Chapter 9

Freya's pov.

Freya's pov.

Freya's hands trembled slightly as she stuffed another worn tunic into the small sack at her feet. She moved mechanically, trying to ignore the ache in her chest, trying to push away the suffocating weight of everything that had happened.

Then she felt it.

The air shifted, thickened with tension. A presence behind her. Familiar. Wrong.

She didn't turn immediately, just straightened, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. "What do you want, Theon?"

His voice was rough, hoarse. "I came to see you."

Freya turned, and for the first time, she saw him clearly.

Theon looked like shit.

Bruises still darkened his jaw, a gash along his cheekbone had barely begun to scab over, and his eye was swollen enough that he probably still struggled to see out of it. Werewolves healed fast, but Dorian's damage was deep, and some wounds refused to fade easily.

She exhaled sharply, unamused. "And?"

His lips pressed together, hesitation flickering in his bruised expression. "I meant what I said."

Freya raised a brow. "Which part? The part where you tried to claim me, or the part where you let Dorian nearly kill you for it?"

Theon's jaw clenched. "The part where I said you're mine."

A bitter laugh escaped her lips. "You're fucking delusional."

He took a step closer. "No, I'm not. You don't understand yet. But you will. When you turn eighteen—"

Freya scoffed, cutting him off. "I turned eighteen today, Theon and Dorian is my fucking true mate."

Silence. Then—

A sharp intake of breath behind the door.

Freya's pulse kicked, and she whirled toward the sound, shoving the door open to reveal a figure frozen just outside.

Selene.

Her stepsister's face twisted with fury, her delicate features contorted in disbelief and hatred. "You?" she spat, her voice shaking. "You have Dorian as your mate?"

Freya barely had time to react before Selene's fury exploded.

"How the fuck does someone like you—someone pathetic, disgusting, a fucking half-blood nobody—get him?!" Selene's voice was shrill, her rage a living thing. "It should be me. Not you."

Freya rolled her shoulders back, anger slicing through her like ice. " what exactly do you mean by half-blood?"

Selene's lips curled into a cruel smirk. "Oh, you don't know? How fucking pathetic. Your mother was a whore. She spread her legs for a hunter. You're not Alaric's daughter. That's why he despises you."

Freya's breath hitched, a sharp pain cutting through her chest. Her mind rebelled against the words, but they had already taken root. Could it be true? Was that why her so-called father never looked at her with anything other than contempt? She wanted to dismiss it, to tell herself Selene was only trying to hurt her, but something cold and sick settled in her gut.

What if… what if Selene was right?

She clenched her fists at her sides, willing her voice to remain steady. "Get the fuck out of here and take your poison with you."

Selene laughed, a slow, mocking sound. "You'll find out the real truth soon enough, little mutt."

The words clawed at her, lingering like a wound that wouldn't heal. She turned back toward Theon, needing something—anything—to anchor her.

He was watching her, something unreadable in his face. Something darker. "Why did you say that?" she asked, her voice quieter now.

Theon barked a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "I wanted to protect you. Just once. I wanted to help you." He took a sharp breath. "And I fucking failed."

Freya blinked. He looked… defeated. He looked angry, but not at her. At himself.

Then he turned and walked away.

She was alone again.

Freya swallowed the tightness in her throat, shoving the last of her things into her sack. Minutes later, she stepped into the grand hall, where a royal servant waited beside the carriage meant to take her away. No one else was there. No goodbyes. No lingering stares.

Except for the servants, whose quiet sniffles filled the cold air. The only people who had ever shown her kindness. Her true family.

She glanced back at the towering mansion, her fingers tightening on the strap of her bag.

Then she climbed into the carriage and left it all behind.

The ride was long and silent, save for the rhythmic clatter of hooves against the dirt road. Freya leaned her head against the window, exhaustion creeping over her like a slow tide. The day had been a whirlwind, emotions tearing through her in every direction.

But beneath all of it—the anger, the betrayal, the aching grief—something else gnawed at her.

She hadn't felt her wolf.

Not once.

The realization made her stomach drop. She knew she was different from the others, knew she wasn't like Selene or Dorian or any of the warriors in the pack. She had always been weaker, slower. But before today, she had at least felt something. A whisper of a presence. A shadow of what she could be.

But now? Nothing.

A terrible thought curled in her mind. Maybe it had always been like this. Maybe her wolf was never strong enough to be real. Or maybe—

Maybe she had buried it too deep when Dorian rejected her.

The pain of it still lingered, sharp as a fresh wound. He had looked at her and denied her. His mate. As if she were nothing. As if she didn't matter. And the worst part? She had believed him.

Freya pressed her fingers against her temple, closing her eyes.

She needed to find her wolf again. She needed to know its name.

Because if she didn't—if she couldn't—

Then what was she?