Freya's POV For a moment, his tears burned through my skin. They were hot, searing-like fire against my palm. Every instinct in me screamed to pull my hand away, to protect myself from that heat, to end this moment before it broke me apart again. Reason told me I should have stepped back. Said no. Ended it cleanly. But the words that left my mouth were soft, trembling things. "Silas… I don't know if destroyed trust can ever be rebuilt." Because it was true. Trust breaks so easily-like glass shattering in a single breath. But to piece it back together? That takes years. Sometimes, it never happens. "I'll wait," he said, voice rough with emotion. "I'll wait until you can trust me again." He sounded… almost relieved. Because this time, I hadn't rejected him outright. And that tiny difference-my hesitation-was enough to ignite hope in him. "So what if I never trust you again?" I asked quietly. His eyes softened, dark and determined. "Then I'll keep waiting. Until I'm old. Until I'm gone." The words hit me like a stone pressed against my chest. Wait until old. Until death. Such promises sound eternal-but who in this world ever keeps them? Silas and I had only been together for a few short months. Could feelings formed in such a brief time truly run that deep? Could they survive betrayal and fire? He didn't press further, though. Instead, his tone gentled. "Will you stay beside me tonight? I don't want to wake up in the middle of the night and find myself back on the couch again." "Fine," I murmured. "I won't move to the couch tonight." I agreed, but when night fell and I stood by the bed, unease crept through me like cold wind. We weren't together anymore. Yet here we were-about to share a bed, hands intertwined like before. I told myself it was repayment. Just repayment. Nothing more. "Not going to sleep?" Silas asked, already sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes tracing my movements."I am," I said, drawing in a steadying breath. I climbed onto the bed, then hesitated only for a heartbeat before reaching out and taking his hand first. If it had to happen, better to get it over with. He flinched slightly. I felt his pulse leap beneath my fingers, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. My small gesture-something as simple as holding hands-was enough to unravel the steel composure of the Ironclad Alpha. I turned off the light, the room falling into soft shadow. The air grew quiet-too quiet. My senses sharpened, every brush of skin magnified, every heartbeat loud. His palm was warm against mine, his calluses familiar, his faint cedar scent wrapping around me like smoke. "Freya…" His low voice broke through the silence. "Are you asleep?" I didn't answer. Let him think I was. "Do you know how much I regret it?" he whispered, voice barely above a murmur. "I regret the man I used to be. Cold. Ruthless. Heartless." He gave a bitter laugh. "The Whitmors were never meant to be good people. To hold power in the Ironclad Coalition, you have to be merciless. That's what I was taught. But gods, Freya… I wanted to be better. If I had been a good man back then, maybe I wouldn't have turned away when your brother needed me." His hand trembled slightly against mine. "If I had been different," he said, "you wouldn't have left. Maybe you'd still be beside me now." Silas exhaled slowly, the breath catching at the end. "If I'd met you earlier… maybe you could've taught me how to be a good man." His voice faded. Within minutes, his breathing evened out, slow and steady. He'd fallen asleep still clutching my hand, as if letting go would pull him back into the darkness he feared. And as I lay there listening to him breathe, I couldn't help but think-this was the only time he ever seemed at peace. It was a long time before I opened my eyes again. I turned my head toward him. The Alpha who once terrified half the Ironclad Coalition now slept quietly beside me, his expression stripped of its usual arrogance, replaced by something almost fragile. I didn't know what I felt anymore-pity, guilt, or the faint ghost of love that refused to die. Two days slipped by like wind through the trees. In that time, I barely left my quarters. I buried myself in the files Silas had sent me-records about Parker Williams and the Williams Family, every detail pointing toward truths I wasn't sure I wanted to face. When I wasn't reading, I was talking to Lana, checking in with her through WolfComm. Her voice was weak but steady, the way I remembered. "So once the DNA test results come in," she said, "you'll finally know if Parker is your brother." "Yes." My heart tightened around the word. "What if he is-and he still refuses to leave the Williams Family?" she asked gently. "What if he doesn't want to come home?" "He's lost his memories," I said firmly. "Once I help him remember, he'll come back. I know he will." Because my brother isn't the kind of man who turns his back on where he came from. He was a soldier once-a protector. The kind who'd bleed for his pack without hesitation. He's like our parents-Arthur and Myra-who both gave their lives defending this land. That's who he is. That's who we are. It's in our blood. It's carved into our bones. And no matter what, I will bring him home.