Freya’s POV


    In his muttering I heard it: his father’s voice, cruel and sharp. No use. A worthless tool has no right to exist. The words he must have carried all his life.


    I stared up at him, at the face contorted by despair, and fury kindled in me–not at him, but at those who had made him this way.


    “Ss Whitmor,” I said firmly, fighting his spiraling madness with my own vow. “I won’t leave you. Do you hear me? I will never leave you.”


    Over and over I repeated it, pouring every shred of will into my words until hisshes trembled. Focus bled back into his eyes. Slowly, agonizingly, he returned from that abyss.


    “Freya…” His voice cracked, and the iron grip on my wrists trembled.


    “You didn’t hurt me,” I told him quickly, sensing his horror rising. “You only held me. Nothing more.”


    His gaze flicked to where his hands still shackled me. Logic told him to release me–but I saw the fear there, the unwillingness to let go.


    So I leaned closer, my voice gentler. “I won’t abandon you. Not now, not ever. You’re my mate, Ss. Mine.”


    He flinched, and finally–reluctantly–his fingers uncurled. My wrists were free, but I didn’t shove him away. Instead, I wrapped my arms around his tense frame, drawing him down against me.


    “You dreamed of darkness and blood, didn’t you?” I murmured. “Next time, you don’t face it alone. I’ll be there. And if I ever cross paths with your father again, I’ll break him until he can’t breathe.”


    For a moment he was still. Then, like a dam breaking, his body sagged. His head dropped into the hollow of my shoulder, his lips brushing my skin as he whispered, “As long as you’re here.. I can face anything.”


    His voice softened into a vow that shivered through me: “Just don’t leave me.”


    I tightened my hold. Never.


    The next morning, Ss walked free of the hospital. Hismand to Wren was absolute:


    1/


    turice COMS


    “Find the source of Jocelyn’s perfume. Destroy it. If the Stormveil Pack shelters her in theirpany, the Whitmors will sever every tic.”


    It was a death sentence to Jocelyn’s standing. No pack would trade her favor for the wrath of the Irond Alpha.


    Later, as we spoke in private, he tried to mask his shame. “I thought the healers had cured me. I thought I was stronger than this. You must have seen how ugly I looked, Freya.”


    “Not ugly,” I answered simply. “Haunted. But I’ll be here when the ghosts rise. They don’t get to win.”


    His reply was a quiet, “Good,” but the way his shoulders ceased told me my words mattered more than he could ever admit.


    On the third day, I boarded the flight back to the Capital with Ss and Kade at my side. At the arrival gate, Lana leaned against a pir, watching us approach.


    She whistled low under her breath. “Well, damn. Freya Thorne walks off a ne with not one, but two Alphas at her nk. You trying to start a riot, girl?”


    Heat red in my cheeks, though I masked it with a re. Ss only smirked faintly, while Kade rolled his eyes at the attention their presence stirred among the crowd.


    We ended up at a restaurant together, the four of us drawing stares like moths to me. Ss and Kade carried the kind of raw maism that made every she–wolf in the room lean closer.


    I barely tasted the food, distracted by the sharp eyes fixed on us. Then I swallowed a bite of fish, and nausea rolled through me like a wave. My hand shot to my mouth.


    “What’s wrong?” Lana asked immediately, brows arched.


    “Just an old stomach problem,” I managed.


    But she tilted her head, lips quirking. “Stomach problem? Or… could it be you’re pregnant?”


    The word hit the table like thunder.


    Kade’s chopsticks ttered from his hand. His face froze in shock.


    And Ss–Ss’s gaze whipped to me, pupils dting, a hundred emotions warring in his expression.


    I swallowed hard, my pulse a drumbeat in my ears.