The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 184

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**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**
**Chapter 184**

In the stillness of the night, a pack of wolves slinked through the villas, their movements fluid and silent, oblivious to the celestial dance of the sun and moon above. Others among them bore burdens that were not their own, shadows of obligation weighing heavily on their backs.

The scene shifted back to that fateful night of the reunion. Jackson had stood resolutely with his pack, a simmering determination radiating from him as he awaited the arrival of the rival Alpha. His heart beat steadily in the crisp, rustling mountain air, but all that came to him were the empty whispers of leaves, whisked away by the indifferent wind.

Jackson felt the absence of his Alpha keenly; without him, the commands that defined their hierarchy were unreachable, slipping through his fingers like grains of sand.

He released a slow, measured breath. “…Right. I suppose I’ve grown accustomed to this by now,” he murmured, a bitter edge lacing his tone.

The young assistant couldn’t shake the bitter smile that tugged at his lips. Day one had passed with no exit in sight. Day two brought the same disheartening reality. And now, on day three, the silence loomed heavier than ever. Calls went unanswered, or were met with brief responses that faded into silence like echoes in an empty canyon.

Jackson found himself acting solely on instinct, caught in a cycle of watching and waiting, his thoughts spiraling into frustration.

Damon Blackwood, once a figure of arrogance, had been dragged from the depths of humiliation, his pallor a stark contrast to the vibrant world around him. He trembled, the remnants of his pride flickering like a candle on the verge of extinguishing.

A ghost of a grin, frail and unsteady, danced across his lips as he faced the looming figure before him.

“Alpha Blackwood, consider yourself fortunate. Let’s just take a limb and send you back,” Jackson’s voice sliced through the air, sharp and unyielding.

The reality of a wolf’s existence was not one of outright destruction—especially when Magnus and his mate still held their own plans for Damon.

Karma, it seemed, had its relentless cycles; each wolf was destined to answer for the sins of their lineage.

Damon’s gaze fell to his injured right paw, slack and unresponsive, disbelief etching itself into his features. Jackson’s words echoed cruelly in his mind: luck?

These days had morphed into a waking nightmare, each moment steeped in the agonizing cleverness of the Shadowbane Alpha.

Magnus’ methods were nothing short of ruthless, and Damon had felt the full brunt of that reality.

Jackson leaned in, his finger tapping against Damon’s cheek, his voice a whip-crack of authority. “Still not satisfied, Damon? Don’t feign meekness after your attempts to exploit our Moonvale mate. This is merely a warning for pestering her. Next time you dare to show your face, who knows what else might be taken from you?”

At the mere mention of Aysel’s name, a flicker of something ignited in Damon’s eyes—but it was not longing; it was pure, unadulterated fear.

Raised as a favored scion, Damon had always believed the world bent to his will. Even after Aysel had left, he had clung to the hope that she would return. But since the disastrous coronation, every semblance of control had slipped through his fingers.

His pride clawed at him, a relentless beast. He had tried to reclaim her—and in doing so, had walked straight into a trap that felt foreign and suffocating.

In Magnus’ presence, Damon felt like an inconsequential insect attempting to shift an insurmountable mountain. Perhaps the Alpha hadn’t even truly regarded him as he stood there, diminished.

Once, he had wielded power with a sense of invincibility, watching lesser wolves fight and claw for mere scraps. Now, under the shadow of a mightier Alpha, he was reduced to nothing more than a pawn, a worm squirming beneath claws he had once scorned.

When he was finally unceremoniously dumped at the Blackwood estate, he was still reeling from the crushing blow that had shattered not only his body but his pride and very identity.

Entering his home, pain radiated through him like a wildfire, yet he was met not with the comforting embrace of parental solace but with a palpable tension that hung in the air, as if the living room itself had grown fangs.

Alpha Blackwood sat with a young man who bore a striking resemblance to him, while his mother occupied the other side, her lips pressed into a thin line, a tempest of shock and anger swirling across her face.