The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 90

**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**
**Chapter 90**

**Aysel’s POV**

The morning’s whirlwind of activity had failed to disturb my composure. Daron remained steadfast by my side, his growls and snaps a familiar, rhythmic melody coursing through my veins. The world around me was a cacophony of movement, yet I navigated through it all with an uncanny grace, untouched and unshaken by the chaos that unfolded.

However, as evening descended and Magnus returned, he took it upon himself to lay out the intricacies of our situation with clarity that was both refreshing and necessary.

His voice, steady yet imbued with the authority of a pack Alpha, resonated in the dim light of the room. He began to recount the story of his mother’s dear friend—a woman whose prowess in dance had once rivaled the mastery his mother wielded over the cello. Together, they had been celebrated as the twin queens of their respective arts, their talent illuminating the stage like stars in the night sky.

Magnus’s expression shifted as he spoke of the past. “When my mother retreated into near-seclusion after her own trials, her friend sought her out time and again, attempting to reach her, to coax her back into the world. But her efforts were in vain.” His gaze turned distant, as if he could still feel the weight of those memories pressing down on him. “When Raya’s parents passed away, engulfed in their grief, my father, Ulric, chose to abandon his responsibilities. It was Raya’s friend who took it upon herself to orchestrate the funeral, meticulously guiding every detail, ensuring that nothing was overlooked.”

Magnus paused, allowing the gravity of their shared history to settle around us like a heavy shroud. “Agnes is her niece,” he continued, his tone shifting slightly. “My mother’s friend devoted her entire life to dance, never marrying, and instead raised Agnes as if she were her own daughter. I’ve only seen Agnes a handful of times, years ago. The idea of a childhood betrothal is nothing more than her fantasy—she mistook our familial closeness for something deeper. Her aunt is a venerable elder, but she has never swayed any decisions I’ve made.”

When our conversation turned to Daron, Magnus shrugged, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features. “I can’t even pinpoint when she attempted to sneak close to him. Her visit felt orchestrated—someone at the Sanchez house nudged her forward. They assumed, given Giovanna’s history with me, that she would receive special treatment here. But honestly? She never crossed my mind.”

I found myself believing every word Magnus spoke. He radiated an unwavering certainty, and a packmate who possesses such steadfast assurance is a fortress unto themselves, unyielding against the winds of doubt.

The Sanchez family, in their cowardice, lacked the courage to confront Magnus directly; instead, they sent a feeble pawn into the fray. Unsurprisingly, Agnes’s strength dissipated the moment she came face to face with Daron. She hadn’t stood a chance against the steadfastness of our bond.

That morning, I hadn’t needed to raise my voice, yet our understanding had deepened profoundly. A subtle nod, a fleeting glance, a shared rhythm of calm dominance—it wove us tighter, an unbreakable thread of connection.

“Your mother’s friend’s full name?” I inquired, curiosity piquing within me.

“Giovanna,” Magnus replied, a hint of reverence in his voice.

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