The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 23

**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**
**Chapter 23**

In the cool evening air, Magnus stepped out of the compound, an unusual buoyancy lifting his spirits. It was a stark contrast to the weighty messages that Aysel relentlessly bombarded him with—complaints about her hunger, reminders of her needs, and veiled threats that hinted at her growing impatience. Yet, despite the flood of her words, his mood remained untouched, as bright as the stars beginning to twinkle in the darkening sky.

He had given his approval to the dinner menu she suggested, but when it came to her expanding list of snacks, he exercised his Alpha veto with a firm hand. He knew Aysel had a tendency to indulge, and while he appreciated her enthusiasm, he also understood the importance of moderation.

As he exited the supermarket, he took a moment to veer off to a hidden gem of a patisserie, a place known only to the elite of the wolf packs. Here, he stood patiently among a throng of humans and lesser wolves, his gaze fixed on the delicate pastries behind the glass. After a short wait, he finally secured a small strawberry cake, its vibrant color promising sweetness that mirrored his mood.

Yet, in the depths of his mind, Conor’s harsh words echoed like a haunting melody—how no one would ever truly love him. Magnus brushed them aside, finding them utterly irrelevant. Love, he mused, was a fragile, fleeting thing, a human emotion that he had no need for. He was a creature of claim and possession; he took what was his and held it fiercely.

Aysel, his delicate little rose from the Moonvale Pack, was not something he would label as love—not yet, at least. But she had already carved a place in his heart, marked under his protection like a precious gem. A fragile bloom, yes, but one he felt compelled to nurture and cherish.

However, his pleasant mood soured like milk left too long in the sun as he approached her apartment building and spotted the unwelcome figure waiting below.

Damon Blackwood.

Once the proud Alpha of the Blackwood Pack, he now stood there like a lovesick ghost, haunting the territory that belonged to Aysel. Magnus felt his jaw clench tightly, a surge of suppressed dominance radiating from him, the air around him thick with the scent of danger, curling like smoke around his senses.

Damon had been lingering in this spot for weeks, his face a canvas etched with guilt and desperation. He had convinced himself that he was waiting for Aysel to calm down, to reach out and bridge the chasm that had formed between them. But as days melted into nights, and her silence deepened, anxiety gnawed at his insides, hollowing him out.

He replayed their last argument in his mind, a bitter exchange filled with fire and pride. He thought of the small cottage that had been consumed by flames, a place tied to Aysel’s late grandmother—a sanctuary that had meant the world to her. The Moonvale Pack had tried to shield the truth from Celestine, fearing that the revelation would shatter her already fragile health. But when Luna Evelyn mentioned the land deed, the truth had spilled forth, forcing them to admit the loss.

Celestine had wept, her heart breaking into a million pieces.

“That was Grandmother’s most precious thing. How could Aysel be so cruel?” she had lamented, her voice trembling with sorrow.

Evelyn had offered gentle comfort, promising to find something “just as meaningful” to fill the void.

But Damon had only half-listened, his mind clouded with regret. He knew how deeply Aysel cherished her grandmother. If Celestine was devastated, what depths of despair must Aysel have felt? What anguish had driven her to such an act of destruction?

Regret clawed at Damon like a ravenous beast. When she had needed him the most, he had turned away, leaving her to face her demons alone.

He had tried to call her—blocked. He had gone to her home—no answer. He even contemplated alerting the city patrols, but Skylar’s furious voice had cut him off, assuring him that Aysel was fine. Fine, but unwilling to see him.

Now, night after night, he found himself waiting beneath her window, watching the faint glow from behind her curtains, a beacon of hope that she might finally open the door to him. He had knocked until the guards were summoned, his once-proud demeanor wilting under the weight of his longing. The Alpha of the East had become a mere shadow of his former self, a love-stricken beggar.

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