+8 Pearls
Third Person’s POV
The woman’s face, pale and almost sickly, drew Freya’s wolf into cautious alert. Behind her trailed a small group of peers, all moving with the same purposeful step.
Ss Whitmor’s voice cut through the tension. “Here on business in Ashbourne.”
The woman tilted her head, curiosity glinting in her sharp gaze. “For the ind development project, perhaps?”
Ss remained impassive, his wolf scent taut with alertness. She did not press further. “Well then, since fate has brought us together, let us share a meal. My friends have long heard of your exploits, and they would value the chance to meet you.”
Freya’s ears twitched at the underlying pride in the words. The wolf in her chest bristled at the unspoken challenge in the alpha’s tone. Being seen with the Whitmore heir was not just a privilege–it was an assertion of power.
Ss’s eyes swept over the group, his tone clipped. “I am not interested in dining with acquaintances. Freya Throne, let us go.”
Freya moved, but the pale woman stepped forward, stopping her.
“Such coincidence,” the woman said with a faint smile, “we share a surname. I am Jocelyn Thorne–Metropolitan Pack, Stormveil Pack line. Ss and I go back a long time. And you, what is your bond with him?”
Freya had barely opened her mouth when Ss’s silver gaze froze her. “My bonds are none of your concern.”
“I meant no harm. Merely curiosity. If Miss Thorne is… an ally-
“Not merely an ally,” Ss interrupted, his hand closing around Freya’s wrist, leading her away with the quiet authority of a born Alpha.
Jocelyn’s lips pressed into a thin line. Her eyes darkened ever so slightly, and the crowd behind her murmured, half–mocking, half<b>–</b>admiring.
“That one is yed like a pup,” a male wolf whispered, his voice rough with envy.
“Though they share a surname<b>, </b>she cannot rival me in lineage or standing,” another added.
“Yes,” a third chimed in, “the Stormveil Packmands respech No random pup can im that heritage.”
Inside the private room, Freya and Ss sat. The faint scent of iron and wolf musk lingered in the air, blending with the aroma of Ashbourne’s famed dishes.
“This is <b>your </b>home pack’s soil,” <b>Ss </b>said, handing over the choice<b>. </b>“Choose our fare.”
Freya scanned the menu. Each dish called memories of <b>her </b>parents to life–vors she remembered from childhood, from her first lessons in Stormveil traditions and hospitality.
She selected a few, all favorites of Arthur Thorne and Myra Brown. <b>Ss </b>took the menu from her, nodding to the <b>server</b>. “Bring these first. If more are needed, we’ll adjust<b>.</b><b>” </b>
Freya’s brow arched slightly, silently noting hisck of interference. He trusted her choices–or perhaps he did not care. Either way, it suited her wolf just fine.
As the first scents of cooking reached their table, Ss’s eyes flicked toward her, voice softening, yet firm. “At the airport today… thest words you spoke to Caelum Grafton–what were they?”
Freya’s <b>pulse </b>quickened, but her expression remained calm. He had noticed. Somehow he had sensed the shift, even without hearing the words.
“Nothing of consequence,” she said lightly. “Merely a passing remark.”
Indeed, saving Caelum had been effortless–a flick of instinct, a thread of gratitude. She had never spoken of it, not then, not after. Only now, in the heat of anger, had she spoken to provoke thought, or perhaps to test him.
12:52 PM
+8 Pearls
Ss’s wolf observed her closely, ever alert. After a moment, he asked casually, “If Caelum were to regret letting you go…. would you return to him?<b>” </b>
Freya’s answer was unwavering, the steel of her pack flowing through her tone. “I would not.”
Ss’s gaze sharpened, almost predatory. “Even if he begged on his knees?”
A wry edge touched Freya’s lips. She returned the question. “And you, Ss? If a bondmate left, only to regret it, <i>to </ie groveling–would you take them back?”
He let a small, cold smirk cross his face. “If I marry, I never release. That is the vow of my blood.”
Freya’s eyes glinted with quiet mockery. Caelum had spoken simrly once–a promise of eternal devotion, only to break it silently, haunted by a white moon in his heart. Yet Ss’s tone bore no faltering; no hesitation.
“You speak of vows with the gravity of a wolf who owns his word,” she murmured. A rare respect pricked at her pack instinct.
Ss inclined his head, silver eyes catching the firelight, unyielding as a wolf on frozen rock. “A bond forged is a bond unbroken. Only death dissolves it.”
Freya’s tail flicked, subtle, beneath the hem of her seat. The Irond Alpha before her was no false moonlight–he carried the weight of his pride and his pack like ws in her chest, leaving her wolf alert, watchful, yet intrigued.
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