Third Person’s POV


    Ssy slumped against the high–backed chair, his broad chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temples. His face was contorted in anguish, and the veins along his temple pulsed as though something monstrous pressed from within. His eyes remained closed, but the tension rolling off him was undeniable–his wolf fought for control.


    Freya’s fury burned in her chest as she knelt by his side, her gaze sweeping the room until it fixed on Jocelyn. Barely an hour ago she had left Ss, and now she returned to find him reduced to this–a powerful Alpha writhing, consumed by torment.


    The sight ignited something feral inside her.


    Jocelyn scrambled weakly across the floor, but before she could rise, Freya stepped forward, her boot pressing down hard against her cousin’s back. The weight of a wolf blessed by the Bloodmoon Pack pressed her t, grinding her ribs against the marble floor. Jocelyn’s breath hitched, and a strangled cry broke from her lips.


    “Jocelyn,” Freya’s voice was low, a growl vibrating beneath every word, “I will ask you one more time–what did you do to him? And what is that scent on you?”


    The sharpmand reverberated through the chamber, making even the air feel heavier. Jocelyn writhed beneath Freya’s heel, but the pressure was relentless, as if the entire Iron Fang Recon Unit bore down upon her spine.


    “Don’t just stand there!” Jocelyn screeched toward the servants clustered at the edges of the hall. “Pull her off me–now!”


    But the servants only shifted uneasily, eyes darting toward Ss’s trembling frame. None dared move closer. They all knew Jocelyn’s standing had plummeted within the Thorne family, while Freyast scion of the Stormveil Pack’s fifth branch, whose bloodline had given its all in sacrifice–was favored by the elders. Even the lowest servants whispered in admiration of her resilience, her defiance, her wolf.


    Their hesitation only fed Jocelyn’s rage. Her cheeks flushed scarlet, eyes burning with humiliation. “You think you can shame me like this? Freya Thorne, if you dare humiliate me again, I swear-”


    Her words cut off with a gasp as Freya leaned harder, driving her boot between Jocelyn’s shoulder des.


    “Listen to me, Jocelyn,” Freya’s tone dropped to a cold snarl, eyes zing like winter me. “If


    you don’t tell me exactly what you did, and Ss suffers because of it, I will see to it that every day of your life bes a nightmare. You will beg me for mercy that will nevere.”


    The weight increased; Jocelyn felt her spine strain, fear prickling down her limbs like ice. Freya’s wolf was in her gaze now, wild and merciless, and Jocelyn knew–if she refused, Freya truly would crush her into the floor.


    “Fine!” Jocelyn’s voice cracked, trembling under the pressure. “I–I only sprayed perfume! Nothing else! I swear it!”


    Freya’s lip curled in contempt. “Perfume? Then why is he like this?” Her voice cracked like a whip. “Why does an Alpha of his strength writhe as if his very soul is being torn apart?”


    Jocelyn’s face drained of color, her mind flitting to the memory that haunted her as much as it haunted him. “It’s… it’s just the same fragrance his mother used. The one she wore… the night she died. I didn’t know-”


    Freya froze, shock breaking through her fury for the briefest instant. Ss’s mother. She knew of the tragedy that had scarred him, the bloodstains upon the Whitmor legacy. The memory of her suicide had never healed, and the scent tied to that night was his deepest wound.


    And Jocelyn had deliberately cloaked herself in it.


    Freya’s blood turned to steel. She couldn’t waste another heartbeat here. Ss needed her. She hauled him to his feet with surprising strength, guiding his trembling body toward the door. He leaned heavily against her, every staggered breath cutting into her chest. Without another word, she swept from the room, leaving chaos in her wake.


    The grand hall fell silent but for Jocelyn’s ragged breathing. She pushed herself upright, hair wild, eyes burning with hate as she turned her re on the servants.


    “Staring at me like that?” she spat, shaking with fury and fear. “Do your jobs or be gone!”


    The servants quickly lowered their gazes, but one knelt to gather papers scattered across the polished floor. Among themy a handful of photographs.


    “Wait,” Jocelyn snapped, eyes narrowing. “What’s that?”


    The servant stammered, holding the glossy prints aloft. “These… they fell from Lady Freya’s pocket when she carried Alpha Ss away.”


    Jocelyn snatched them greedily, her breath quickening as her eyes flicked over the images. Photos, clutched close to Freya’s heart, secreted so near to her even in moments of chaos.


    Her lips curved into a bitter smile. “So, she carries these with her everywhere…”


    There were only three photos that fell.


    All three showed the same man.


    In two of the photos, he was wearing a military uniform, and in one, he was shirtless, training.


    Jocelyn’s eyes narrowed suddenly, staring at the hideous scar on the man’s shoulder.


    This scar looked familiar to her, as if she had seen it somewhere before!