The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 138

**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**

**Chapter 138**

**Aysel’s POV**

Without uttering another syllable, I plunged into the relentless downpour, allowing the cold rain to drench me completely, each droplet washing away the doubts and fears that clung stubbornly to my skin. The world around me sharpened into focus. My wolf’s instincts guided me with a clarity that rivaled my own vision, pulling me toward the location Anna had ominously named.

The side wing of the Estate loomed before me, shrouded in sheets of rain that cascaded down like a veil of sorrow. I remembered how Raya used to sit by the second-floor windows, her bow dancing gracefully across the strings of her instrument, her music weaving a tapestry of sound that filled the garden with life and beauty. But that was before the gardener’s untimely death, after which the wing was sealed off, a tomb of memories. Yet now, Anna had changed her mind, her intentions shifting like the wind. I could see it clearly: she wanted Magnus to find me, to strike at my heart, to feel the torment when the toxic memories began to fade.

I moved silently, like a shadow slipping through the night, my paws finding secure footing on the slick stone despite the relentless rain. It was evident that the servants had complied with Anna’s orders; the doors stood unlocked, and the hallways were eerily vacant. As I approached, my claws brushed against the cold handle, and I inhaled deeply, my nostrils flaring to capture the scent that hung in the air. Blood. Old, thick, metallic. A bitter hint of alchemical compounds lingered, a warning that sent shivers down my spine.

Upon entering, the sight that greeted me was enough to freeze my very soul. A massive photograph hung before me—Raya’s broken form sprawled helplessly across the floor, her clothes in tatters, bruises dark and angry against her skin, desperately clutching a small boy as if her very life depended on him. The pain and despair radiating from her eyes were palpable, echoing in the depths of my heart.

A low growl emanated from the wolf within me. This was not merely a memory; it was a sinister trap, a cage of torment designed to ensnare the unwary. The walls around me were adorned with similar images: the garden basking under a merciless sun, a young child tripped by cruel hands; family gatherings tainted by humiliation; winter scenes filled with blood and terror, each frame a testament to suffering. The madness I felt was not the product of a single mind—it was a cacophony of cruelty, a pack of sadistic whispers echoing through time.

My heart raced, pounding in my chest like a war drum. Even a human heart would have shattered under the weight of such horror. And Magnus… Magnus had endured worse in his life, yet this was a calculated assault aimed at breaking him completely.

I forced myself to look away from the haunting photographs, allowing my wolf to guide me as I followed the scent that clung to the floor. Scattered across the wooden boards were the remnants of animals long gone—ghostly reminders of past lives. One small wolf had kept Magnus alive during that harrowing month in the mountains, its existence intertwined with his own. He had killed it later—not from malice, but from the cruel hand of necessity.

Anna’s grotesque attempt to replicate that trauma was chilling: dead cats and dogs, their skins resembling that of the wolf he had once known. Poisoned snakes, some still writhing, others lifeless, lay strewn about like the remnants of a miniature hunt—neurotoxic, paralytic doses that could drive even the strongest man mad when paired with the hallucinogenic compounds she had brewed into the air. Even the mightiest wolf could falter beneath such a meticulously crafted storm.

The scent of fresh blood mingled with rainwater under my paws as I moved cautiously, my claws flexing as I navigated the serpents scattered across the floor. My instincts guided me deftly past the traps laid out before me. The stairs were slick with crimson, yet the house was unnaturally quiet, as though it were holding its breath, anticipating the chaos that was about to unfold. Each step I took echoed in the stillness, a rhythmic reminder of the predator and prey dynamic, the heartbeat of a hunt that had been meticulously prepared.

The space was dimly lit, yet flashes of lightning illuminated the interior with stark brilliance. The furniture was sparse, meticulously arranged: a bed for resting, a small desk, a worn sofa, a chair positioned by the window, and the smashed cello lying helplessly on the floor. Snake corpses littered the scene, some decayed, others fresh, a grim testament to the chaos that had unfolded here.

On the desk, a brown box sat ominously. Atop it were the negatives Anna had used to lure Magnus here—the old photographs, preserved with the intent to wound a mind already fragile.

The windows were shattered, flung wide open; white curtains whipped violently in the wind, rain gusting in through the broken glass. Magnus had forced them open, I realized, desperately seeking to clear the poisoned air that enveloped him. The wind from the window collided with the draft from the door, slapping droplets against my face as I stepped further into the room.

The corridor’s light bled into the space, and my eyes quickly found him: a solitary figure huddled against the far wall by the window. Rain and blood pooled around him, slicking his dark fur and dampening the edges of his coat. One leg stretched out straight, the other bent at an awkward angle, his left hand draped over the bent knee, head hanging low. His expression was obscured, yet every movement was taut, coiled like a spring, his wolf instincts thrumming just beneath the surface.

Even as I entered the room, the alpha remained still, like a shadow poised for the perfect moment to strike. I sensed him before I could see him fully—his scent, metallic and wet from the rain, mingled with something darker: a volatile mix of rage, confusion, and a predatory instinct that was waiting to snap.

He didn’t flinch as I crossed the threshold. He didn’t shift. Not even a growl escaped his lips.