Freya’s POV


    Ss pressed his lips together, his expression unreadable, then said in his deep voice, “I’ll go.”


    I blinked. “You? You’ll be the Mother Hen?”


    “Mm.” He nodded as though the decision were final.


    Finished


    I couldn’t help the stunned silence that followed. My mind balked at the image–Ss Whitmor, Alpha of the Irond Coalition, the wolf most of the Capital feared, ying children’s games on awn. It didn’t fit. He was forged of iron, notughter. Yet he waspletely serious, and before I could stop him, he bent toward the little girl who had begged me.


    “Freya’s arm is injured,” he said kindly, his tone gentled in a way that startled me. “So I will y instead.”


    Dreamer’s eyes lit with excitement, her squeal ringing like a bell. Ss shrugged off his tailored jacket, unfastened his tie, rolled his sleeves to the elbow. Then, to my utter disbelief, he strode onto the grass.


    Momentster, I watched him–him, the wolf with a reputation ck as night–sprint across the green with a chain of squealing pups trailing behind, his arms stretched wide in mock defense as he guarded them from the “hawk.” The sight knocked the breath from me. This was no Alpha feared by the Capital; this was a man unarmored, a wolf freed of the weight of politics and war,ughing with children as though he had been born to it.


    The dignitaries and reporters lining the orphanagewn froze. Every single one who knew his name stared, mouths parted, as though they’d stumbled into a dream.


    That’s Ss Whitmor? The iron–fisted Alpha of the Coalition? The wolf whispered to be untouchable, lethal, merciless? And here he was, ying Hawk and Hens with orphans.


    My lips curved without my permission. The longer I stayed near him, the more I saw pieces that defied the legend. And those pieces unsettled me far more than his fearsome reputation ever had.


    I tugged out my WolfComm, capturing a few frames of the impossible moment–Ss barreling across thewn,ughter sparking in his eyes. But before sliding the device back into my pocket, my thoughts snagged on something darker.


    The fire.


    The message that had shaken Aurora earlier still echoed in my mind. My thumb lingered over the WolfComm screen before, almost without realizing, I pulled up the web archives. My search turned toward the past–the Bluemoon Airborne Wing’s co–pilot who had died five years ago. The report hadn’t softened with time. Negligence, they’d called it. A cigarette carelessly left burning, a fire sparked in the wrong ce.


    The man had burned, yes, but worse–his family had burned with him, not by me but by words. Wolves and humans alike had torn them apart in the public square, branding him reckless even in death. Bluemoon Pack had spent fortunes to smother the mes of scandal.


    Yet… if his death had been his fault, why did Aurora’s wolf tremble with guilt today?


    My eyes narrowed as I scrolled, unease rippling beneath my skin. My wolf lifted its head, scenting lies buried beneath ash.


    And then-


    “Freya.”


    The voice snapped behind me, sharp and using.


    1 I spun, instincts ring, only to find Aurora standing several paces away. Her chin was high, but the flush beneath her skin betrayed agitation.


    “Were you the one?” she demanded suddenly, her wordsced with Beta fury. “The one sending those vile messages to reporters? To me?<b>” </b>


    1 barked out augh, sharp as breaking ss. “What inadness are you spouting now?”


    12:28 AM p p.


    Finished


    “You were rattled,” she pressed, stepping closer, eyes glittering with triumph. “I saw your WolfComm. You were searching for records of the fire. For my fallen wingmate. Who else but you would feed such poison to the press?”


    She lunged, hand outstretched for my device.


    But I was not prey. I twisted smoothly aside, my wolf’s reflexes effortless. Her fingers swiped only air.


    “So that’s your logic?” I sneered. “That because I read the archives, I must be your phantom user? Do you even hear how absurd you sound?”


    “It’s you!” Aurora snapped, her voice rising. “Who else? You’ve hated me ever since I won Caelum’s side. Jealousy drives you, Freya. Admit it–you knew I’d stand here today, so you schemed to nder me through the mouths of journalists!”


    The growl that broke from my chest silenced the air between us. My wolf pressed forward, dominance radiating. “Aurora,” I said, my voice low and edged with threat, “if you imagine I’d soil my ws with your little games over a male like Caelum Grafton, then you are more foolish than I thought. Take him. I don’t want him. But if you shriek so loudly, others will begin to wonder if that message carved closer to the truth than your speech did.”


    Her face nched, then darkened. She trembled, but stubborn pride forced her chin up. “If you’re innocent, then hand me your WolfComm. Let me search it.”


    Naughed again, colder this time. “And why, by the Moon, should I hand my device to you? You’ve no authority over me.”


    “You refuse because you’re guilty!” she snarled. Her wolf bristled, ws itching.


    I turned away, done with her theatrics. But she lunged–reckless, blind, her hand wing once more for the WolfComm at my belt.


    My wolf answered before thought could. I pivoted, hooked her ankle, and let her own momentum do the work. She crashed to the ground with a cry, sprawled in the grass, dignity shattered.


    “Aurora!”


    The roar ripped across thewn. Caelum Grafton stormed forward, his Alpha presence ring like a de unsheathed. He gathered Aurora up, his arm locking around her shoulders, his storm–gray eyes fixed on me with fury.


    “Freya Thorne,” he thundered, “you’ve gone too far!”