The Pack's Daughter (Aysel and Magnus) novel Chapter 20

**Midnight Letters by Daniel Crowe**
**Chapter 20**

**Aysel’s POV**

As I swung the door open, there stood Fenrir—his face a canvas of exhaustion, dark shadows etched under his eyes, as if sleep had eluded him for an eternity.

My brother.

Once, he had been my steadfast guardian, the one who would face any danger for me. Now, he was just another wolf who had learned to dread my name.

He appeared utterly shattered, like a soul that had been fleeing from an inferno for far too long.

Perhaps he had been. I was the fire.

Ever since my coronation ceremony with Damon devolved into utter chaos, my life had spiraled into turmoil.

Celestine’s car accident, my public accusations, the pack’s uproarious arguments, the fight that left Celestine in the healer’s ward, and finally—the Moonvale Manor engulfed in flames beneath the piercing gaze of the full moon.

One calamity after another, and each incident seemed to trace a path back to me.

Or so they claimed.

Fenrir had devoted himself to mending the wreckage, pursuing me like a desperate hound, extinguishing the flames I had ignited—or that others had attributed to me.

Now, as he stood before me, I could almost taste the exhaustion and frustration radiating from him, clinging to him like a second skin. The familiar scent of pine and storm wind that defined his wolf was muted, dulled by fatigue. Even the regal aura of the Moonvale lineage seemed to have frayed at the edges.

“Aysel,” he rasped, his voice rough and strained, eyes filled with a desperate plea. “Can we please put an end to this war?”

He attempted to maintain a façade of calm, yet I could sense the underlying accusation simmering just beneath the surface of his words.

“You’ve made your point. The house is gone, Celestine is injured, and the pack is in utter chaos. Father and Mother are at their breaking point. They’re not getting any younger.”

I crossed my arms defiantly, lifting my chin in response. His tone alone was enough to provoke my wolf, causing her to snarl within me. “You desire peace, Fenrir?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me—how does it feel to be accused and condemned without anyone bothering to hear your side first?”

He stiffened, the tension in his body palpable. “Not good,” he finally admitted, his voice low and strained after a moment of silence.

“Then you understand,” I replied, my voice dropping further as I recalled our shared past. “Do you remember when we were pups? When Celestine’s roses withered in the garden? She cried, and you yelled at me for an hour, making me replant them under the scorching summer sun until my hands bled.”

He averted his gaze, a flicker of guilt crossing his features.

“Or the Winter Solstice Ball,” I pressed on, my heart heavy with memories. “Her dance shoes were ruined. You tossed mine away before I could even explain myself. Neither of us danced that night. But at least she garnered your pity.”

He winced at the recollection, the pain evident in his eyes.

“And when I went missing during the pack’s spring retreat in our first year at the Academy,” I continued softly, “you told everyone I had tricked Celestine into following me so she would faint and steal her spotlight.”

His mouth opened, yet no sound escaped.

I could see the dawning realization in his eyes—the years of unspoken grievances rising between us like specters from the past.

The truth was stark and merciless:

The roses had been destroyed by a child from the visiting Ironhowl Pack.

The shoes had been torn by one of Celestine’s jealous admirers.

And Celestine had fainted because Lykos had dragged her onto a ride that had made her ill.

Yet none of that had mattered. Not when I was the convenient scapegoat.

“You never gave me a chance to speak,” I said, my voice trembling with suppressed emotion. “Not once. Every punishment, every glare, every moment of silence—you ensured I bore the weight of it all.”

He swallowed hard, his throat constricting. “You were always at odds with Celestine—”

“I was different,” I interjected sharply, my frustration bubbling to the surface. “That’s what you mean.”

My voice softened, filled with a mixture of nostalgia and sorrow. “Remember when I fought with that chubby boy in pup school? The teacher called our parents, but you rushed from the Academy just to defend me. You proclaimed your sister could never be wrong—that if she harbored hatred for someone, it was because they deserved it.”

I locked eyes with him, my gaze intense. “What changed, Fenrir? When did I cease to be your sister worth defending?”

Magnus chuckled low, stepping closer to me. The air thickened with his scent—smoke, forest musk, and the faint metallic tang of dominance. My wolf stirred within me at the intoxicating aroma.

“You know,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, “there are simpler ways to seek revenge than through emotional warfare.”

“I’m not seeking revenge,” I replied, turning my gaze back to the window, watching the world outside. “I just want silence.”

He tilted his head, studying me intently. “And if I told you that silence is overrated?”

I remained silent, unwilling to engage.

He reached out, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear, his claws grazing my skin just enough to send a shiver down my spine. “You keep pretending to be stone, Aysel Vale. But even stone can fracture if you strike it long enough.”

“Then I’ll learn to be steel.”

His low laugh resonated in the air, warm and genuine. “You already are.”

The following days settled into an unusual rhythm.

Thanks to him, my nocturnal habits faded away.

We found ourselves sleeping early and waking with the dawn. I would venture out for breakfast runs—always cautious to avoid attracting attention from nearby packs—and he would prepare meals upon my return. His injuries hindered his ability to shift or fight, so I reluctantly became his helper.

The domesticity of it all was… disconcerting.

A mysterious Alpha and a disgraced daughter of Moonvale cohabitating as if we were a mated pair.

By day, I painted, losing myself in my art. By night, we would watch old holo-films or sit in companionable silence, lost in our own thoughts. Sometimes, while sketching, I would glance up to find his gaze fixed on me—unreadable, predatory, yet strangely calm.

Two wolves ensnared by fate, pretending that the world outside didn’t exist.

Perhaps we both understood that this fragile peace was fleeting. But for once, I found I didn’t care.

Skylar called me daily, her voice a whirlwind of rants about Damon and Celestine, vowing vengeance on my behalf. I didn’t stop her. Let the world burn a little.