The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 229

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**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**
**Chapter 229**

**Third Person’s POV**

A sharp, jagged branch—still vibrant with life and sinewy in its form—whipped through the air, striking Ulric Sanchez squarely across the face. Each lash stung like a swarm of angry wasps, fueled by a raw, desperate rage that seemed to echo the chaos around him. The impact landed on the most sensitive areas of his already battered body, leaving him momentarily stunned, his features contorted in a mix of pain and disbelief.

Before he could gather his wits, Aysel’s anxious voice sliced through the oppressive darkness that enveloped the room. “Ah—Stepmother, don’t hit him there! Slapping his face won’t kill him! Even if Uncle Ulric doesn’t love you, you two are still mates!” Her words, a frantic plea, hung in the air, desperate for reason amidst the madness.

But the chaos escalated. A loud crack echoed, followed by the sickening sound of an ashtray colliding with Ivy of the Darkmoon Pack’s forehead. “Heavens—Uncle Ulric! That was too hard! What if Stepmother’s head splits open? The Darkmoon Pack is here today!” Aysel’s voice trembled with urgency, her concern palpable.

“Ulric Sanchez!” Ivy’s roar was instinctual, her wolf’s fury seeping through her words like venom.

Then came the unmistakable sound of a sharp slap, nails raking across tender skin, followed by the shattering of glass. Papers fluttered chaotically, caught in the tempest of violence. A chair toppled over, crashing to the ground with a resounding thud, while fabric tore under the relentless assault of claws.

A choked gasp slipped from someone’s lips, fingers clenching around a throat as desperation surged. A kick landed with brutal force, flesh meeting flesh, the primal snarls of wolves simmering just beneath the surface.

“Ivy! You deranged she-wolf!” Ulric’s voice was filled with venom, his anger boiling over.

“Ulric! I’ll kill you! Lay a claw on me again and I’ll rip your throat out!” Ivy’s fury was fierce, a challenge thrown into the wild chaos.

“Enough! Stop, both of you—wretched woman!” A voice thundered, trying to impose some semblance of order.

“Aaaargh! I’ll die with you! Ulric Sanchez, you’re no Alpha—you’re barely a wolf!” Ivy spat, her words laced with contempt.

“Stop fighting! Stop—Stepmother, Uncle Ulric is over here!” Aysel’s voice rang out, a desperate attempt to quell the storm raging within the room.

Inside the brilliantly illuminated banquet hall, an orchestra played lively, celebratory melodies for the noble packs gathered. The atmosphere was one of joy and festivity, a stark contrast to the turmoil brewing in the sealed, pitch-black room where another kind of symphony raged—voices rising and falling in chaotic disarray, filled with raw emotion and feral tempers.

Servants outside the door stood rigid, their faces pale and anxious, each thud and scream from within sending shivers down their spines. A timid maid leaned closer to Circa, her voice barely above a whisper. “Did Miss Aysel really go in? Why… why does it sound worse now?”

Circa, equally shaken, nodded, her brow furrowed in concern. “She should have. Maybe even she can’t calm them?” Doubt crept into her words.

A male servant hesitated, glancing nervously at the door. “Should… should we check on her?”

“No!” Circa’s voice cut through the air with authority, firm and unwavering. “Miss Aysel said no one goes in. If you disobey her, are you ready to face Young Master Magnus’s wrath?”

Another servant whispered, trembling with fear, “But what if Miss Aysel gets hurt…? If something happens to her, the Third Young Master will skin us alive.”

Ulric and Ivy could break bones, draw blood, and the packs would simply dismiss it as family business. But if Miss Aysel were to receive even a scratch, Shadowbane’s strongest Alpha would unleash his fury upon every servant in the corridor.