The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 15

**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**
**Chapter 15**

In the dimly lit healer’s chamber, Celestine lay propped against the pillows, her eyes ablaze with a fiery fury that threatened to consume her from within. The Moonvale Pack had been abuzz with a palpable concern for her well-being, yet none of it mattered in this moment—her dreams lay in tatters, cruelly torn apart.

The messenger from the troupe had just delivered the devastating news: due to her injury, she would not be gracing the center stage of the Black Swan. The coveted role she had poured her heart and soul into for the past six months would now belong to someone else. The part she had meticulously crafted, the lead in the esteemed international master’s latest choreography, slipped from her grasp like a frightened deer fleeing the hunt.

And it was all because Aysel had struck first, leaving her legs shattered and her spirit in turmoil.

Celestine’s wolf, restless even under the influence of potent sedatives, surged with an unquenchable rage. How could Aysel, once the meek and obedient cub of the Moonvale Pack, now rise with such cunning and vengefulness? The very thought clawed at Celestine’s insides, a bitter pill that she struggled to swallow.

With a fierce grip, she clutched the edge of her bed, stifling the anguished wail that threatened to escape her lips. Her pride and stubbornness cloaked the pain, but deep within, every fiber of her being throbbed with a sense of betrayal that felt insurmountable.

Damon, the Blackwood Alpha, noticed the tremor in her hands immediately. His amber eyes softened with concern as he approached her bedside, his presence both commanding and comforting.

“What troubles you, Celestine? Why are there tears in your eyes?” His hands hovered over her shoulders, attuned to the unease radiating from both her human and wolf sides. “Is it the injury? I can summon the healers if you need them.”

“No!” Celestine snapped, her grip tightening around his wrist, a mix of desperation and defiance. “It’s not the injury… The troupe just informed me that the lead role in the Black Swan has been given to someone else. I… I feel so empty inside.”

She swallowed hard, forcing a fragile smile that barely masked the ache festering within—an expression that a Moonvale observer might interpret as pitiful, yet true wolves would see the storm brewing beneath the surface.

Damon’s amber gaze darkened, understanding the weight of this loss. He knew how much this role meant to her, how every sinew of her soul had been devoted to perfecting it.

“Aysel acted impulsively,” he said, his voice careful and measured. “I will make this right. She owes you for what she has done.”

Celestine’s gaze sharpened, a flicker of wolfish cunning crossing her features. “It’s… fine. I understand. Aysel has always been the favored cub of the grandmother. Claiming her territory was only natural. If she truly wanted the little estate, I could let her have it. I don’t want to create conflict between you and her over me.”

Damon adjusted her pillows, helping her sit up slightly, the weight of his presence both protective and reassuring. “Don’t blame yourself for this. That estate should have a share for you, far more than it does for her.”

He hesitated for a moment, then added, his tone intended to soothe her pack-born pride, “She owes you this.”

To him, the house was nothing compared to the agony Celestine had endured. Aysel was trapped in her own pack-driven obstinacy; everything she desired, she felt compelled to dominate. She had never allowed herself to touch what Celestine once played with and discarded—not even once. Now, the estate was no exception.

Even if ownership legally transferred to Celestine, Aysel would likely return, scenting her claim—and Damon could almost envision the tempest brewing in her wolfish mind. Ever since the failed pairing, Aysel had avoided him entirely, not even sparing a call. Her silence gnawed at his patience, a constant reminder of the unresolved tension.

He cast a glance at her silent phone, irritation prickling along his spine.

“She hasn’t answered?” he asked, his voice laced with frustration. “Should I try again? I can explain on your behalf—about that day at the crowning ceremony. You didn’t leave deliberately.”

Lykos, entering the chamber with a tray of midday sustenance, scoffed at Damon’s words. “She’s being dramatic. For a minor slight, she’s got you running in circles. And after she put Celestine in the healer’s bed, you’re still making excuses for her?”

“Lykos,” Celestine chided gently, her eyes narrowing, though warmth lingered in her tone.

The younger Vale cubs often indulged in such games. Damon recalled Aysel as a small cub, trailing after Lykos, boasting: “Brother, I have a little sibling now. Want five minutes? No, one will do. You can’t live without me!”

“Hah, what’s Aysel plotting now? Even using a stranger in her games. Clever little wolf.”

Damon’s amber eyes narrowed as he watched Celestine bite her lip, her small frame taut with tension.

“Who doesn’t know Aysel has wanted you since she was a cub?” Lykos growled under his breath, muscles coiling in anticipation. “This time… she clearly sought out someone just to rile you up. Damon, how could you fall for it so easily?”

Celestine shook her head slightly, her fangs pressing lightly against her lower lip, a subtle sign of her suppressed irritation and unease. “Maybe Aysel is angry… but she shouldn’t play games like this. She is still a young she-wolf,” she murmured, her voice soft yet tinged with steel.

Damon’s fists clenched at his sides, concern clouding his judgment. He could feel the heat of his blood surging, the primal instincts of his Alpha rising to the surface. For nearly twenty cycles, he had known Aysel. She would never truly seek another mate—her moves were deliberate, meant to provoke him, to test his dominance. And he had taken the bait. The stranger’s voice on the call had ignited a storm within him, a pack-born rage he struggled to contain.

“She doesn’t apologize, and she won’t,” Lykos interjected sharply, his fangs glinting in the dim light. “Damon, you cannot forgive her this time.”

No other pack sibling feud had ever escalated to this point—Celestine had ended up in the healer’s den because of Aysel. The Vale she-wolf constantly rewrote the rules of audacity, pushing boundaries with reckless abandon.

Damon pressed his lips together, grappling with the weight of his Alpha restraint. To bend Aysel, to force her to lower her head, even for a moment, over a dispute about territory—about an estate—was nearly impossible. Her wolf was stubborn, territorial, and cunning.

“She doesn’t even want to face me,” he admitted, his gaze darkening with the shadows of worry.

Lykos shrugged, unfazed, his ears twitching at the scent of rising tension. “Hiding won’t help. The anniversary of our aunt’s passing is approaching.”

Damon’s shoulders stiffened at the mention of that day. He knew it well—the scent-heavy memory of grief, the shadowed wolf-heart of Aysel. It was the day that carried the deepest sorrow for her. Each year, it clawed at her like a hunter cornering its prey, and she would surface, no matter the machinations of the pack.