The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 41

**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**
**Chapter 41**

Within the confines of the Blackwood Pack, a storm brewed within Damon that rivaled the tempest outside. Since the first light of dawn, he had been a bundle of restless energy, his wolf stirring uneasily beneath the surface, sensing a disturbance that his conscious mind struggled to articulate. It was a raw, primal ache, one that pulsed through him like a relentless tide, filling his chest with a wild fury. He paced the smooth marble floors of the Alpha’s hall, his claws itching to break free, the urge to escape clawing at him until he could no longer ignore it.

With a sudden flare of determination, he seized his car keys from the counter, urgency propelling him forward as he made his way toward the door. His heart raced, a steady drumbeat of resolve echoing in his ears. Today was Aysel’s birthday, a day that held weight and significance, despite the chasms that had formed between them after their last encounter—a confrontation that had nearly led to his capture by the human enforcers. Yet, no matter the animosity that lingered, he could not abandon her on this day. She deserved companionship, especially today, of all days.

Just as he was about to cross the threshold into the rain-soaked world beyond, a sudden thought struck him like a lightning bolt, halting him in his tracks. He pivoted sharply, retracing his steps to his study. With a swift motion, he flung open the drawer, revealing a small box swathed in dark velvet. Inside lay a pendant he had meticulously crafted from silver and moonstone, shaped elegantly like a fang—a symbol of his affection for her.

For years, the Moonvale wolves had cloaked Aysel’s birthday in silence, a heavy shroud of mourning that had descended following the tragic death of Luna Yuna Ward. The night they lost their Luna had cast a long shadow over joy, devouring it whole. But Damon had never been one to submit to such oppressive silence. Each year, he had sought to whisk Aysel away under the moonlight, coaxing laughter from her lips, reminding her that life still coursed through her veins, even amid sorrow.

Yet, the last two years had seen him fail her, trapped by the chains of duty and the presence of Celestine. This year, however, he vowed would be different. He would not let her down again.

Just as he prepared to step outside, Lady Blackwood appeared, her presence as imposing as a winter frost, sharp and regal. She blocked his path, her eyes glinting like pale silver blades, a formidable force. “Where do you think you’re going in this weather?” she demanded, her tone woven with authority.

“Out,” he replied tersely, his voice clipped, barely managing to conceal the wolf that lurked beneath his words.

“Your grandfather’s lunar day is approaching. You promised to assist me in selecting his offerings,” she countered, her voice steady and unwavering.

“Later, Mother,” he insisted, his eyes glowing with a faint golden hue, betraying the storm of emotions churning within him. “Not now.”

Her voice sliced through the air, sharp and unyielding. “What could be so urgent? The Moonvale wolves are holding a burial. You have no right to intrude on this solemn occasion.”

Frustration bubbled up within him, and he felt his teeth clench. “Don’t I? Do you even remember what day it is for Aysel?”

Lady Blackwood’s expression hardened, her resolve unyielding. “And what will Celestine think if she hears of this? You rushing to your rival’s side once more?”

“I couldn’t care less about Celestine’s opinion,” he shot back, his voice thick with defiance, the wolf within him roaring.

“You should,” she replied, her tone cool and ancient, carrying the weight of centuries. “When the two of them collide—and they will—which side will you choose?”

Without a moment’s hesitation, his answer came forth, a fierce declaration of loyalty. “Aysel’s.”

The silence that enveloped them was heavier than the deepest thunder, a palpable tension hanging in the air like a storm cloud. Lady Blackwood regarded him for a long, searching moment before she sighed, a sound filled with resignation. “You are far too much like your father. Very well. Go if you must—but heed this warning: if you leave too soon, you will only stoke the flames of chaos. Allow her to falter first… then be the one to catch her.”

Her words cut deep, but he remained silent, the weight of her advice pressing heavily upon him. By the time he finally stepped out into the rain-soaked world, two hours had slipped away—two hours that would soon feel like a heavy curse upon his shoulders.

The drive to the Moonvale cemetery stretched before him, the rain falling in an unending torrent, drumming against the roof of his car. Lightning split the sky, illuminating the dark, brooding forest that surrounded the burial grounds. The roads glistened with rain, nearly deserted; even the lesser wolves had sought refuge from the storm. Inside him, his wolf pressed close, restless and growling, urging him to accelerate, to reach her before it was too late.

He dialed Fenrir Vale during the drive, his voice already tinged with dread, a knot of anxiety tightening in his stomach.

“What?” Fenrir’s tone was low, weary, as if he too felt the weight of the storm pressing down upon him.

“You left her alone there? In this weather?” Damon’s voice was sharp, a blade cutting through the fog of uncertainty.

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify