Third Person’s POV


    +8 Pear’s


    Aurora’s voice cut sharp through the salt–washed air, her expression taut, her eyes flicking toward the distance where Freya stood with Ss.


    “Then let us never speak of this again,” Aurora said, her voice edged with frost. She turned her face toward the she–wolf in question, her jaw tightening.


    She would not–could not–allow Freya to unravel the carefully woven bonds she had secured. Aurora had built her ce beside Caelum with precision and calction. She would not <i>see </i>it undone. Caelum could never learn who his true savior had been years ago. That secret had to remain buried, for if the truth wed its way out, everything she had worked for would copse.


    And Aurora was not the only one staring daggers into Freya.


    From the cluster of Stormveil wolves nearby, Jocelyn’s gaze was like fire. Her lips parted in disbelief as she took in the sight of Ss–cold, ruthless Ss–plunging into the raging sea with Freya at his side.


    Ss Whitmor. The Irond Alpha. A wolf who had never spared mercy, never offered kindness, a man who had watched death before and had not blinked. Jocelyn knew him better than most, had shadowed his movements, learned his rhythms. He was iron, forged without softness, incapable of bending for sentiment.


    And yet tonight, he had leapt into the water. Not merely leapt he had clung to Freya before the eyes of countless witnesses, cameras shing, recorders humming. His body wrapped around her as though she was already his chosen mate.


    Why?


    Her ws bit into her palms as jealousy frothed within her. That should have been her ce, at his side, his arm anchoring her against the storm. Not Freya’s. Never Freya’s.


    The journalists circling with lenses raised only worsened the torment. Every captured image, every recorded frame would show Ss and Freya -together, side by side, bound by something Jocelyn had long craved but never secured.


    The child who had fallen into the waves was saved atst, dragged back from the edge of death by healers waiting on the shore. Relief rippled through the gathered wolves. Freya herself exhaled a breath of fragile ease<b>. </b>


    Later, once the frenzy had ebbed, Freya and Ss made their way to the only hotel on the ind. The sea–bound outpost was still in its early days of construction, the bones of new structures half–finished, scaffolding reaching skyward like the ribs of some fallen beast. Facilities were scarce. This single hotel was all the ind could provide.


    Inside the modest chamber, Freya epted the clothes handed to her by the staff, then nced toward Ss. He loomed beside her still, his presence filling the room like shadow and storm.


    “All right,” she said, voice tired but steady. “I’ll wash up and change. You should take the guest room next door and do the


    same.”


    His gaze fastened on her, unblinking, “I’ll wait here until you’re finished.”


    A sigh slipped from her lips. The way he looked at her–it was as if he feared she might vanish into mist the moment he looked away.


    “I’m not going anywhere,” she reminded him gently. “But you need to shower. If you fall ill, this ind has little in the way of healers or supplies. And the investment conference isn’t finished yet. If you get sick, we’ll have to cut everything short.”


    Still, Ss did not move. His eyes lingered, heavy and watchful.


    Atst, Freya raised her hand, extending her smallest finger toward him. “Fine. We’ll do it your way.” She caught his hand and hooked his finger with hers. “A promise. I’ll be here when you return.”


    Ss’s breath stilled, his ck eyes narrowing on the sight of their joined fingers. For a long, long moment he said nothing. Then his voice emerged low and rough.


    “Very well,” he murmured. “I’ll go. But you’ll be here”


    11:30 AM <b>P </b>


    +8 Pearls


    “I’ll be here.”


    Only then did he leave, and Freya atst retreated into the bathing chamber.


    The water that cascaded over her was a balm, warm where the sea had been cold, steady where the waves had been brutal. The chill that had sunk into her bones slowly eased. Her body softened, uncoiling from the tension that had gripped her since the child’s cry had first split the air.


    The boy had lived. That thought steadied her heart. He had lived because of Ss too. Without his strength beside her, dragging them both through the current, she might have taken too long. Minutes lost could have been life lost. She could not deny him that.


    And yet… she had not expected Ss Whitmor, of all wolves, to plunge after her. To confess what he had confessed.


    Love.


    The word coiled through her chest like smoke.


    She had thought she knew what love was once. She had believed it looked like her parents‘ bond–Arthur Thorne and Myra Brown–wolf and mate, steady and whole. Love was sacrifice, care, loyalty until thest breath.


    Caelum Grafton<i>, </i>on their wedding day, had sworn the same. He had told her he would love her, told her he would guard her always. And for three years she had believed it, had bent herself into that vow.


    But she had received only betrayal in return. His heart had belonged to Aurora, not her.


    And now Ss–Ss of all men–was saying he loved her.


    How could she believe it? He was steel, not flesh. The Irond Alpha. Could such a wolf truly love? Or was this something else -possession, obsession, something darker?


    When atst she stepped out from the bath, towel draped across her shoulders as she dried her hair, she found him again.


    Ss was waiting.


    He had changed clothes, though his hair still hung wet, droplets trailing from the dark strands onto his cor.


    “You showered,” she observed, “but didn’t dry your hair?”


    “Didn’t want to waste time.” His tone was simple, as though that exined everything.


    Exasperation red, though faintly softened by something she refused <i>to </i>name. “Bend down,” she ordered.


    For a heartbeat his eyes flickered, but he obeyed. Slowly, the Irond Alpha inclined his head toward her.


    Freya raised the towel and began to rub gently at his wet hair. The intimacy of the act startled even her. It was so… so unlike the storm they had just survived, <i>so </i>unlike the weight of his earlier words.


    Yet her hands kept moving, warm against his scalp.


    mundane,


    “Ss,” she asked suddenly, her voice slipping past her lips before she could stop it. “When you said you loved me… did you mean it?”


    The question hung between them like lightning waiting for the thunder.