The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 32

**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**
**Chapter 32**

**Aysel’s POV**

At long last, the oppressive stench of alcohol and the suffocating grip of fear began to dissipate, allowing the wolves a moment to catch their breath. But I was far from finished with them.

“Up,” I barked, my voice laced with the commanding tone of my wolf. The Ironhowl mutts, still half inebriated, jerked upright as if they were puppets suddenly yanked by invisible strings.

For a fleeting moment, I saw relief wash over their faces—fools, believing I had shown them mercy. But then, the next command slipped from my lips, sharp and unyielding.

“You.” I pointed at the wolf with glasses, then gestured toward Knox, who was slumped in a barely conscious state. “Sit on his lap and feed him his drink.”

The wolf with glasses froze, the color draining from his face as if he had just seen a ghost. My gaze shifted to the bulky one whose shirt was already drenched with sweat. “And you. Get behind him. Wrap your arms around his waist. Kiss his neck.”

The fat wolf stared at me, his eyes wide with horror. “M-Miss… please… that’s— that’s Knox Draven! I can’t—”

Skylar, ever the enforcer, cracked her knuckles. The sharp sound echoed in the air like the snapping of brittle twigs. “Do it,” she said, her voice dripping with sweet malice, “or I’ll be the one to decide which limb you can live without.”

I could practically smell his fear, a sour and bitter aroma that reeked of desperation. He understood that we were dead serious. They all did.

Under the weight of Skylar’s icy glare and the Alpha pressure I exuded, they finally complied. One by one, they shuffled into position, their movements clumsy and trembling. The absurdity of the scene nearly made me laugh. Once proud and arrogant Ironhowl wolves, now reduced to mere puppets in their own humiliation.

The tableau was grotesquely artistic: a quivering man feeding his Alpha a drink while another clung to him like a desperate lover. The rest of the pack watched, their eyes wide with disbelief, as if they were witnessing the collapse of a great dynasty. Even Skylar, for all her composed demeanor, looked mildly revolted.

“Goddess,” she muttered, pinching her nose. “I think I just lost my appetite for a week.”

“Don’t stop,” I commanded when one of them attempted to pull away. “You wanted to play dominance games? Play them properly.”

He whimpered, hands shaking as he forced another shot into Knox’s mouth. Knox stirred slightly, even in his unconscious state, his pride twitching in protest. If he were to awaken right now, I could only imagine him begging for death rather than endure this humiliation.

Skylar rolled her eyes, stepping back with her phone in hand. “Hold still,” she said, her tone deceptively bright. “If we’re doing this, we might as well do it right. The lighting is terrible, though.” She began adjusting angles, tapping her screen with the precision of a battlefield artist, capturing the moment.

“Lift his chin,” she instructed the bespectacled wolf. “Good. Now you—move your fat head out of the frame. No one wants to see that. Perfect! Now, more tension. Think passion, not funeral.”

Click. Click. Click.

Each shutter sounded like a nail being driven into Knox’s coffin.

By the time Skylar finished, every wolf in the booth looked as though they wished they could dig their own graves. The stench of shame mingled with the sharp tang of blood and whiskey, creating a heady cocktail of despair. Other patrons kept their distance, pretending not to notice, while the bar owner busied himself with the same glass for what must have been the tenth time.

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