Third Person’s POV


    75%


    Finished


    Ken Thorne stood firmly at Freya’s side throughout the funeral rites, his silent presence sending a clear message to all who watched.


    Even though Arthur and Myra were gone, Freya was still blood of the Thorne line, still a daughter of Stormveil. And Stormveil would shield her..


    Among the younger generation of the family, whispers stirred.


    “Freya Thorne… she’s not as insignificant as we thought. Look how many officials surround her. Even the great–elder himself stands at her side. And today–even Ss Whitmor came.”


    “No kidding. Ss never shows up for funerals outside his own bloodline. Never.”


    “Don’t tell me he’s actually taken a liking to Freya? Then what about Jocelyn?”


    “Jocelyn? Please. She’s only ever held herself up on Whitmore guilt. She forgets–Ss Whitmor isn’t the type to cling to weakness. Why would he tie himself to a girl with one half–ruined eye?”


    “And once she loses his backing, what will she and her pathetic father do? The Metropolitan Pack will throw them out of Stormveil’s holdings fast enough.”


    Outside the washroom, Jocelyn Thorne stood frozen, hearing every poisoned word spill from her cousins‘ mouths. Her nails bit so deeply into her palms she almost drew blood.


    Her face darkened as she pushed through the door.


    Silence dropped like a de.


    The cousins who had been mocking her only breaths ago went rigid, eyes darting nervously toward her. They were the same wolves who usually ttered her, bowed to her presence in the Metropolitan Pack. Yet behind her back, they bared their fangs.


    Jocelyn’s gaze cut through them until it locked on the one who had spoken the loudest–Jewel Thorne.


    In two strides she was upon her. One hand mped around Jewel’s jaw with bruising force, tilting her head back, Jocelyn’s shadowed eye burning through the lens that covered it.


    “You said I was arrogant. A cripple. Did you?” Her lips curled into a venomous smile. “Maybe I should take your eye right now–make you a cripple too. Let’s see if Ss Whitmor still shields me then. Let’s see who dares touch me.”


    Her free hand inched toward Jewel’s eye, fingers stiff and cruel.


    Jewel shrieked, thrashing. “No! Please–please, Jocelyn, I was wrong! Forgive me! You’re nothing like Freya


    -you’re above her, you’re-”


    The others stood mute, throats dry, too afraid to intervene. Everyone knew what Ss Whitmor was to Jocelyn. That bond–no matter how twisted–kept her untouchable.


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    Finished


    Jocelyn sneered. Her nails dragged across Jewel’s cheek, leaving bloody streaks. “Think carefully next time. Every word you speak should pass through your skull first. Or one day… you’ll wake up without your eyes.”


    Jewel trembled violently, nodding, tears of terror streaking her face.


    Jocelyn released her, her expression ck as storm clouds as she strode from the washroom. Inside, she knew the truth better than any of them. Her strength wasn’t hers–it was Ss’s shadow she leaned on.


    And she could never afford to lose it.


    Her ruined eye was his doing. That scar was her tether. As long as she kept that wound raw in his conscience, Ss Whitmor’s guilt would remain her shield.


    But then–her steps faltered.


    Not far down the corridor, she saw them.


    Ss and Freya.


    The Irond Alpha stood close to her cousin, his gaze fixed on Freya with a softness Jocelyn had never witnessed from him. Not once.


    Her stomach dropped. Her wolf recoiled. Ss had never looked at her–or anyone–like that.


    Could he truly…?


    She froze as Ss reached out. His hand lifted toward Freya’s cheek.


    ..


    Freya reacted instantly, her fingers mping around his wrist, eyes narrowing. “What are you doing?”


    “Only this,” Ss said quietly. In his handy a folded handkerchief. “You’ve still got tears on your face.”


    Freya blinked, stunned by the sight of the pale cloth in his grip. She hesitated, then slowly released him. “I can wipe them myself.”


    17


    “Then take it.” His palm opened, revealing the light–blue fabric resting there as if it belonged only to her.


    Freya had nothing else on her, no paper, no cloth, and the weight of his expectant gaze pressed her until, reluctantly, she epted the handkerchief. She dabbed at her face, trying not to think of the way his eyes followed her.


    “Why are you crying?” His voice was low, graveled, almost intimate. “Because they were your parents?”


    “Isn’t that reason enough?” she answered, her tone sharp.


    Ss’s lids lowered, shadows shifting in his gaze. “When my mother died, I didn’t shed a single tear. She was the one who bore me, and still, nothing came. They called me cold–blooded. They called me a monster.”


    His eyes lifted again, locking with hers. “Tell me, Freya. Do you think I’m a monster too?”