The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 131

**Chapter 131**

**Aysel’s POV**

The storm had been brewing ominously over the ancestral grounds of Moonvale since the break of dawn. It was a heavy, oppressive thunder, the kind that sends shivers through even the most seasoned wolves, stirring a restless energy beneath their skin. As Magnus and I nestled together in his room, wrapped in the warm glow of the amber lamps, we exchanged playful banter and shared secrets, oblivious to the tempest raging outside. The downpour had transformed the world into a shimmering blur of silver, the sky rumbling like a distant beast awakening from slumber.

We lost track of time, indulging in the comfort of each other’s company longer than we had intended. It felt so good—warm, effortless, and almost normal—until the resonant clang of the dinner bell echoed through the ancient stone corridors, shattering our bubble of tranquility.

Ulva, the widow of Phelan Sanchez, was conspicuously absent.

No one seemed surprised by her absence.

Lyall Sanchez, however, presented a different picture today. There was a strange calmness about him, almost unsettling. Throughout the meal, he devoted himself to peeling shrimp for Johanna, sliding dishes toward her with a quiet reverence that was both tender and perplexing. Who could have imagined that a wolf capable of such gentleness with his mate could also unleash his claws against his own kin in a brutal struggle over a woman?

Even if he hadn’t orchestrated the chaos, his heart bore a darkness that was undeniable.

Phelan—yes, he had his flaws. He had been anything but a good mate, straying from his vows, yet as the eldest son and the recognized heir, he had always treated his younger siblings with a measure of decency. In the Moonvale Pack, that was no small feat.

My gaze wandered to Bastien, the stoic patriarch who presided at the head of the table.

Nothing.

Not a flicker of emotion crossed his granite-like face.

Years of enduring both real and political storms had sculpted him into something unyielding. His scent was a blend of stone, cedar, and the remnants of old dominance. One could not decipher a man like him from mere facial expressions; he was a fortress of silence.

But then there was Kurt Sanchez…

He was a man teetering on the edge of doom.

His mate’s expression was a storm in itself, as if she were moments away from tearing into him with sharp words. Her eyes blazed with the ferocity of a she-wolf ready to snap bones, and the air around the table crackled with unspoken threats.

A pack of wolves masquerading as civilized beings.

The only ones seemingly unaffected by the tension were Magnus, myself, and Johanna.

From the instant she stepped into this house, her scent enveloped the room—a pale, faintly sweet aroma tinged with an undercurrent of illness, yet she radiated an unsettling calmness. She didn’t flinch at the hostility that surrounded her, nor did she shrink from the isolation that enveloped her. When barbs were aimed her way, she simply remained—thin and fragile in appearance, yet almost serene.

Lyall fussed over her like a protective shadow, but she met his attentiveness with a gentle indifference, eating her meal with deliberate care. When her gaze caught mine, she offered a soft smile that seemed to transcend the chaos around us.

Her composure was almost otherworldly.

Magnus, ever attentive, stripped a plate of shrimp for me with a practiced ease, placing it in front of me before refilling my glass. To him, the family feud unfolding around us was mere background noise. His focus was solely on me, and the way I kept glancing around like a squirrel scouting for unseen threats.

Honestly, he wasn’t wrong.

I could sense his regret for sharing those stories so early; it was palpable in the subtle shift of his amusement mixed with exasperation.

Across the table, Accalia Sanchez and Rollo Sanchez attempted to provoke the Fifth House, tossing shadowy hints and barbed comments like daggers. But Bastien remained unyielding, his expression a mask of indifference, while Magnus made it clear he would not intervene. He simply served his mate—me—and allowed the others to stew in their own discontent.

Eventually, they choked down their pride, the silence that enveloped the second half of dinner thick enough to cut with a knife.

I ate my fill. Too well, in fact. And the others couldn’t help but notice.

Nothing irritated wolves more than witnessing someone else’s ease while they simmered in their own turmoil.

As the meal drew to a close and the pack began to disperse, Lyall summoned the courage to call out to Bastien.

He had faced nothing but stonewalling since stepping into the estate, having tried repeatedly at the dinner table only to be silenced each time Bastien raised a hand.

But now, something within him seemed to crack.

His eyes burned with desperation, a wild madness, and the kind of resolve that comes from having nowhere left to retreat.

“Father,” he declared, his voice sharp as a blade. “I need to speak with you. Alone.”

Bastien rose from his seat, his movements deliberate, and followed Lyall upstairs to the study.

Johanna remained composed, calmly sipping her tea as if she had already foreseen the conversation that would unfold behind closed doors.

Outside, the thunder rumbled louder, a primal roar reminiscent of an ancient beast stirring in its lair.

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