Third Person’s POV
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+8 Pearls
If Ss were truly the monster the world whispered him to be, he would never have lowered his proud Alpha head and offered three solemn bows before the urns of Arthur and Myra at the funeral hall. Nor would he have stood silent and unmoving, his presence a shadow of iron, when their ashes were carried to rest in the Ashbourne Legion’s Hall of Martyrs, the sacred ground of warriors who had given everything.
And Freya knew this.
Her gaze lingered on him, torn between mistrust and something softer, something dangerous. “And you went into the sea today,” she said quietly, her voice low, testing. “A wolf without honor would not risk his own life for another’s child.”
Ss’s eyes, ck as midnight, flickered. His voice was steady but carried a raw undertone. “I went into the sea because you did.” He reached forward, his calloused hand wrapping around hers with unyielding insistence, drawing it to rest against his chest.
“All my life,” he continued, his voice dark with confession, “I never thought life was worth much. My own, least of all. But today…” His words faltered, roughened, as if caught in his throat. He tightened his hold on her hand, pressing her palm against the steady, drum of his heartbeat. “Today I saw you dive into those waters without hesitation, and something inside me shifted. Because of you, Freya. Because you showed me that some lives are worth saving. That perhaps I could be more than I am. That I could be,” his voice softened to a near–growl, reverent—“a good man, if it meant standing in your light.”
Freya froze, her breath hitching.
He looked at her as though she were the moon itself—untouched, radiant, too pure for his shadowed hands. She was everything he was not: bright, honorable, unflinching. She carried no darkness, or so it seemed, and yet he–who was born in blood, who wore scars that told of torment and iron chains–ached to reach her. The ckest parts of him yearned for the sanctuary of her light.
Freya had never imagined she would hear such words from Ss Whitmor, the Irond Alpha feared across the Coalition. And yet… here he was<b>, </b>confessing that she could alter the course of his life. That she could change him.
“Freya.” His voice lowered to a husky plea, his gaze locked onto hers with naked hunger. “Give me a chance. If one day you are certain–truly certain—that you will never love me, I will walk away. I will not chain you, I will not haunt your steps. I will leave, even if it tears me apart. But until that dayes, don’t push me away. Don’t shut me out on purpose.”
The intensity in his words struck something in her chest. His eyes–those fierce, dark eyes<b>–</b>carried a desperate glimmer, one that summoned to her mind the forbidden room in the Whitmor estate. That night when she had seen him curled in on himself like a wounded wolf, his back a canvas of scars carved by whips. She remembered Jocelyn Thorne’s bitter words- that Ss had watched his own mother die before his eyes.
The rejection forming on her tongue caught, trapped, unwilling to leave her throat. Instead, pain bloomed in her chest, sharp and tender.
Could she really im she would never, not ever, love Ss Whitmor? She asked herself the question, and silence was her only answer.
Besides, Ss was not the sort of wolf to ept rejection lightly.
Drawing in a breath, she steadied herself. “Very well,” she said atst, her tone measured. “I promise I won’t push you away for the sake of it. If I fall in love with you, then…. we will be together. But if, by the time I finish my duty as your protector, I still feel nothing–then we part ways. Clean and final. You walk your road, and I walk mine. No chains. No regrets.”
Ss’sshes fluttered. For the briefest heartbeat, vulnerability tremored across his face. Then he smiled, slow and sharp, the kind of smile that promised storms. “Agreed. Then it is a vow.”
But in the marrow of his bones, the Alpha of the Irond Coalition knew–he would not wait idly for her to love him. He would forge it. He would win her. He would make her heart his.
Far across the hall, beneath chandeliers that gleamed like pale moons, Caelum stood among government officials and Ashbourne’s most powerful merchants. He exchanged words, nodded at roasts, lifted his ss when prompted. Yet his <b>mind </b><b>was </b>nowhere in the room.
Again and again, the image surged before him: Freya’s body cutting through the waves, her strokes swift, decisive, fearless as
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she dove for the drowning child. She hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t paused.
How many in this hall would have shown such courage? How many wolves could?
+8 Pearls
Caelum had seen the child fall into the sea as well. He had felt the instinct to move. But if he had reached the edge, if he had stood staring down at the churning ck water, would he have jumped? Or would he have faltered?
The ugly truth echoed inside him. He would have faltered.
And with that came another thought, darker, heavier.
Freya had imed she once tried to save him from the river, years ago. He had doubted her story. But tonight, seeing her, he could no longer dismiss it. Her strength in the water, her fire, her resolve–it was who she was. She would have leapt withour hesitation. She would have fought the river itself to drag him to shore.
If she wasn’t lying… then who was? Aurora?
The thought sent a shudder through him, his grip tightening around the stem of his ss. Wine sloshed dangerously, nearly spilling.
“Caelum?” Aurora’s voice cut in, crisp and bright. She stood beside him, her uniform sharp, her eyes searching his face. “What’s wrong? You’ve gone pale.”
“Nothing,” he answered too quickly<i>. </i>His gaze lifted to hers, taking in the Beta’s daughter. Aurora was the very image of a proud Bluemoon wolf: bold, forthright, incapable of deceit. She had always been that way. And she had been right before— when he was nothing but a nameless Silverfang wolf, a boy with no power and no fortune, she had stood by him. What reason could she have had to lie?
None. And yet the seed of doubt dug its roots deeper.
The sound ofmotion stirred at the entrance of the ballroom. Heads turned, whispers rose.
Caelum’s eyes followed–and froze.
Through the doors strode Ss, d in a ck suit that clung to him like midnight armor. At his side walked Freya, simple in her tailored ensemble, but no less radiant for its austerity. She looked steady again, the pallor from the rescue gone, her step proud and unyielding.
Relief, sharp and unwanted, cut through Caelum at the sight of her unharmed.
“Alpha Whitmor, Miss Thorne,” called the Pack Councilman overseeing Ashbourne’s ind development, his voice carrying above the hush. “The city owes you its thanks. Your courage today spared us from tragedy. Without you, this gathering would have been stained by <b>loss</b><b>.” </b>
All eyes
fixed upon them–upon Ss, dark and maic, and Freya, fierce and unbending. And in the shadows of the hall, hearts shifted, hungers awoke, and old bonds strained like chains ready to snap.
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