my medals, books, and the pen holder, her energy infusing the cold space with warmth, like sunlight breaking through a wintry frost.

Then she froze.

At the bedside table, her gaze was locked onto an old photograph.

The clothes I selected for her were soft and light-colored, chosen for warmth and comfort. I placed them at the foot of the bed and moved closer to her.

Wrapping my arms around her waist from behind, I rested my chin on her shoulder, feeling a sense of peace wash over me.

“That’s the only picture I have of her,” I murmured softly.

Raya.

Her entire pregnancy had been a tumultuous storm of fragile health. After I was born, she had slipped further into darkness, burdened by severe postnatal depression. Even in her weakened state, she had to protect a newborn from the lurking threats of Shadowbane—wolves who smiled with their teeth, waiting for a mother too feeble to defend her young.

She had no strength left to document the milestones or capture tender moments. For an agonizing stretch, she couldn’t even bear to look at her reflection—the once-vibrant performer reduced to a caged spirit trapped within a powerful yet hostile fortress.

I recalled it vividly.

The one good day.

The day before, Ulric Sanchez—my father—had finally relented and agreed to the divorce she had desperately sought.

For the first time in months, her eyes sparkled with clarity. She woke early, lifting me into her arms, and carried me to the garden. Morning light filtered through the leaves as she snapped the photograph, capturing a moment that neither of us knew would be our last together.

Aysel reached out, her fingers gently brushing against the small, lost-looking boy in the picture—the boy pressed tightly against his mother’s chest, striving to appear strong, already learning the art of masking fear.

“Your mother was beautiful,” she whispered, her voice filled with empathy. “And she loved you very much.”

Even though Raya harbored resentment toward Ulric, she never directed that hatred at me.

Sometimes, her pain would seep into our lives—guilt, illness, despair twisting her mind. But even then, the anguish struck her harder than it did me.

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