The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 97

**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**
**Chapter 97**

**Aysel’s POV**

Magnus’s expression was a mask of stoic indifference as he addressed Rudi, his voice steady and devoid of emotion.

“Bad temper keeps you from being bullied, little aunt. Don’t you agree?”

His eyes—those cold, obsidian depths reminiscent of a Rafe-wolf—pierced through the atmosphere like a blade forged in the chill of winter.

Even I could feel the weight of his gaze pressing down, an invisible force that seemed to wrap around us all.

Rudi visibly flinched, her body tensing as if a chill had swept through her.

A flicker of ancient memories danced across her features, the kind of recollections that a wolf desperately tries to suppress.

Was Magnus alluding to something buried deep in the past?

It certainly appeared that way, and I could see the realization dawning on her face.

With an exasperated huff, Rudi abandoned her elder’s demeanor, her pride wounded as she stormed away, her footsteps echoing with frustration.

I watched her retreat, my own tail nearly tucked in sympathy.

If even the cherished daughter of Bastien Sanchez couldn’t assert her influence over me, it was clear the rest of the onlookers were taking note of this shift in power.

Magnus’s fingers found mine, curling around them with a firm yet gentle grip, guiding me onward through the throng.

As we passed Celestine, I tilted my head in her direction, lowering my voice to a soft, deadly whisper that could barely be heard above the murmurs of the crowd.

“Celestine… do you know why a wolf becomes unbreakable when she desires nothing?”

Her eyes shot up to meet mine, wide with surprise and perhaps a hint of fear.

But I was already smiling, a wicked grin playing on my lips as I continued walking away, leaving her to ponder my words.

Beneath my heel, her bright red performance invitation lay crumpled and soiled, a fitting metaphor for her schemes, now tarnished and exposed.

In the past, I had only harbored suspicions about Celestine and my grandmother, quiet inklings that swirled like shadows around the Moonvale Pack.

But after her confession in the graveyard… did she genuinely believe I would ever extend her mercy again?

If anything, I owed her gratitude.

Gratitude for pushing me, step by step, until every single pillar of my existence crumbled—my parents, my brothers, my mate, my dreams, all reduced to ruins.

1/3

Everything I lost because of her had stripped away the softness within me, leaving behind only the bare bones of instinct and survival.

No longer would I cling to the hope of affection.

No longer would I tiptoe around Damon’s misplaced guilt regarding Dariusz and the Wards.

No longer would I bear the weight of a death that had been thrust upon my shoulders for over a decade.

If I craved nothing, what chains could they possibly use to bind me again?

A touring performance?

So be it.

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