Freya’s POV
Finished
The next few days passed in a strange, quiet rhythm. I stayed at S’s vi, letting the wound on my arm knit back together.
To me, it <b>was </b>a shallow cut, hardly worth noticingpared to the scars the bordends had carved into me. But Ss treated it as though I’d been struck down by silver. He had the kitchen overhaul every meal into some carefully bnced, nutrient–dense feast. He insisted on handling the dressing of my wound himself–hisrge hands surprisingly gentle as they unraveled bandages and pressed clean cloth against my skin. And when it came to work? He dragged every Irond Coalition file, every contract, and every envoy into his home office, refusing to step foot away from me.
It was overbearing. Maddening. And yet… warming. My wolf sensed it every time he leaned close, every time his scent brushed mine. He cared. He cared more than I expected him to.
A weekter, the scab on my arm was hard and dry. I could move my hand normally again, though Ss still shot me that dangerous alpha re whenever I reached too far or lifted something heavier than a book.
That was when the WolfComm message arrived. An invitation from the Ashbourne Orphanage, thanking me for my support Jand asking me to attend their performance. The words were written neatly by the staff–except at the bottom, clumsy,
childish letters were scrawled across the paper:
“Auntie Freya, pleasee watch me on stage. Dreamer.”
Dreamer. The little pup I’d dragged from the waves on the ind mission. My throat tightened as I traced the crooked letters with my fingertip.
“You’re going?” Ss’s voice rumbled behind me.
“Of course I’m going.” I looked up at him, my wolf bristling with determination. “I want to see how he’s doing.<b>” </b>
“Then I’ll go too,” he said without hesitation, as if it werew written in stone.
I gave him a look, but he only smiled that infuriatingly calm alpha smile. Wherever I went, he would follow.
The orphanage was buzzing with excitement that weekend,ughter and music spilling from its old stone hall. Children in patched costumes darted about, their wolves too young to stir but their spirits radiant. Donors from thest ind charity event filled the front rows, their polished shoes and jeweled cuffs glinting under the stage lights.
Ss walked beside me tall andmanding, drawing nces and hushed whispers even here. My wolf preened at his presence, though I would never admit it aloud.
And then my eyes snagged on two figures I wished I hadn’t seen.
Aurora. Caelum Grafton.
Aurora in her immacte uniform, head held high. And Caelum stiffened the moment his gaze met mine,
“Freya,” he said, his brows knitting. “What are you doing here?”
Augh slipped from me, sharp and cutting. “You’re here, Caelum. Why shouldn’t I be?”
His jaw worked as if he wanted to argue. And then the words came, venom–tipped. “I’ve confirmed the truth. The one who saved me that day wasn’t you–it was Aurora. Stop spreading ridiculous lies. You only make yourself look more pathetic.”
My wolf bristled, lips curling in a silent snarl.
He turned to Ss then, bold but trembling under the Irond Alpha’s gaze. “Whitmor, you should be careful. Don’t be deceived by this woman.”
Ss’s expression darkened into something lethal. “I always knew you were arrogant, Grafton,” he said, his tone low<b>, </b>smooth, and dangerous. “But I didn’t know you were this stupid. Speak one more insult about Freya, and I’ll tear your tongue from your mouth myself.”
1828 AM pp.
The color drained from Caelum’s face. I caught the flicker of fear in his eyes, the scent of it spiking sharp and sour.
Finished
I turned my gaze on Aurora, who remained silent at his side, her lips pressed thin. Then back to Caelum. “I already told you once–believe what you want. If you want to pretend Aurora saved you, then fine. But don’t ever presume to judge me. You’ve lost that right.”
His mouth opened, ready to snap back, but Ss shifted a fraction closer to me, and Caelum’s wolf recoiled. He swallowed his words.
The performances began soon after. The children danced, sang, and recited with trembling voices but glowing eyes. The donors pped politely, and shes from the reporters‘ cameras sparked across the hall.
At the end, a boy barely sixteen, his voice still awkwardly changing, stepped forward as host. “Thank you, brothers and sisters, uncles and aunties, foring today. And thank you for your donations after the ind tragedy. We’re so grateful. And today, we’re honored to have Aurora here–our very own pilot of the Bluemoon Airborne Wing. And did you know? She was once a hero who braved the fire five years ago! Please wee her to the stage!”
Murmurs rippled through the hall. Aurora froze for half a second before she pasted on a smile and walked up under the spotlights.
I’m no hero,” she began, her voice modest, almost humble. “I only did what any decent wolf would do. Faced with a fire, who wouldn’t try to save lives? It was never about bravery. It was simply the right thing to do.”
<i>The </i>hall erupted with apuse. Cameras shed. For a moment, the narrative was hers, every eye drinking in her image.
Then a voice cut through the pping. Sharp. Cold. A reporter near the front raised his recorder. “Aurora,” he said, <b>“</b>is it true you actually abandoned yourrade in that fire? That you stood by while he burned?”
The hall gasped, air sucked from the room in an instant.
Aurora’s face snapped pale. “That’s a lie,” she spat, her voice suddenly hard. “You use me without evidence? I could sue you for nder.”
The reporter lifted a trembling hand. “It isn’t my usation. Before I came, I received an anonymous message. It said you watched as your fellow soldier burned alive… and you turned away.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. My wolf’s hackles rose, the scent of fear pouring off Aurora, bitter and acrid.
And I stood there, at Ss’s side, watching as the facade Aurora had so carefully constructed began to crack under the weight of truth.