The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 48

**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**
**Chapter 48**

In the dimly lit room, shadows danced along the walls, and Magnus stood like a granite sentinel, his presence exuding an intensity that was impossible to overlook. Across from him, Damon, the Alpha of the Blackwood Pack, bore the marks of a recent battle—his body was battered, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, and the agony etched on his face spoke volumes of his struggle.

Yet, despite the visible toll of his injuries, Damon did not show weakness. His gaze, bloodshot and fierce, locked onto Aysel, a whirlwind of desperation and flickering hope swirling in the depths of his eyes. “You see?” he rasped, each word a laborious effort that sent waves of pain coursing through his battered body. “I warned you about him. He’s a powder keg—volatile, vicious, and entirely unpredictable. Stay close to him, and who knows who he’ll hurt next? Aysel, you must leave him.” His voice trembled with urgency, each syllable a plea wrapped in the fabric of his suffering.

Magnus’s expression darkened as a feral glint ignited within his eyes, revealing the predator lurking just beneath the surface. The Alpha of the Shadowbane Pack was a force of nature, and in that moment, he embodied every instinct of the hunter he was born to be.

“Annoying insect,” his wolf snarled within him, a primal fury bubbling just beneath his skin. “Feed him to the serpents. Tear that silver tongue from his skull and grind it to dust.”

The air around them thickened with an electric tension, a palpable weight of murderous intent infused with Alpha dominance. It felt as if the very atmosphere was charged, ready to explode at any moment, the stakes impossibly high.

But just as the simmering conflict threatened to ignite, Aysel took a step forward, brows knit in concentration. With her back turned to Magnus, she approached the injured Alpha sprawled on the floor, her heart racing in her chest, a mix of concern and trepidation coursing through her veins.

Damon’s heart raced with a flicker of hope, igniting a spark within him. He played his part with trembling sincerity, his voice quaking with vulnerability. “Aysel… I’m hurt.”

It was a statement laced with undeniable truth; the blood staining his lips and the sharp breaths that sent jolts of pain through his ribs were evidence enough of his plight.

Magnus’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles popping as tension coiled within him like a tightly wound spring. His wolf prowled beneath his skin, furious and restless, a storm brewing just below the surface. “Scheming bastard,” he thought, instincts screaming for him to act, to assert his dominance.

Just as Aysel was about to kneel beside Damon, Magnus’s low, gravelly voice sliced through the air, deceptively calm yet filled with an urgency that demanded attention. “Aysel,” he called, “your soup’s getting cold.”

There was a faint tremor in his tone—a blend of restraint, resignation, and the ache of a predator prepared to risk everything for what he desired.

Yet, Aysel didn’t waver. She continued her approach, undeterred by the warning in Magnus’s voice, her heart pounding with each step.

Magnus’s pupils dilated, a tempest brewing behind them, his gaze locked onto her as if he were trying to will her to turn back, to reconsider.

The two men held their breath, the atmosphere thick with anticipation as she drew nearer, a silent battle playing out between them.

Damon’s eyes sparkled with the hope of reconciliation, a desperate wish for her to choose him over the man who stood as a barrier between them.

But Magnus’s gaze had darkened, a shadow eclipsing the light of reason, a warning that loomed heavy in the air.

And then, just as it seemed she might reach him, she stopped short.

Instead of extending a hand to Damon, Aysel turned slightly, bending down to pick up a small carved wooden cat that had tumbled near the cabinet.

She blew the dust off gently, her voice a soft murmur, “Good. It’s only wood,” she said, her tone shifting as she turned to glare at Magnus, her eyes sharp and unyielding. “If it had been porcelain, you’d be done for.”

Magnus blinked in surprise, then burst into laughter, the darkness melting from his features and replaced by a warmth that was wolfishly fond. “I’ll buy you a hundred of them,” he replied, his grin genuine and bright—the kind of smile that belonged to a man who had just narrowly avoided losing everything.

But for Damon, the world around him crumbled like a house of cards.

His face drained of color, disbelief coursing through every fiber of his being. In her eyes, he realized he wasn’t even worth a mere carved trinket.

He had witnessed Magnus strike her, had seen the violence firsthand—how could she still address that wolf with such ease, her tone laced with a teasing affection that felt utterly wrong?

No. This was not how it was supposed to be.

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