The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 143

**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**
**Chapter 143**

In the glaring neon brightness of Shadowbane Hospital’s seventh floor, Bastien lay on a gurney, his body a mere shadow of its former self, rattled by the tumult of the night. He felt like a relic, ensnared in a web of debts that reached far deeper than the confines of his memory. The respect he once commanded had all but evaporated, leaving him adrift in a sea of indifference from those who once revered him.

A pack of heirs lingered just outside the operating doors, their eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger that was impossible to ignore. Their lips moved in hushed whispers, sharp words of inheritance slicing through the sterile air. When the patriarch finally managed to draw in a breath, they exchanged glances—some tinged with relief, others laced with irritation. Yet, none of those looks bore the weight of true consequence; it was a mere game of posturing, a dance around the inevitable.

On this floor, Johanna stood resolute, having endured the long hours of the night with a remarkable absence of fatigue. Just then, Ulva, the widow of Phelan Sanchez, crossed paths with her at the washroom doorway. For a fleeting moment, the air crackled with tension, as if two wolves were sizing each other up from a distance. But they passed without a word, their expressions carefully crafted masks of control, revealing nothing of the storm brewing within.

When Johanna returned to Bastien’s bedside, she found his gaze already fixed upon her. In their previous encounters, he had been oblivious to her true identity. Young, astute, and refreshingly untainted by greed, she had almost caught his eye as a potential bride. Yet, once her connections with his sons became apparent, the thought of ridding himself of her had ignited a fierce fire in his mind. Fate, however, had other plans, swift and unyielding. One son lay dead, another lost in chaos, and yet Johanna, as cunning as the wind, had slipped away, leaving Bastien to gnaw on the bitter bones of his regrets.

With a heavy sigh, Bastien shut his eyes and murmured, “Bring Alfie back. I need to see him.”

Johanna’s expression remained inscrutable, a mask of calm that concealed the turmoil beneath. In contrast, Lyall’s eyes sparked with a flicker of renewed hope at the mention of the child. Rollo Sanchez, the sixth-born of the family, watched quietly from the corner, his voice light yet tinged with skepticism. “It’s been years since the boy has set foot on the estate,” he remarked, his tone almost dismissive. “But his… nature…”

Bastien’s gaze swept across the room, heavy with the weight of ulterior motives swirling around him. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he cut through the tension. “Enough. Leave me. I will make the decision.”

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