Third Person's POV Wren's eyes widened in alarm the moment he saw Alpha Silas raise the glass of spiked liquor to his lips. His hand shot out instinctively, trying to block it, but Silas's amber gaze lifted slowly, cold and commanding. "Move your hand," Silas said, his voice calm yet carrying an unmistakable edge of threat. Wren hesitated, sweat gathering at his temples. "Alpha, you can't possibly drink that… it's been poisoned. It could-" Silas cut him off with a soft murmur, almost to himself. "If my body is harmed… would she care?" Wren froze. He knew exactly who Silas meant: Freya. The question was rhetorical, but it hit Wren like a punch. "Move your hand," Silas repeated, firmer this time. Gritting his teeth, Wren reluctantly withdrew, stepping back. His mind raced. Silas's reasoning was reckless, but the Alpha's pride would not allow him to change his mind easily. Wren's concern deepened. "Alpha… what if Miss Thorne doesn't come to help you?" "Then I'll accept that I lost the gamble," Silas said simply, lifting the glass and draining it in one smooth motion. The golden liquid slid down his throat as if daring the world to challenge him. He set the empty glass down, amber eyes locking on Wren. "Now… go. Tell her." Wren swallowed, his pulse quickening. The Alpha wanted to know-through this dangerous wager-whether Freya still carried any trace of care for him. Even if the cost was his own body, Silas was willing to risk it. Meanwhile, Freya and Lana were deep in discussion with executives from several potential investors at the City Economic Summit. The negotiation was delicate, every word measured, every gesture calculated to inspire confidence. That delicate balance shattered when Wren came rushing toward them, his expression taut with urgency. "Miss Thorne! Alpha Silas is in danger. Please… come with me!" Freya froze mid-step. Her heart stuttered at the news. "What?" she asked, voice tight with concern. Silas Whitmor in danger? That was impossible… wasn't it? Wren urged her forward, but Freya's instincts screamed caution. She took two steps, then stopped abruptly, her gaze hardening. "Miss Thorne?" Wren's voice was laced with confusion and worry.Freya pursed her lips. "If Silas is truly hurt, you should call the authorities, or get medical assistance. Not… come looking for me." Wren's jaw tightened, the weight of Silas's insistence evident in his expression. "But he refuses to go to the hospital. He insists… he must see you." Freya's eyes narrowed, a ripple of conflict crossing her mind. "Is he… injured?" Wren hesitated, lowering his voice to a near whisper. "He drank… he drank liquor that had been tampered with. He refuses medical care, he only says he wants to see you." Freya's pulse skipped. Her mind raced, imagining the worst. Was this the work of some jealous rival? Someone who sought to manipulate or trap him? She inhaled deeply, trying to steady herself. Knowing that Silas was not severely harmed offered her a sliver of relief, but worry gnawed at her like a predator circling prey. "I… we've already parted ways. This… this is not something I should be involved in," Freya said, her voice tense. "Wren, you need to get him to a hospital. The doctors can handle this safely." Wren's ears flattened slightly, tension radiating off him like an alert wolf in the forest. "Miss Thorne… you know him. Once he sets his mind on something, it's immovable. He said he will not go to the hospital until he sees you. And… his current state is… not good. For the sake of what once existed between you, please-just go see him." Freya's jaw tightened. She knew this was a deliberate provocation-a test, a trap even, to make her come. But stepping forward could open old wounds, confront the trust that had been broken. Could she… bear it? Lana, standing beside her, glanced at Freya with an understanding that needed no words. "Freya… if you still care, even a little… go. Help him before it's too late. Better to act than to regret." Freya inhaled sharply, weighing the risk. Her heart ached with the echo of old feelings, the pull of loyalty and unspoken history. Finally, she nodded, a reluctant decision settling over her. "I'll go see him," she said softly. Then she turned to Wren. "Lead the way." Wren's relief was palpable, though he kept his expression neutral. He guided Freya swiftly through the corridors of the summit, their footsteps muted on the polished stone floors. When they reached the private lounge, Wren stopped. "Alpha Whitmor is inside. I… cannot enter. Please, Miss Thorne, go in alone." Freya nodded, steeling herself, and pushed the door open. The room was dimly lit, a single row of warm lights casting long shadows across the floor. The space felt intimate, almost too quiet, the air heavy with tension and faint traces of bourbon. On the sofa, Silas Whitmor reclined, his jacket unfastened and collar open, revealing the broad lines of his chest and the hard planes of his abdomen. Even in this vulnerable state, he radiated the quiet dominance of a true Alpha, the kind that could command attention without uttering a word. Freya's steps slowed as she approached, taking in the sight of him-the way his hair fell in dark waves, the subtle sheen of sweat, the deep amber of his eyes now softened with a strange vulnerability. "Freya… you… you came?" His voice was hoarse, labored from the poisoned liquor, yet threaded with that same low, magnetic authority she remembered. His gaze met hers, amber eyes now tinged with something almost intoxicatingly human, the cold veneer lifted for just a moment to reveal raw need. Each shallow breath made his throat move visibly, a tremor that drew her attention despite the tension in her chest. Silas's lips parted, a slow, ragged exhale escaping as if it carried the weight of unspoken words. The lines of his face, so often set in imperious control, now held a seductive fragility, a reminder of the Alpha's rare humanity when he was alone with her. Freya's heart twisted, caught between fear, care, and the lingering pull of something that had never fully vanished. She paused at the threshold, feeling the weight of choice pressing down like the gravity of the storm-swept cliffs that defined the borders of Stormveil territory. Every instinct-her loyalty, her caution, her pack-bonded senses-warned her. Yet the human part, the part that had once bared itself to him, urged her forward. For now, the room held only the two of them, the faint amber light, and the heavy, palpable tension of past and present colliding. The Alpha and the Bloodmoon's daughter, facing the consequences of old bonds, the poison, and the gamble that had been silently set before them.