The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 47

**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**

**Chapter 47**

In the hushed ambiance of the dimly lit room, Magnus exuded an aura of unyielding authority, his figure draped in shadows that danced like whispers of the night. He sat with an elegance befitting a king, his dark attire blending seamlessly with the gloom, radiating a strength that felt as if it could command the very elements. His long, graceful fingers played over the surface of the birthday cake, the flickering candles casting a warm glow that stood in stark contrast to the chill that surrounded him. Even as the unmistakable presence of an intruder loomed, his gaze remained steady, unwavering—a bastion of calm in the midst of an encroaching storm. The atmosphere shimmered with tension, a palpable testament to his Alpha command, the air thick with unspoken power, reminiscent of the moon’s pull on the tides.

Damon’s heart raced, each beat echoing the shock that coursed through him as he recognized the figure before him. It was him?!

Magnus Sanchez, the name that reverberated through the corridors of power, spoken with a mixture of reverence and fear. Damon had only glimpsed him once from a distance at an Alpha gathering, but that fleeting vision had etched itself into his memory. Magnus was not merely handsome; he was strikingly so, his demeanor composed yet radiating an ancient strength that seemed to pulse with life. He was not just an Alpha; he was the mightiest on the continent, his prowess in battle woven into the very fabric of war legends.

Damon’s instincts screamed at him, a primal urge clawing at his insides. Why was such a formidable creature in Aysel’s domain?

Before he could fully grasp the implications of his thoughts, his body acted on instinct, positioning itself protectively in front of Aysel. Every muscle in his frame coiled tightly, his scent flaring with an instinctual need to shield her from this looming threat.

As their eyes locked, an electric tension crackled in the air, time seeming to freeze for a heartbeat.

Magnus’s expression remained impassive, but when his gaze flicked toward Aysel, a flicker of displeasure crossed his brow, his dark eyes narrowing slightly.

“Come blow out the candles,” Magnus said, his voice smooth and commanding, as if the world around him faded into insignificance.

With a casual wave of his hand, he dismissed Damon entirely, directing his focus solely at Aysel. The act was deliberate, a clear indication that Damon was nothing more than a lesser wolf intruding upon territory that belonged to someone far superior.

The sting of humiliation pierced through Damon like a dagger. His body tensed, his wolf growling beneath his skin in response to the insult. But what gnawed at him more than the contempt was the sight of Aysel stepping forward.

“Why didn’t you wait for me to light them? The wax will drip into the cake,” she said softly, her tone almost chiding.

Magnus chuckled, a low, rich sound that vibrated in the air as he stood, reaching out to draw her in closer. His hand found her waist, pulling her to him as he murmured, “Then I’ll eat the part that’s ruined.”

He leaned in, his dominance shifting into something more intimate, a connection that felt both possessive and tender. “Make your wish, Aysel.”

There was no longer any hesitation in her demeanor as she embraced his closeness. Their small gestures spoke of a familiarity that twisted at Damon’s insides, igniting a fury that burned beneath his skin.

“Aysel!” he barked, his voice sharp as a blade.

Instantly, Magnus’s smile evaporated, his gaze turning cold and predatory, locking onto Damon with an intensity that felt like a hunter eyeing its prey. The weight of his aura pressed down, sharp and suffocating, primal in its assertion.

Damon’s breath hitched in his throat. For a brief moment, he could have sworn he felt the sharpness of fangs poised at his neck.

Aysel stood unfazed under Magnus’s shadow, her demeanor calm and resolute as she made her wish. When she opened her eyes, she puffed her cheeks and blew out the candles with a gentle “whoosh.”

The sweet scent of honey and wild berries filled the air, and her smile—brief yet genuine—caught the light of the extinguished flames, illuminating her face with a warmth that felt like a cruel reminder to Damon.

But Damon could barely remain still; each heartbeat in that den felt like an eternity of agony.

Magnus loomed behind Aysel, a beast guarding its chosen mate, his towering presence a silent declaration of ownership. Damon could only watch, his heart heavy, as their proximity mocked his absence.

And in that brutal moment of clarity, he noticed the details he had overlooked before.

The slippers on Magnus’s feet were worn and familiar, not borrowed or new—a testament to a life shared.

The clothes he wore were soft and domestic, not the fierce attire of an Alpha that one would expect to see outside his own territory.

Two sets of dishes lay on the table, a clear indication of shared meals and intimate moments.

The scent of their shared living space—his scent intertwined with hers—hung heavily in the air.

Each detail felt like a blade driven straight into Damon’s chest, a reminder that in his absence, another wolf had stepped into her life and made it his own.

He couldn’t allow himself to dwell on what else may have transpired within these walls.

As Aysel completed her small ritual, Damon’s voice trembled as he called out, “Aysel… come here.”

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