Chapter 370
Chapter 370
Freya’s POV
The sound of the slap echoed through the room-sharp, ringing, final. My palm stung, but I didn’t regret it.
“So that’s what you’ve become, Silas?” I asked, my voice cold, trembling only from fury. “Are you planning to be like your father? And make that child live the same life you did p>
The words struck him like a blade. His body went rigid, eyes widening, all color draining from his face.
For a long, awful heartbeat, he didn’t move.
Like his father.
I hadn’t meant to cut so deep, but the truth was merciless-and maybe he needed to hear it.
He’d always sworn he was different. That he’d never become the kind of man who broke others to keep them close. But a moment ago, the look in his eyes, the desperation in his touch-it was the same sickness. The same darkness his father once carried.
“You…” His voice shook. “You’re not like my mother. You wouldn’t choose death like she did, right p>
My heart twisted, but I didn’t flinch. “No,” I said quietly, coldly. “I wouldn’t. But if you try to force me, I will end it in my own way. I’ll take that child away. I’ll disappear. You’ll never find
us p>
His throat moved, but no sound came. He just stood there, trembling-this man who once commanded armies, who ruled the Ironclad Coalition like an unshakable Alpha, now looking small, fragile, broken.
He knew I wasn’t bluffing.
And for the first time, I saw the terror in his eyes wasn’t anger-it was the realization of what he’d almost done.
“You really hate the idea of being with me again that much?” he whispered. His voice cracked, raw with disbelief. His gaze searched mine, desperate, pleading, dying. “Freya, tell me… is it really that impossible p>
“I don’t hate you,” I said. “But I will never be with someone who tries to take away my choice. Whether I have a child, whether I stay-those are my decisions. Silas, I am not your
mother. And you… you must stop trying to be your father p>
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He closed his eyes.
And then came the sound-his laughter. Low at first, then hollow, unhinged. A laugh that didn’t belong to a man anymore, but to something cornered, something collapsing in on itself.
I could almost see the memory behind it-the lash of a belt, the echo of his father’s voice
just another name for control. calling him useless, the small boy who learned that love wa
When he finally opened his eyes again, they were empty.
“Fine,” he said quietly. “You win. I won’t touch you again. I won’t beg you. You want to leave? Then I’ll make sure you leave. You said it yourself-bridge to bridge, road to road. We’ll go our separate ways p>
He stood, his back turned to me, and walked out of the room.
The silence that followed was deafening.
For a moment, I just stood there, my breath shaking. Then I collapsed back against the bed. Relief should have come-it should have. If he hadn’t stopped, I would’ve had to fight him harder, maybe harder than my body could handle with my shoulder still torn from the last mission.
But what filled me instead was something far more dangerous-an ache.
The look in his eyes before he left-the hollow, defeated look of a man who had lost more than love-haunted me.
I hated that part of me still cared.
By the time I pushed myself up, the house was silent again.
When morning came, Silas was gone.
The storm had passed, leaving the island washed in a pale, salt-tinted light. The air smelled of rain and iron.
Downstairs, the dining hall was empty, but the table had been set. There was coffee still warm in the pot, bread toasted, eggs slightly overcooked. It wasn’t the staff. No one else would dare enter my wing of the keep.
It was him.
Silas had made breakfast.
The smallest, stupidest gesture in the aftermath of a night that nearly broke us both.
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I looked around, searching for any sign of him, but there was nothing. Just the faint scent of his cologne and the lingering aura of his wolf, fading like smoke.
He was avoiding me.
I sat down, forced myself to eat a few bites, but the food turned to ash in my mouth. My gaze drifted toward the window-and that’s when I saw it.
A helicopter.
Parked on the private helipad just beyond the cliffs.
My pulse stumbled.
A helicopter meant contact from the mainland. Rescue. Or trouble.
Cassian wouldn’t come without warning, and Silas never allowed unannounced guests.
I stood abruptly, the chair scraping back, and ran for the door.
When I burst into the courtyard, the wind whipped my hair across my face, and the sound of the rotor blades sliced through the morning air. But no Cassian. No Whitmor guards.
Just one figure, stepping out from the shadow of the hangar.
“Wren?” I called, startled. “What the hell are you doing here p>
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Florence
Florence is a passionate reader who finds joy in long drives on rainy days. She’s also a fan of Italian makeup tutorials, blending beauty and elegance into her everyday life.