Freya’s POV


    +8 Pearls


    Caelum looked as though the ground had opened beneath him. For once, it wasn’t me who wore the mark of abandonment. It was him. He was the one stripped bare in front of the packs–pitiful, exposed.


    Aurora, ever eager to stitch her dignity back together, forced a brittle smile. “Affection,” she dered, her voice pitched too high, “isn’t measured by a male’s wealth, but by how much of himself he gives you. A man might clutch a hundred coins but offer only one–what value is that bond?”


    Her gaze flickered toward me, triumphant, as though she had made some grand revtion.


    Before I could answer, Ss looming beside me like the iron spine of a fortress, spoke with cold amusement. “And yet Caelum spends his hoarded coins well enough on you, doesn’t he, Aurora? Jewelry, baubles–gifts from the silver coffers of Silverfang. Tokens of a bond born in another’s ruin.”


    The air in the hall shifted, a ripple of wolf–scent and restrained growls. Aurora’s cheeks med scarlet.


    Those trinkets had painted her in the world’s eyes not as a Beta’s daughter or a promising pilot of the Bluemoon Airborne Wing, but as Caelum’s mistress–the interloper who gnawed at another female’s ce. She had flown bold and reckless over the sea isles, stunts meant to repair her image. But Ss’s words dragged her face back into the mud.


    He didn’t stop there. His voice rumbled steady, the weight of a Whitmor decree. “As for what I own–if Freya desires it, she will have it. My pack’s hoard, my de, my blood. All of it.”


    Gasps shuddered through the chamber.


    Ss Whitmor, Alpha of the Irond Coalition, was no minor wolf. His empire’s reach stretched across borders, its wealth a shadowed mountain none could map. The implication was staggering.


    Aurora’s chin jutted, sharp and desperate. “Then tell me, Alpha Whitmor–what if Freya demanded Whitmor Industries itself? Would you ce it in her hands?”


    Ss turned his head slowly, a predator’s smirk tugging at his mouth. He didn’t even nce at her–his gaze found me, steady, unshaken. “If she asked, I would.”


    The chamber exhaled as one, a hiss of disbelief and awe<i>. </i>


    I froze, caught off guard. I had expected protection, maybe words of defiance on my behalf. But this? Even as jest, it was more than I imagined–he had just ced me on a pedestal in front of half the Capital’s wolves. My cheeks heated, though I forced my spine straight.


    “No,” I said atst, voide low but clear. “What I want, I’ll take with my own ws. I don’t need to be given.”


    Some around us nodded knowingly, dismissing the exchange as courtly flourish, politicking. But whether they believed or not, they had seen enough. They had seen that in Ss’s eyes, I was not a discarded mate. I was chosen. Elevated.


    Ss’s lips curved faintly. “Of course. A wolf like you hunts for herself. Not like some others, who cling to scraps tossed from a stronger’s table.”


    Aurora’s flush deepened to crimson, shame burning through her mask. Even Jocelyn at her side shifted ufortably, unable to defend her ally. Ss’s words had struck like ws across both their faces.


    Before the tension could snap further, the convocation shifted. The summit began in earnest.


    Delegates stepped forward, one by one, presenting their Pack’s projects for the isle’s development. Each spoke of vision and industry, each defended their proposal before the panel of government officials and the twin colossi of Whitmor and Thorne,


    Then it was Caelum’s turn.


    I saw him hunched over his papers, knuckles white against the parchment. His wolf’s scent was soured with unease He hadn’t expected me to remain, hadn’t expected to present with my eyes on him.


    Because he knew.


    +8 Pearls


    That proposal in his hands? It was mine. I had drafted it in the final weeks before leaving SilverTech Forgeworks. Every line of it had bled from my mind, my sleepless nights. He had done nothing but swap the word riverfront for isle.


    And now he would parade it as his triumph.


    Aurora leaned close to him, whispering something, her brows knitted in concern. “Caelum, are you well? You look pale.”


    “Nothing,” he muttered, but when he raised his eyes, they met mine across the chamber. His gaze flinched. His wolf recoiled.


    The announcer’s voice rang out, merciless: “Now, the Alpha of Silverfang and head of SilverTech Forgeworks–Caelum Grafton. Present your project.”


    The apuse that followed was polite, expectant. But I felt the tremor ripple through him. His heart stuttered, his pride choking him as he mounted the dais.


    He began to speak, words clipped, forced.


    I had seen him sell before, striding with confidence before investors and officials, weaving visions with his silver tongue. But today? Today the words snagged. He stammered. Even when he read straight from the page, the cadence faltered, unsteady.


    Because he knew every syble had my scent on it.


    A fog of shame swelled in the hall, wrapping tight around him. My gaze did not leave him, and under it, his wolf cowered.


    Atst he finished, lips dry, voice cracking.


    For a moment, silence. Then one of the government men–Director Leo, if I recalled right–nodded approvingly. “I find this project promising. The application of unmanned craft in isle development is keenly suited. Efficiency, reducedbor, elerated construction. And SilverTech’s patent, in particr, is valuable–its innovation would serve Ashbourne’s coast well.”


    I nearlyughed, though it caught sharp in my throat. The patent. Mine. Theyuded him for my ws‘ work, my sleepless hours.


    He stood there, basking in the official’s praise, and I wondered if he felt it burning through him–how easily his triumph would unravel the moment I chose to speak.


    I said nothing. Not yet.


    But my wolf stirred restlessly, knowing the reckoning was close.


    Send Gifts