Ss‘ POV


    She cannot be harmed.


    +8 Pearls


    The thought rips through me like amand from the marrow of my bones, more primal than the voice of any Alpha before me.


    “Alpha Whitmor!” My guards burst from the shadows, loyal wolves of the Irond Coalition who have followed me through blood and steel. Their instincts are correct–they move to block me, to preserve the Alpha’s safety. My life is their mission, their oath.


    But they do not understand.


    I twist away from one, body fueled by the raw surge of my wolf. Another lunges, hand outstretched to restrain me, and I strike–shoulder low, momentum high–sending him crashing over my hip in a brutal throw that cracks against stone. The others hesitate, uncertain if they should pursue, and in that breath of hesitation I am free.


    My eyes find her.


    Only her.


    Freya’s body cleaves through the sea, the Bloodmoon Pack’s me drowning itself in dark waves for the sake of a child not her own. Each time the surf crashes down, my chest constricts until I think I’ll split open. I do not see the child. I do not see the crowd. I see only her–small against the vast fury of the tide, but unyielding.


    And then I am running.


    Running like a wolf with death at its heels.


    Gasps erupt around me as I hurl myself into the ocean’s maw. The water is a ck beast, teeth of foam biting, ws of current dragging me down. The salt stings my eyes, fills my mouth. But my body fights–every muscle, every ounce of strength honed from years of battle–and I cut through toward her.


    They will call it madness. The Alpha of the Irond Coalition, risking his life in a storm for a child. No- for her. They will whisper, specte, dissect my motives. But none of that matters. The truth beats louder than the waves: my wolf would not let me stand idle while Freya faced the abyss alone.


    I catch her atst. Her hair, dark and stered to her cheeks, her arms straining as she hauls the limp child against her. Her breath is ragged, every stroke slower than thest. She is faltering. And if she falters now-


    I surge beside her, my hand finding the boy’s frail arm. I take the burden, feel the weight drag at me, and with that she gasps, freed enough to breathe, <i>to </i>keep swimming. She looks at me, startled, saltwater clinging to hershes. But there’s no time for words. We push, side by side, wolves against the sea.


    Together, we reach the shore.


    Hands drag the child from us, medics already descending like hawks, pounding on the small chest, forcing air back into drowning lungs. I hear the cough, the sputter, the fragile heartbeat returning, but it is all far away.


    Because Freya stumbles.


    Her strength is spent, her body trembling with the aftermath of the ocean’s rage. She sways, and before she can fall I am there, my arm sliding around her waist. The contact sears me–skin against damp fabric, her body weak yet alive beneath iny touch.


    “Steady,” I murmur, but my voice is rougher than I intended, torn raw by fear.


    She thanks me–always soposed, even now, even when the sea has nearly devoured her. She speaks as if I am only a support, as if she can dismiss me the moment she finds her footing.


    But she cannot. Not this time.


    Before she can pull away, I crush her against me. My arms lock around her, desperate, unrelenting. The embrace is tight, but gods, I force my strength to bend, terrified of hurting her Terrified of losing her.


    11:30 AM <b>P </b>


    Her voice brushes against my ear, soft, bewildered. “Ss?”


    C


    處


    +2 Pearls


    I bury my face into the curve of her neck, inhaling salt and wolf–scent, the sharp tang of adrenaline mixed with the warmth that is wholly hers. I do not answer, because I cannot. Words are too weak. Only this–her pulse beneath my lips, the reality of her body held in my arms–can quiet the storm in me.


    She lives. She is here.


    I had thought myself beyond fear. I had buried too many–warriors, kin, even my mother beneath the cruel tides. I had promised myself never again to tremble for another life. But here I am, my hands shaking as if I were a boy, my chest shuddering with something I cannot name.


    I do not want to imagine the sea swallowing her. I do not want to imagine the world where Freya Thorne vanishes beneath waves, her fire extinguished.


    She asks me what is wrong. Her voice is calm, but I can hear her wolf’s curiosity beneath it, the edge of concern. She tests the hold, but I do not release her. I cannot. The tremor betrays me–the quiver of my fingers against her back, the violent shiver of my frame.


    Yes, I am trembling. Like prey, not predator. Like a pup, not Alpha.


    Is it weakness? Perhaps. But it is also truth.


    I am Ss Whitmor, Alpha of the Irond Coalition. To most, I am steel incarnate, unbreakable, untouchable. But in this moment, wrapped around the woman who flung herself into death’s jaws, I am only a wolf clinging to the one thing that matters more than duty, more than legacy, more than survival itself.


    She whispers, “Don’t be afraid. It’s over. We’re safe.”


    Her words should soothe. But they don’t. Because even safe, even here in my arms, the tremors don’t stop. The fear still coils in my gut like a living thing.


    It isn’t the sea I fear. It isn’t death.


    It is the realization of how much she matters.


    And how easily she could be gone.